The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  I squeeze my eyes shut as he kisses me behind my ear and then pulls back. I can feel him watching me as I shiver and writhe around beneath him. My back is arched and my breasts are straining upwards, begging to be touched. He releases my wrists and squeezes both breasts, licking and gently tugging at the left nipple through my bra. I moan, and he slowly peppers kisses along the top of the bra then pulls down the other bra strap and bites my upper arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it takes me by surprise and I fucking love it.

  I start to reach behind my back to unhook my bra, quietly swearing and cursing him because I just want his hands and mouth on my bare skin already. I glance up at him briefly because I know he’s got a cocky grin on his fiendishly handsome face. But I’m wrong. He looks so serious. His hooded eyes are cloudy, and he isn’t hiding his desire for me, and it’s fucking beautiful and I’ve never felt so wanted by a man. I toss my bra to the floor, grab the back of his neck, and pull him down to my breast. He swirls his tongue around my nipple, sucking and licking and moaning until I am so close to orgasm, I cry out, “Oh my God…just fuck me already…please just do it!”

  “Not yet,” he groans, lowering himself to kiss around my lower abdomen. My fingers are raking through his short hair until he pulls down my panties so slowly that I have to cover my mouth with both hands to keep from begging him to rip them off. “Fuck, you’re so wet, Bernadette.” He pulls my panties down over my feet. I hear his own feet pad on the floor, and then he yanks me down toward the foot of the bed, kneels on the ground, wraps his arms around my bent legs to brace me, and buries his face between them.

  I whimper and quiver when I feel the tip of his tongue on my clit, and then he proceeds to do so many wonderful things to my vagina that I fear I might black out. The concentrated tremors quickly become full-body quakes, and while I’m in the middle of what feels like an eternal orgasm, I barely notice when he pulls away from me to put on a condom, and then he’s pushed me up to the center of the bed and inside me when I’m mid-shockwave. He slides in quite easily, despite his size, and the mild burning sensation makes me sharply suck in my breath, but the heat of it melts away the pain quickly. The way he moves in and out so smoothly—not too quick and not too slow—feels the way I’ve always wanted sex to feel. It’s like we’re made for each other, if only in our nether regions.

  I clench around him, relishing the hissing sound he makes as he arches up and drops his head back. His hands are around my head, tugging on my hair, while his abs are doing all the work here, and now I get exactly why an eight-pack is so useful. I’m not even self-conscious about all the crazy sounds that are coming out of my mouth, because Matt McGovern is panting and moaning too. My feet are gripping the mattress by his thighs as I move my hips with him, and I squeal as he suddenly grabs one of my ankles and brings my leg around so that I’m on my elbows and knees and he is so deep inside me, hands on my hips. I cry out because it’s such an unfamiliar feeling of dull pleasure that spreads from inside my abdomen, radiating all over. I haven’t said “oh God” so many times in a row in my life, but somehow it feels like if I say Matt’s name out loud it would be too intimate. He has complete control over my body, but I still feel like he’s totally with me and not just trying to gratify some primal need for release, although it’s definitely that too.

  Despite his patience and skill, I can tell he hasn’t done this in a while. My body can recognize that sense of urgency, because surely it’s not just about being with me. When he flips me over onto my back again, he places both of my legs straight up on either side of his head and plows into me. I’m so tight around him, and I want to tell him it’s okay for him to come now, but I am overtaken by a tidal wave of bliss, over and over, until I am so unaware of where I end and he begins that it doesn’t feel necessary to talk anymore.

  It’s the place I’ve always wanted to get to with my art, and somehow this person I barely know has managed to take me there, right here in this bed.

  An hour later, I’m on my back and I have to raise my head to check to see if my body not only feels but actually looks like jelly. My mind really is blown, but my entire skeleton may also have dissolved. That’s some pretty gross imagery, considering how good and beautiful I feel. I stare back up at the ceiling and then turn my head to look at Matt, who lies beside me. He seems happy but annoyingly unshaken. I guess he’s better at hiding it when his world has been rocked. He places his hands behind his head and grins, aware that I’m watching him.

