The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles

by Meghan Quinn

  “Wouldn’t want to ruin those pants.”

  What was I supposed to say after that? Instead of coming up with something intelligent to say, I giggled like an idiot and waited for the doors to open.

  Once the doors opened, I looked back up at Phillip, smiled cordially, and took off toward the subway.

  I heard his steps follow behind me, causing me to sweat instantly. I didn’t like people I barely knew following me. Visions of him pulling me into a dark alley and having his way with me crossed my mind. I went to reach for my phone when I realized I’d left it in my office. And there’s no way I’m going up to my desk and possibly face that evil cat.

  “Hey,” Phillip called from behind me.

  “Please don’t steal me.” I cringed and put my hands up. “I won’t be kind if thrown into sex trafficking.”

  “What?” He stopped in his tracks.

  I peeked through my hands and noticed he was holding on to my piece of paper that held my directions.

  “You, uh, dropped this.”

  Feeling like a complete moron, I took the paper and apologized. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I have an overactive imagination.”

  “So you thought I was going to steal you? Do people even steal grown adults?”

  “Maybe?”

  A small smile spread across his face. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for such a thing. Have a good time at Manny’s. They have the best tacos.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I glanced at the paper. “Any taco suggestions?

  “I’m a true man and go with the beef tacos, but I heard their fish tacos are good too. Watch out for their margaritas though. They are good but can knock you on your ass.”

  “Got it, thank you, Phillip, and sorry I’m such a freak.”

  “You’re not a freak, Rosie. You’re quite the opposite. Hope to see you around.”

  He waved a small goodbye and then headed toward the curb and hailed a cab. He moved with such confidence, it was hard not to watch him. For some reason, I almost wished it was Phillip I was going to have tacos with because he seemed like he would be good company. Plus, he was very attractive. I could see myself really liking him.

  Shaking my thoughts, I followed the directions to Manny’s. It didn’t take too long—it was a quick ride and a couple blocks walk—so I arrived on time.

  The restaurant was quaint. It had some twinkle lights hanging outside and the inside was vibrant with orange, yellow, and red gracing the walls. The bar—where the infamous margaritas were made—lined one side of the wall, and big string lights hung from the ceiling, crisscrossing from wall to wall, providing a lovely ambiance.

  In Alejandro’s letter, he said he would be wearing a black sweater, so I looked around for the man I remembered from the profile picture sporting a black sweater.

  “Hello, Rosie,” a deep, very accented voice said from behind me. I turned to see Alejandro. He wore a black sweater and was holding a single rose. The V-neck of the sweater showed off some chest hair but nothing that was too distracting, and his hair was slicked back, giving me a great view of his deep brown eyes. He was a Spanish dream.

  “Alejandro?” I asked, gulping. This suave man almost seemed too exotic for me with his intoxicating aftershave, deep sultry voice, and sexy appeal.

  “Yes, querida. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “I do, I just wasn’t expecting for your voice to be so sexy.”

  Oh my God, did I just say that?

  A devastating smile crossed his face.

  “Come,” he demanded as he grabbed my arm and led me to a table in the back where there was plenty of privacy. His strong hand held on tightly, not applying too much pressure, just enough to let me know he was taking control. His warm touch had me shivering.

  “Here, querida, allow me.”

  Like a gentleman, Alejandro pulled out my chair for me and helped me sit. Once he was satisfied, he took his own seat across from me. My back was toward the front of the restaurant, so I could only focus on him, and I wondered if he did this on purpose.

  “I’m so honored you decided to come to dinner with me.”

  “Thank you for asking. This place is charming,” I added while looking around.

  “Manny’s is my favorite restaurant.”

  A very pretty waitress came over to take our order. Her hair was black and styled in a long French braid with a flower behind her ear. She was gorgeous, and when I turned to see how Alejandro was reacting to her, I was surprised to see his eyes were locked on mine.

  “Can I get you two something to drink?”

  “Two margaritas on the rocks with salt, please,” Alejandro ordered without taking his eyes off me. Once the waitress left, he said, “I hope you like margaritas.”

  “I do.” I felt a little weary about the order since Phillip told me they hit you hard. I swore to myself I would only have one. I wanted experience in my life but not drunken with a total stranger experience.

  “Mind if I order us tacos as well?”

  “By all means, you’re the expert.”

  The waitress returned at a speedy rate with our margaritas and I listened as Alejandro ordered our tacos in Spanish. The way the words rolled right off his tongue had me leaning on my hand and staring at the dark and exotic man.

  When the waitress left, Alejandro turned to me and said, “Tell me, Rosie, why is such a beautiful woman like yourself on a dating website. I bet millions of men are lined up to date you.”

  Flattery. I knew it when I heard it and damn if I didn’t fall for it every time.

  “It’s hard to meet guys in New York,” I lied. I didn’t want him to know that a week ago I was a hermit living in my room and daydreaming about a man’s touch rather than experiencing it.

  “Si, this is true. The dating scene is a difficult one. I, myself, find it hard to meet a genuine woman, a real woman like yourself, Rosie. Now tell me about these gatos.”

  “Gatos?” I asked, trying to understand his mix of English and Spanish.

