“Sam, is everything okay? You look a little off.”
“Oh no, I’m fine, I’m better than…” I rambled until I stopped myself from talking when I threw my body into his with my most potent kiss. This knocked both of us off the meter and onto the street curb, where we continued to make-out.
Hell right, I was off. Or more like wrecked! Over the course of a few minutes, my tightly wound Catholic ass was on fire in the middle of one of New York’s most public city streets. I should have been freezing my butt off, but instead, I contemplated stripping down to my skivvies.
I finally got a grip on my raging hormones and peeped, “Wow, I have to head home.”
I turned and sprinted down the street. He caught me in a matter of seconds.
“Hey, Sam, hang on. I’ll walk you home.”
He was a gentleman too, just the type of man I should love but typically repelled. Except this time I didn’t.
I felt as if I was in the middle of a movie.
A terrorist-busting boy and a sexually frustrated girl walked hand-in-hand all the way home to an East Side city stoop. Then the beautiful boy dropped off the shaken girl and kissed her so sensually and so lovingly that she had a spontaneous orgasm on the corner of Avenue B and 14th Street.
At the perfect moment, Justin brought things back to reality when he grabbed my hand and grazed it with a heartfelt peck.
I fished clumsily for my keys, turned to him and whispered, “Goodnight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thank you, Mother, for ensuring that the Catholic Curse would suppress my desire for sex despite how truly fabulous the man happened to be. Just thinking about Justin brought on that feeling of being a love-struck tween running through the streets during a hot summer rain shower. But maybe I should thank dear old Mom, because not putting out paid. He had courted the hell out of me for four blissful weeks. Clearly not long enough to stop all the swearing.
He treated me with respect. Like a princess. Every woman should be in a relationship where her man treated her like royalty. Justin held doors open, called when he said he would, took care of everything, and escorted me down the street, making sure he stayed on the side closest to the street so if a road-raging loon hit the curb, it would be he and not me who would bear the brunt of it. So gallant.
He loved me. The real me. The divorced me. And he played no games that I could detect—a rare case of what you see is what you get. I had finally freed myself from the bad boy type, the ones that my mom often reminded me were just “bad news.” One month was too soon to mention the “L” word, but it was the only explanation for my feelings. We skipped right through that awkward period of acting silly and unavailable, and opted for honesty instead.
We were laying on my new rose-pink down comforter when things got heated. The flower petals I’d dropped all over the bed stuck to Justin’s tanned and sweaty pecs and instead of getting mad, he tickled me. I fantasized about an impromptu fornication session.
“Sam, I want this moment to be perfect, and I want you to be completely at ease with all of this.”
Do me now, I thought. I needed me some of those pecs.
Unfortunately, he mistook my wandering mind as a sign to go slower. Part of me loved him for being sensitive to the fact that it might be too soon for sex, but it made me want him to penetrate me, immediately.
He pinned me down by pressing his massive yet sculpted frame into my accepting body, just enough to arouse me but not snap any bones.
“I’m going to contain myself, but next time, I’m just going to take you, no waiting for permission—I’m going to scoop you into my arms and never let go.”
Such an honorable man. Yup, I loved him. This relationship bordered on perfection. Candy would be so proud of me. After all the marital and dating mishaps, I was ready to be “taken” and loved by a good man. I deserved happiness, and this was my chance to snag it.
Our relationship mirrored an old school courtship, the kind where you needed to get permission to “see” someone and boys had to work at wooing. A nice counter to today’s dating standards where perfect strangers pork each other senseless, particularly in the Hamptons. Sometimes without even wearing condoms, and often over the Internet. Thank God I would never have such worries again, only blissful moments with my very own man of steel.
***
It was New Year’s Eve, and luck be a lady, I had a bona fide boyfriend. What a great way to end the year and kick off the new one. So what if I was about to turn thirty in February? I had found true love. Baby was growing up! Baby was a tramp.
Justin’s ringtone jolted me out of my love-steeped stupor.