  “That was not at all disappointing,” he says.

  Understatement of the century.

  “I have no complaints,” I say casually. “It’s like there was a whole army of you down there at one point.”

  “I’m good at multi-tasking. You’re not so bad yourself. I think you might be the best neighbor I’ve ever had.”

  “You have definitely rocketed to a solid spot on my Top Ten list… It’s kind of an aphrodisiac, actually.”

  “What is?”

  “Knowing it can’t go anywhere. It’s freeing.”

  “I’m glad you brought up this arrangement.”

  “Uh, you were the one who brought it up.”

  “I mean, you gave me the idea.”

  I hike myself up on one elbow. “Matt McGovern! Are you telling me you’ve never had a no-strings arrangement like this before?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Oh, come on. You haven’t. I can tell. I mean, you clearly have very little sexual experience, because you barely managed to pull off whatever you want to call that stuff you did just now…” I wish I could have said that with a straight face. We both laugh, because obviously it was a joke. When the laughing subsides, I get up and put my underthings and pajamas back on while Matt lies back and watches. I don’t need to know about his relationship history. It’s irrelevant in this situation. Totally irrelevant.

  Which is why I’m not going to ask.

  “Okay, but are you just like, Mr. Boyfriend Guy or what? I need to know what I’m dealing with here.”

  He smiles. “I’ve had one-nighters, I’ve dated girls for a short period of time, I’ve dated multiple women at the same time, and I’ve had monogamous relationships. I’ve lived with one woman, once. But yeah, this will be a first for me.”

  “Well. I’ll be gentle.”

  “No thanks. You go right on being whatever you want to call what you were tonight.”

  “Earth-shatteringly hot?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  I sit back down at the edge of the bed and place my hands in my lap. “If this is your first no-strings thing, then I should familiarize you with some ground rules.”

  He fluffs up a pillow, places it behind his back so he can sit up and rest against it, and then rests his chin on his knuckles like an eager student. “Go on.”

  “No sleepovers. No I love yous, even if you don’t mean it. No ‘where is this going’ conversations. No conversations about feelings. No obligations regarding texting the day after sex. No dates, obviously. With each other, I mean. We don’t make plans to have sex; we just get together when it’s convenient for both of us. No public displays of affection. No blabbing about our arrangement to anyone else. If you start dating someone else, I won’t want to do this with you anymore. For the other person’s sake. And vice versa—if I happen to start seeing someone. Because that’s when things can get messy. So, if you even go on a first date with someone, I want you to tell me, or if you decide you want to start seeing Vanessa again, you have to tell me first and we will end this immediately. As soon as it stops being fun and convenient, it’s over. Got it?”

  “Got it. These are very negative rules.”

  “If you don’t like rules, then we shouldn’t do this again.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I don’t know if you know this, but lawyers uphold the law, and laws are rules. I’ll have no problem abiding by those rules. I’d just like to add a more positive one to the mix, if I may.”


  “Go on.”

  “If you’re here in this apartment and I make you come so hard that you pass out, I will allow you to stay here until you regain consciousness, even if it requires sleeping here overnight.”

  Although it is in my nature to guffaw at that kind of statement, I don’t. Because I now know that it is completely within the realm of possibility that he could make me come so hard that I pass out. “That is…bold and generous of you, and right back atcha. Okay, Esquire.” I reach over to pat his leg. “Thanks for the sex, neighbor. I’m gonna begin my five-second walk of shame now.”

  He starts to get out of bed.

  “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

  “Oh, I’m going to see you out. I want to make sure you don’t take Daisy with you.” He smirks as he steps into his underpants, and I really wish he hadn’t gotten up, because now I can’t look away from his beautiful exposed body. Seeing all of it like this, while he’s standing, in the amber glow of the bedside lamp is just so damned awe-inspiring.