  “You know, gato. Eh, what’s the word? You know, meow,” he said in a cute voice, making me giggle.

  “Oh, cats.”

  “Si, cats. The word escaped me. Tell me about the cats.”

  “Nothing really to say about them. They’re annoying and take up my entire work life. I avoided a cat hair confrontation with the ringleader right before I got here. He was trying to make a mess of my pants but I was able to outsmart him.”

  “It seems like you don’t like these cats.” He chuckled.

  “No, they are not my favorite, but some of them are nice.”

  “So there are cats in your office?”

  Not the most romantic conversation I’d ever had, but I took a couple sips of my margarita and proceeded.

  “Yes, there are too many. Our boss, Gladys, thinks it’s necessary to live in an environment of cats when writing about them.”

  “That must be . . . smelly at times.” He cringed.

  “Oh, there is a whole room for their business. I stay as far away from that room as possible. The poor intern has to deal with it.”

  “Intern?”

  “Yes, umm, they are usually students in college who volunteer their time for work experience. Something good to put on the résumé.”

  “Ah, I see. So poop scoop is good for the résumé,” he teased, making me laugh.

  “Sometimes you have to take what you can get.”

  “I’m glad I’m not an intern then.”

  Sucking on my straw, I pulled away and said, “So what do you do, Alejandro?” I knew what he did, it was on his profile, but I was trying to stray away from cat talk.

  “I’m an artist.” He casually sipped his drink and maintained eye contact with me while he spoke. It was quite impressive actually. “My loft apartment is actually right around the corner. If you’re comfortable with me later on, I can show you some of my pieces.”

  Weirdly enough, I was comfortable with him, even though he could be abrupt at times.

&nb
sp; “That sounds wonderful. What aesthetic do you work with mostly?”

  “Oils, only oils. I find mixing the colors and working with the thick paint gives me more movement on the canvas.”

  “I’m sure your art is just dreamy.”

  Dreamy? I looked at my drink and noticed I was almost finished with it. Phillip was right—they were good, but it was time to slow down as I could already feel it sneaking up on me.

  “I’d never heard dreamy, but I do have a gallery in Soho.”

  “Do you? Wow, so you must be very good.”

  “I do the best I can,” he said, being modest obviously if he had a gallery in Soho.

  “So where are you from? Clearly not a New York native with that beautiful accent.”

  He smiled at me and grabbed my hand so our fingers were linked together. Okay. That’s a little forward, but let’s see what happens here.

  “Spain is where I originate from. My father wasn’t too proud of my artistic abilities so when I was eighteen, I decided to make a life of my own where I wouldn’t have him looking down on me. I was able to move to America, earn my citizenship, and provide for myself. I am quite proud.”

  “As you should be.” I wanted to applaud him but thought it might be too much, plus, our hands were linked and I was enjoying the light circles he was creating on the back of my hand.

  “Here we are,” the waitress said as she set down two plates of tacos.

  Sitting on three small corn tortillas were fish tacos with a cream sauce, cabbage slaw, and lime. To the side was a little tortilla bowl of beans. It was fresh-looking Mexican food, something I enjoyed immensely.

  “This looks amazing.”

  “Yes, querida. These will be the best tacos ever to grace that bonita mouth of yours. You want me to show you how to eat them, yes?”

  “Please.” I gestured for him to continue.

  Sadly, he released my hand and grabbed the limes on his plates. I watched his strong hands squeeze the lime juice over his tacos and then with a quick roll, he picked up a taco and took a bite.

  “Simple.”

  “I guess so.”

  Just like Alejandro, I grabbed my limes, squirted the juice over my tacos and took a bite. The acid of the lime hit my tongue first, followed by the spice of the sauce and the cool flavor of the fish. Food-gasm struck me head-on, and I felt my eyes close in pleasure and a light moan escape my mouth.

  “These are amazing,” I admitted once I swallowed.

  “Watching you eat them is even better,” he responded with heavy lids.

  Oh, I was in trouble.

  The rest of our dinner, we ate our tacos, talked lightly about our lives in New York City, and stole glances at each other very often. Delaney was right. Alejandro was a must to go out on a date with. Just from the way he looked at me, I could feel my breasts screaming, yes, please.

  Alejandro paid our bill, not bothering to acknowledge my offer of help. He stood up from his chair and held out his hand.

  “Would you like to see some of my art, querida?”

  “I would love that,” I stood up and felt myself wobble. Thank God I only had one of those margaritas, Thank you, Phillip.

  With his hand gripping my elbow, he led me out of the restaurant, around the corner, and up a set of stairs. He wasn’t kidding; he did live close.

  I waited as he unlocked the door and led me to the second floor where a large sliding metal door was locked. Once again, he unlocked the door, moved the door to the side, turned on some lights and led me inside.

  Color invaded my senses as I took in picture after picture. Displayed on every wall, covering every inch was a gallery of very colorful, but very naked women.

  Oh. My. God.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Squirrel Tail

  “Do you like my art?” Alejandro asked as he led me inside his apartment.

  Did I like his art? Well . . .