“Hey, baby. I’ve got some bad news.”
Oh, Christ. He fell out of love with me already.
“Yes, Sweet Tart?” I prayed to God. He sure as hell better be listening.
“I know this was going to be our first New Year’s together, but I have to work, unfortunately. We’re back on an orange alert, citywide. But I promise I’ll think of you all night as I patrol the beat.”
He protected our world from terrorists, so how could I begrudge him? We had a lifetime of New Year’s Eves to spend together. O magazine said that women made too much out of this particular holiday.
“No worries, Buttercup. Shannon and I will just dig up something to do, and then I’ll wait up for you.”
“Copy that, baby.”
Oh, how I loved that man. I knew it wasn’t in my nature to throw the “L” word around, but I couldn’t stop myself. Get real, dear. Nobody this perfect would ever be interested in you, especially after all of your sinning.
Spending New Year’s Eve in Manhattan easily cost upwards of a few hundred bucks, which just wouldn’t fly on my salary. Crazy Molly had cut my pay after the plant watering incident.
My mother raised me to score deals wherever possible, one hand-me-down worth keeping. After some noodling, I reached into the bowels of my remote friendships and reconnected with Pascal, an Asian nightlife guru I had met over the summer at Southampton Social Club. He was short, suave, and plugged-in though hard to understand. This translated into people inviting him to the hottest parties in and outside the city.
He owed me big-time because he put me to work a few months earlier at his Sex and the City reunion party, where I ended up peddling scented lubes and condoms. My boss for the night called himself The Lube King. He had left Wall Street to embark on a more respectable business—sexual lubricants. I went hoping to meet Carrie Bradshaw and her once-fabulous gal pals, but in reality, it turned out to be a launch party for a new book about the most sex-inducing spots in town. Oddly, Pascal thought of me. The King paid me extra for demonstrating how to apply scented lubricants, which required me to swirl my tongue around test tube shooters. This schooled potential buyers on the key selling points: lubes could be both delectable and functional.
I got sent home early when I did not take him up on his offer to partake in a live “lube job” demo on his “member” during my break. Yes, Pascal owed me.
“Hey, Passy, I need two free tickets to the SoHo Grand’s New Year’s Eve ball. Can you hook me up?”
When he started to balk, I muttered “lube job” under my breath.
“I see what I can do. Will get back pronto.”
He texted me five minutes later to confirm that he had taken care of things. When I called Shannon with the good news, she developed a get-hot-quick strategy. Even though we were “taken” women, we still had to look good.
At a pint-sized nail salon on the Lower East Side, we lapped up the ambiance and allowed ourselves to be pampered. I enjoyed staring at the street riot posters that covered the salon—an odd choice, but it reminded me that things were always looking up. I also enjoyed the sweet and stinky smells of the street meat being cooked outside the shop. Even on the coldest day of the year, those guys were out there slapping together kebabs skewered with unidentifiable meats. Food and Wine said that men loved women who ate pork, so I’d tried to incor
porate more meat into my diet.
“You know, we are lucky to have bagged such normal hotties in this city, don’t you think?” Shannon said.
“Yeah, I mean if anybody would have ever told me that I would be dating an FBI agent and you would be snogging his best friend, I would have growled at them and told them to stop mocking me. Now, I can’t stop glowing. We are damn lucky all right.”
“May our good fortune never come to an end,” Shannon said.
Her dark brown locks were combed to a satin sheen. We conspired on how to usher in a better year than the last.
“Color please, miss?”
“Something saucy. And sexy too. And pink, just not whore-bag pink, sweet sexy girl pink,” I said.
“Shut up, Sammy, and answer your phone. Let her do her job.”
“What time you want me to pick you up?” Pascal said.
“So not necessary. Shannon and I are going to take the subway to the party. But thanks for the tickets!”
“Color please, miss?”
“Got to go, Passy, later,” I said as I hung up and selected a sultry pink shade for my toes. I wanted to look animalistic when Justin slipped into my boudoir late night.