  He crosses his arms in front of his bare chest, silently daring me to continue on out the door, but I can see that he too is having second thoughts about my departure.

  I play with the bottom of my pajama top, cross one leg in front of the other. “I mean…I’m not tired yet, are you?”

  “I don’t have to get up early.”

  I am back in his bed and naked again in three seconds.

  I’m back in my apartment before the sun comes up, but I still feel wide awake.

  Looking at myself in the mirror again, this time the woman staring back at me has tousled hair, flushed cheeks, swollen red lips that are pulled into a huge smile, and the skin on my chin is pink from scraping against my neighbor’s stubble.

  When not in the throes of ecstasy, I’ve been trying to keep my cool with Matt. He is well aware of all the orgasms I had, but I didn’t exactly weep or squeal with glee in his presence. Now that I’m alone, I drop the act and quietly leap and twirl around my living room. I may even fist-pump a few times, because that’s what you do when something awesome has happened.

  That was so much more than what I usually got from my friends with benefits! What I usually get is the sexual equivalent of a cold pizza midnight snack. What that was is the sexual equivalent of the tasting menu at Le Bernardin.

  I run into my bedroom, jump onto my bed, and do a quiet little jig, because damn that was the best sex I’ve ever had!

  But also.

  Damn.

  That was the best sex I’ve ever had.

  11

  Matt

  A week has gone by, and I’m not a guy who’s easily freaked out by anything, but I’ve been a little freaked out by how great the sex was with Bernadette.

  I’d forgotten what it was like to have a sex partner, as opposed to being with a gorgeous woman who allowed me to pleasure her and worship at the temple of her body.

  We haven’t really seen each other since we slept together. After Bernadette left my apartment, I went back down to the basement to get her laundry out of the dryer and then placed the basket of clothes in the hallway outside her door and texted her that I had. I mean, I didn’t fold it for her or anything—I’m not her maid. I just didn’t want her going down there by herself at like three in the morning.

  I’ve been busy with work, but she doesn’t seem to have been home much either. A couple of days ago I saw her coming toward me down the block when I was walking Daisy, but I looked away because a dog started barking. When I looked up again, Bernadette had vanished. She was probably hiding in the corner store. I don’t know why she’d feel the need to hide from me. I can only assume that she was equally freaked out by the awesomeness.

  She was right, though. I do have to be careful not to get my thoughts and feelings about Vanessa confused with whatever it is that I’ve got going on with her. Maybe I’m just getting caught up in the firsts again. Maybe the only way to know for sure is if we have sex a few more times. If we’re lucky, it will fall short of our expectations following the initial encounter, which will make it easier for both of us to find someone more appropriate.

  I have never been so eager to have disappointing sex with someone that I’m really attracted to. She may have broken my brain. This is what I’m thinking when I’m heading down to the laundry room on a Friday night, instead of hanging out with my buddies at a bar in the West Village. One of my friends was intent on setting me up with an ex of his who’s in town for the week, but I just didn’t feel up to it.

  If I don’t run into Bernadette, I’ll text her to see if she’s available later on, as per the arrangement. But I don’t run into Bernadette. I run into Mrs. Benson and her poodle. Mrs. Benson is probably in her sixties, and I’m guessing her poodle is around two hundred years old. I remember what Bernadette had said about Mrs. Benson’s dinner parties, so at first when she invites me to her dinner party tomorrow night, I politely decline. When she insists that I come to meet an interesting young lady she thinks I would like, I reconsider.

  When she says, “Oh wait—you must know Bernadette from the building! She’ll be there!” I finally accept her invitation.

  “Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Benson, I would love to come to your dinner party.”

  “Hooray!” she squeals. “Now, I wish I could invite you to bring your dog, but Alessandro doesn’t like other animals.”

  “Not to worry.” Although, now I’m very worried about entering the home of a woman who named her poodle Alessandro.

