The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  “Okay, first of all,” I say to Bernadette, “you and Matt are still very different, and secondly, Keaton is not Matt.”

  “But Keaton’s amazing. He’s so cute with Harriet.”

  “He’s so great with Finn.”

  “I’m great with Harriet and Finn!”

  Bernadette’s head jerks back. “Nobody said you weren’t.”

  “See, that’s your problem right there,” Aimee says. “You’re competitive with him. You don’t have to be competitive with him. It’s not like there’s only ever been room for one single friend in this group.”

  “Okay, that is not true. What about the times when Chase couldn’t make it to a work event and you could only pick one plus-one, and sometimes you’d choose Keaton instead of me?” I don’t even care about this stuff so much right now. It just feels like I need to keep acting the way they expect me to. That’s the thing about being a part of a group. It’s not easy to change how people see you.

  Aimee waves her hand dismissively. “That only happened when Keaton knew people at the event and it made sense for him to go instead of you. And anyway, if you’re still mad at him for being such an ass to Chase and me when we first got together, I appreciate how loyal you are, but you need to get over it. Chase and I did. I love Keaton.”

  “I loooove Keats,” Bernadette says with her hands over her heart.

  “Really? That much?”

  “One day last year, we needed a backup babysitter really fast, and he literally dropped everything to come look after Harriet.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to babysit?”

  “We did. You had a dinner thing that you couldn’t get out of. Anyway—when we came home, she was fast asleep, and he was covered in glitter and face paint, and he was wearing a construction paper crown that she’d made him and she made him promise he wouldn’t take it off even when she was asleep.”

  “What did she paint on his face?” Aimee asks, thank God, because I’m dying to know.

  “A butterfly. He let her paint a pink and blue butterfly on his face. We took a picture of him like that, and she has it up in her room—oooh, it’s on my phone. I’ll show you! And before you ask, Roxy—yes, she also has a picture of you from that time we had a picnic.” Bernadette starts to frantically scroll through images on her phone.

  “Thank you, but I do not need to see the picture.”

  “Well, I want to see it,” Aimee says.

  “You know what you should do?” Bernadette says, waving her phone at me. “You should try converge-sating with him.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but I’m not doing that. Okay, I’m gonna go.”

  “We don’t want to scare her,” Aimee says to Bernadette. “We aren’t pressuring you, girl. Just chill.”

  “I’m chill. I just…this isn’t the kind of thing I can rush into. All right? This could be…a big deal.”

  “The biggest!” Aimee raises her hands in the air again.

  “Okay, I’m leaving.”

  “But no pressure.”

  “But wait!” Bernadette grabs my arm. “What you just said—that’s the thing. You’ve been resisting Keaton and holding on to this idea of him being an ass for so long because deep down, you know how life-changing it would be to give in to all that energy between you. There’s so much of it, Roxy, I could paint it. In fact, I probably will. My next series of paintings just might be about you and Keaton.”

  “I think that might count as pressure,” Aimee stage whispers to her.

  I can’t even process what she just said. “Okay, good night!”

  “Roxton foreva!” Bernadette calls out as I’m opening the door to the hallway.

  “Shhh!” I shut the door again. “Let me get my head around Roxton for now first. I mean, I don’t even know where he’s at yet.”

  I look at Aimee, who is smiling down at the floor and trying to hide her face with her hair like a lunatic. “Also, to be clear,” she says to Bernadette, “Chase can’t know. I mean, not until they’re officially, you know. Together. Because we don’t even know if Keaton’s really interested.” She smacks her lips together and looks to the side.

  I get up in her sweet face until she has to look me in the eyes. “Did he talk to you or something?”

  She covers her mouth. “Did who talk to me?”

  “Girl. Do not make me slap you.”

  15

  Keaton

  By the time Roxy gets back to the Hibiscus Cottage, I’m already in bed, shirtless and looking at photos of Jackpot on my phone. He played outside in the snow today. Most likely took a dump for the good people of the doggy hotel in the snow too. Good for him. He’s probably enjoying my vacation more than I am. I know for sure that he’s going to enjoy the rest of this night more than I will.

  I made a decision earlier tonight, that I will wait for Roxy to make the next move. No matter how long I have to wait, no matter how painful it will be to stay on my side of the bed. I’ll let her think that I’m not capable of thinking like her, but I know this is what she needs. My M.O. in the past has been to come on strong with the women I want, but this woman is more strong-willed than most. I have definitely met my match, and I just need to be patient and wait for her to realize that she’s met hers.