  Big nipples, small nipples, square nipples, abstract nipples, vaginas with hair, vaginas completely bare, vaginas spread wide, vaginas with fingers in them . . .

  “Wow,” I said as I took in the array of naked woman gracing every inch of his walls. Every. Inch. “I didn’t know a vagina could be green.”

  He chuckled next to my ear and whispered in a deep, husky voice, “Its art, querida. A vagina can be any color you want it to be.”

  Nodding, I walked over to some of his smaller paintings to get a better look.

  “Do you only paint naked woman?”

  “No, I do self-portraits as well.”

  “You do?” I asked, interested and feeling a little tipsy as I swayed back and forth.

  “Yes, would you like to see?”

  “Please, I would love to see how you capture yourself.”

  “This way, querida.” He guided me to the back of the loft where there was a massive bed in the middle of the room with the fluffiest comforter I had ever seen.

  “Wow, your bed looks comfortable. Can I jump on it?”

  I heard myself say it but still, I didn’t care that I sounded like a teenager.

  “You can do whatever you want on my bed.”

  I heard the innuendo in his voice but chose to ignore it as I took my shoes off and hopped on his bed. Instantly I was sucked into the plush confines of his comforter.

  “Oh, I can’t jump on this, it’s too unbelievable. What kind of comforter is this? Goose down?”

  “Not quite sure. I can look and see if you would like.”

  “No, I want to see your self-portraits.”

  Yes, the margarita was taking effect. I told myself to be cool, but my brain had other ideas as it sloshed around in an ocean of tequila.

  Alejandro walked to a chest and opened it with a click. His back flowed with his movements and I was instantly aware of the fact that I was in a small loft with an extremely attractive man and lying on his bed. That was the furthest I had ever been with a man in all my virgin years.

  “Querida, are you watching?” he asked, staring at me.

  I realized I zoned out so I shook my head clear and focused on the painting Alejandro was holding. The painted side was facing him, ready to be revealed.

  “Yes,” I said while I sat on my knees and placed my hands on my thighs.

  With a confident look on his face, he turned the picture around.

  It took a second for my eyes to adjust, because I was expecting to see a picture of his face, with his slicked black hair and maybe a shirt with some buttons undone. But no. I was staring at a two-foot—what I assumed was a—self-portrait of his penis.

  “Oh, my.” In my shock, I studied it. “Um, is that life-size?”

  Laughing, he shook his head. “No, that would be too much, querida, but I appreciate your confidence in me.”

  The portrait was interesting. The background was just a swirl of colors, but the penis portion was most definitely a penis with a head, some veins, and a set of balls that lay next to a pair of legs. It was erotic, and after the initial shock, I was kind of digging the color.

  “You have a great eye for color.”

  “Thank you, I will show you more.”

  He went back to the chest and started taking out more pictures—all of his erect penis. As I perused each and every one of them, I thought to myself, how could someone paint this many pictures of their own penis? The pictures were nice, but he must think very highly of himself to have so many pictures of his dick. Growing more and more curious, I realized I had to see this penis. I had to see what the big deal was. Pun most definitely intended.

  “How do you do the self-portraits?” I asked, curious.

  “What do you mean, bonita?”

  “I mean, do you umm, sit there with an erection and paint?”

  “Why, yes. Is that strange to you?”

  Is it strange to be sitting in a room with an erect penis and painting while looking down at it. Uh yeah, that was weird.

  “Not sure,” I lied. “Just wondering about your process.”


  “I see. I usually sit down, naked, and think of a bonita señorita like yourself, Rosie, and lightly caress myself until I’m fully erect. That’s when I take out my brush and start painting.”

  That could explain all the angles of the pictures—they were all angled from the top.

  “Interesting,” I said, staring at his crotch.

  “I see the way you stare at me, querida. Do you want to see the muse for my self-portraits?”

  What a creepy thing to say to a woman, especially when you’re speaking about a penis, but I nodded. Yeah, that margarita had way too much tequila in it.

  Taking in my request, Alejandro climbed on the bed and leaned against the pillows and headboard. With precision, he started to undo his jeans and I watched in fascination as he pulled them down slightly and allowed just the head of his cock to jut out from the confines of his pants.

  Holy shit, I was looking at a real-life dick. A dick!

  I inched closer, curious to see if it really looked rubbery like in pictures or if it was a different texture in real life.

  “Your eyes are making me hard, Rosie. The way you look at me . . . I’ve never had a woman look at me like this before.”

  I just nodded, wanting to see more.

  His hands went to the waist of his briefs and jeans, and in one smooth movement, he pulled his pants down fully, allowing his penis to spring free.

  I was about to move even closer until I caught a glance of everything between his legs. I looked back at a portrait and then at the real life thing. To say his pictures didn’t portray his model was an understatement. Right in front of me was a long, erect penis, displayed upon a wild set of curly hair-covered balls. It looked like Chewbacca was staring at me, winking and mewing his crazy-ass sounds.

  Henry warned me of such a thing, that men didn’t necessary think they had to shave, and boy, was he right. Alejandro didn’t even know what a razor was, according to the pubes I could start braiding.

  “Nice, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded, feeling like even though there was a crop of hair on his balls, I was still interested in what he had going on.