  When she asks me to show up early to help her with a few things, I have to wonder if the interesting young lady she thinks I would like is her.

  But if she tries to set me up with Bernadette Farmer, Bernie and I may never stop laughing.

  I’ve been in Mrs. Benson’s apartment for ten minutes and I’m considering faking a migraine or accidentally falling out the window to get out of the dinner. After setting up the dining table extension, she had me bring out the fine china from the cabinets and set the table, constantly directing me and reminding me that fine china is fragile—meanwhile I could smell something burning on the stove. She’s wearing an old black Chanel dress and slippers and keeps going back to her bedroom to check on her poodle, who will be kept in there all night. Apparently Alessandro not only dislikes other animals, he also doesn’t care much for people.

  Now I’m in the kitchen, opening the three jars of pickles she has set out on the counter. She isn’t going to be serving them to us. She just wanted me to open them for her. I take the liberty of opening up the bottle of wine that I brought, to let it breathe. Thankfully, I hear music coming from the living room now. The silence was so awkward. Unfortunately, the music that Mrs. Benson has selected is Barry White. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Barry White, but that is a seriously weird choice for an Upper West Side dinner party. My whole body tenses up, as I wonder for a second if the dinner party is all a ruse to get me to her apartment and Mrs. Benson is going to walk back in here in a chiffon nightgown.

  All of this awkwardness is made up for as soon as I turn around and see Bernadette walk into the kitchen, carrying a bunch of flowers. She is shocked to see me. She’s blushing so hard. I’m pretty sure she’d walk right back out again, except Mrs. Benson is right behind her, an impish grin on her face.

  “Surprise, Bernadette! You’ve already met our new neighbor, haven’t you?”

  “Um. Yeah. Hi.”

  “Hello.” I put my hand on my chest. “Matt.”

  “Yes, I remember. Nice to see you.” She widens her eyes at me.

  “Oh, Matt, can you get the vase down from the top shelf in that cabinet right behind you?”

  “Certainly.”

  The front door intercom buzzes, and Mrs. Benson leaves us alone together in the kitchen. Suddenly, it’s hilarious that “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” is playing in the other room. I hand Bernadette the vase. She takes it to the sink to fill it with water and proceeds to focus all of her attention on arranging and fluffing
up the flowers in their new home.

  I clear my throat. “How’ve you been?”

  “Excellent. Fine. Super busy. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Excellent.”

  What follows is a pause that’s so long and quiet, I find myself wistfully remembering how fun it was when Mrs. Benson was telling me how to set her table.

  She gives me a look. It’s the look that I recall, from my earlier years as a single man, as the look that women give you when they’re pissed at you for not calling after sex.

  But she’s the one who told me not to call.

  That was supposed to be the point.

  “I was going to text you last night,” I whisper. “But then I was invited to this thing, and I figured it would be fun to surprise you.”

  “Oh yeah? And is it fun for you? Because I am definitely surprised to see you here.”

  “I’m having the time of my life.”

  “So happy to hear it.”

  After five more seconds of her scowling at me, I say in a hushed voice, “You told me not to text you the day after.”

  “I know that!” she hisses. “I’m not mad about that.”

  “Then what are you mad about?” And now I’m trying to navigate the minefield that is a woman’s feelings after I’ve had sex with her. We might as well be dating.

  “I’m not mad at all! I’m totally cool—you’re the one being weird about everything!”

  “Yeah. That seems like an adequate assessment of the situation.”

  “You know what—fine. I’m not going to do this.” She huffs and then lowers her voice so much that I can barely hear her. I have to lean down to make out what she’s saying. “I was annoyed that you didn’t send the obligatory text the day after, and I know I told you that you weren’t obligated to do that. But apparently when you blew my mind last week, my brain cells accidentally got reorganized into the brain cells of a woman who needs a little reassurance after being intimate with someone for the first time.”