“That’s weird. Pascal wanted to pick me up for the party. Probably nothing. Just making up for the lube incident, right?”
“Sam, stop obsessing. Everything is fine. We have great men in our lives, plans for New Year’s, and now a fantastic mani-pedi. Just enjoy life, would ya?”
I nodded complacently. My resolution for next year—accept happiness and good fortune. I was worthy. No, you’re not.
After our nails dried, we trekked through the slushy streets back to Shannon’s to get ready together like we used to in the Hamptons.
We shared a block of blue cheese and downed a bottle of champagne. We decided we deserved it. Plus, everything looked better through champagne flutes. Just imagining my late-night liaison with Justin got me hot in all the right places, or maybe it was the bubbly. Who the hell cared!
My “I’ve Got You Babe” ringtone buzzed. Oh, Justin had me all right.
“Baby, guess who got off work tonight? I want to suck your body into mine at the stroke of midnight.”
How sweet. Justin and I were on our way to becoming lovers for life. Don’t count on it, dear. I’m sure you’ll do something to screw things up.
“That is so exciting, except Shannon and I already made plans to go to a party, since you were working,” I said. “You could always join us, though. I would love that. The only problem is that it’s three hundred bucks a ticket. But I’ll squeeze into a pink sequined mermaid dress to make it worth your while.”
I willed myself to stopped babbling but I desperately wanted him to join us.
“No worries, baby. I can’t wait. Paddy got off too, so we’ll meet you there once I finish up with work. Text me the address, or I can hunt you down, if you prefer.” I could feel his biceps bulging through the phone as he hung up.
“Shannon, I love this crime-busting babe. I really do.”
“I know, but remember it’s all new. Just take it easy. Hey, did you tell them about the dress code?”
“No, but he’ll look sexy no matter what,” I said.
Justin was usually a tight t-shirt and jeans kind of guy, but I knew he’d conjure up something for our special night. He could show up naked and I wouldn’t object. It was preferable actually.
Shannon danced around in the kitchen and then started break-dancing across the checkerboard tile floor. She had it just as bad for Paddy. It was adorable, and so were we. Screw Oprah and her righteous self-help ways. This self is better with a man.
***
It was not until Pascal moved toward me with romantic purpose that I realized he might think we were on a date. I thought I made it vaguely clear that I used him for free tickets to the party, but maybe my communication fell short, as my father often claimed was the case.
I would be cordial, but nothing more. When he approached, I indicated I had to powder my nose. When he threatened to dive in for a hello kiss, I scratched my nose and then picked at it to dissuade him. He released me, untouched, so I darted to the bathroom.
I hid out in there for fifteen minutes, and despite that fact, he stood waiting to greet me when I exited. He placed his sweaty hand on the small of my back and pushed me, rather forcefully, into the party room where techno music boomed so loudly I felt like I had come down with vertigo. Considering the high price tag, I expected something more highbrow, like a swing band. Martha Stewart always said classy, not trashy.
I distanced myself from Pascal when I bumped into an edible sculpture of the Statue of Liberty. I loved Lady Liberty as much as any New Yorker, but seeing her in cheese form felt sacrilegious.
Shannon was hammered on one too many cocktails, so none of my distress signals made an impact. Techno turned even the sanest people into psychos, and Shannon was no exception. She kept throwing her hands up to the sky and down to the ground, in what looked like a full-on body slam with the dance floor. Even for techno, her moves seemed extreme.
She continued to ignore me and guzzled another sparkly drink out of a Chrysler Building goblet. It impressed me how she could dance and balance a drink at the same time, much like my mother.
As I assessed Shannon’s performance, my stalking sidekick came in from behind and smacked me on the neck with a slobbering kiss. Then he delivered a sweet nothing in my ear. Maybe the mermaid dress accentuating my minimalist curves was too much for him to handle. How could I explain the curves were for Justin and not him?
“Wow, no, I did not know you worked your way through high school to support your four brothers and sisters. That’s admirable. I’m sure your mother is proud.”
“Not exactly. She’s dead.”
“Oh, so sorry to hear that. I bet she’s looking down from heaven though and so very proud.”
“Doubtful, she too self-centered for that. Not like you. You hot.”
My head felt like it could explode for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which included the volume of the music. Did anybody even like techno anymore? I contemplated leaving to end my misery, but then I spotted my beau across the jam-packed room.
Justin had dressed up his usual jeans and tee look with a pec-accentuating denim blazer. He furthered his chances of bedding me by wearing one of those Robert Redford newsboy caps that made any man, even the gangly, handsome. In Justin’s case, it made me want to jump him. The fact that everybody else was wearing tuxedos and cocktail dresses didn’t even bother me. In fact, I considered snapping a photo and sending it to GQ, but thought better of it due to his covert profession. Plus, the last thing I needed was for women everywhere to pleasure themselves in the bathroom while peering at his smoking-hot bod in a magazine.
Staring at him gazing at me from across the room made my heart bounce to the beat. The music shifted down a notch just enough for me to hear Pascal’s blubbering.
“Samantha, would you care dance?”
How did I fall into a date with one man on the same night my boyfriend arrived to begin our life together as soulmates? Face facts, dear, the only one your soul is mating with is the devil. I was typically dateless, but now I had two.
“Pascal, if you don’t mind, I’ll pass. I’m not much of a dancer, but thanks anyway. If you’ll excuse me, I have to hit the ladies’ room.”
I needed to ditch him. My terrorist-busting prince charming had arrived, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, which was likely the right idea. It would complicate matters if he realized that I was on an accidental date with a party-hopping hound wearing a slick silver tuxedo.
Shannon was plastered and useless. She had stooped to dancing to techno to seduce Paddy. He must love her because it seemed to work.
The main ballroom was dressed up with mini Statue of Liberty sculptures everywhere—the perfect decoys to duck behind as I exited at one end of the room and reentered at the other. I sauntered up behind my sweetie, p
ressed my body into his, and blew in his ear. In Touch said that playing with ears was an instant turn-on for men.
“Hello, you,” I said, hoping to sound sexy. Slutty would be more accurate.
I felt seductive as our bodies melded together in a perfect upright spoon. Being ensconced within his buff curves was akin to the high I imagined people experienced on ecstasy, but better because Justin was my drug of choice.
“Baby, you look amazing. I can’t wait to take you home,” he said.
How lucky was I? I didn’t think I had ever had the pleasure of having a man dote on me. It was fabulous. In Justin’s presence, all of my insecurities and sexual hang-ups melted away. It was a stupid cliché, but Justin really did complete me.
Shannon continued her seduction routine by gyrating with Paddy to the tunes. Pascal ran toward us, so I pulled Justin up to the dance floor. The music faded into the background and the countdown began.
Justin swept me into his massive arms, twirled me in a circle, and dipped me into the center of the dance floor. The DJ continued, “Three, two, one, Happy…” Justin attacked my lips with a passionate smooch. It lasted for several minutes, I think. I almost passed out from the lack of oxygen.
“Samantha Serrano, I love you,” he whispered.
Pascal spit into my other ear, “Two-time whore,” and attempted to throw a punch at Justin.
Definitely not the ideal first confession of love.
My man had a heart though because instead of pulverizing Pascal, he let him take another swipe but stopped the punch before it broke any skin. I wanted to sock Pascal myself, but Justin indicated that would not be kind. Such an honorable man, my boyfriend. It was clear that our city and country were much safer with him to protect us. I also knew deep down, if I allowed him, he would protect me from myself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Justin took me the moment after we necked our way into my apartment. He led me into the bedroom, which was my living room and also my kitchen, so it made things convenient. He gazed at me lovingly as he unhooked my dress and stripped off his own shirt at the same time. That move would have required three hands on a normal man, but for Justin, it was effortless. His perfect body terrified and turned me on.
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