  It has probably only been fifteen minutes since I got here, but it feels like I’ve been waiting for her to return from the lobby forever. There’s an Inuit word—iktsuarpok. It’s that anticipation and frustration you feel when you’re waiting for someone to come over and you keep going outside to check for them. That’s how I’ve been feeling for the past fifteen minutes. That’s how I’m feeling all the time now, when it comes to Roxy Carter. I’m just waiting for her to show up for me, and I know that she will be worth the wait.

  She shuts the door so quietly, as if she expects me to be asleep and doesn’t want to wake me. She kicks off her sandals and tiptoes around, even when she sees that I’m sitting up. She doesn’t make eye contact with me when she pulls a T-shirt out from her suitcase and then makes her way over to the bathroom.

  Oh for fuck’s sake—now what?

  I turn off the bedside lamp, punch the pillow, and slam my head down into it, turning my back to the bathroom door. This woman confounds me and I love-hate it. I try to will myself to fall asleep before she gets into bed, which is impossible. I’m too aware of the sound of her moving behind the door. She isn’t slamming anything—she isn’t mad. She’s carefully placing each of her many products back on the marble counter instead of tossing things around—she’s being considerate. She’s changing her behavior for me, or at least because of me. She’s probably taking her birth control pill, which I just happened to see in her cosmetics bag. She’s also taking her sweet fucking time in there, so she’s either dreading getting into bed with me or she’s figuring out a game plan.

  Or maybe she’s doing that ten-step Korean skincare thing that Tamara tried for about a week.

  Tamara.

  I wish I hadn’t thought of her. Now all of a sudden, this bed feels bigger and emptier and the distance between me and all of the women of the world feels greater. I’ve managed to stay so focused on the potential start of a relationship with Roxy all day, and now the prospect of going through another ending with someone—someone as significant as Roxy—almost paralyzes me.

  Maybe I should just go outside and sleep in the fucking bathtub. Offer myself up to the mosquitos and the cruel gods of heartache and blue balls. I barely even feel the mattress move when she finally gets under the covers. I’m either numb, or I’m feeling so much that I can’t feel any more.

  She doesn’t turn on the bedside lamp. She barely moves. “Good night,” she says. A statement.

  “Good night,” I say. A resolution.

  And that’s it. We’re down for the count. That’s the end of our third night in bed together. We scored ten points in two rounds of Celebrity, and that’s all the scoring I’ll be doing tonight.

  I’m in that hazy and bewildering world bet
ween being asleep and awake when I feel something on the back of my shoulders and realize—or hope—that they are lips and that Roxy is kissing me. If I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up, and if I’m awake, I don’t want to move because maybe she’s asleep. She presses up against my back, and Sweet Jesus, she is naked. Her nipples brush against my bare skin as she strokes down my arm, reaches around and slides her hand down past the elastic waistband of my boxers, and caresses and tickles my balls. She pushes my boxers down, takes my cock in that hand, and fucking hell she knows how to handle me just right, but I am going to resist every urge to ramp things up, because I want to stay in this hazy and bewildering world for as long as possible.

  Last night she ended up being so receptive, but tonight she’s curious and exploring my body—either that or she’s planning to take her time and drive me crazy—whatever her intentions, every part of me is along for the ride. She circles her index finger and thumb around me and takes her time stroking up and down my shaft and then uses her whole hand to do the same, coming up and palming the head and gently twisting and carefully rubbing and somehow knowing exactly when to drag her fingertips down to my balls again when the head gets too sensitive to take any more.

  She nudges my arm to get me to shift onto my back so she can kneel between my legs. She’s still under the covers, and all I hear is barely controlled heavy breathing and my own heartbeat and the movement of skin against bed sheets. I can’t see much of anything, but I can feel everything. I reach out to pull her down for a kiss. She leans forward to sweep her nipples across my chest and then pulls away before my mouth can make contact with hers. She takes hold of my cock at the base with one hand, pressing her palm along the shaft and slowly pulling it toward her. When she reaches the tip, she does the same with her other hand, over and over, slowly and gently, and then she grips me harder, tugs up and down and goes back to gentle caresses.

  Yeah. She’s trying to drive me crazy, and I’m fine with it. I grab on to the sides of the pillow. My eyes are squeezed shut, my teeth clenched tight, and the veins in my neck might burst, but I am just fine with this.

  When I feel her fingers at that spot behind my balls and her tongue licking up my rock-hard shaft, I finally break the silence with a groan and “Fucking hell, Roxy,” and that’s when I feel her climbing on top of me. Her bent knees are on either side of my hips, and she’s lining up the crown of my throbbing cock with her hot, wet pussy. Torturing me. I take the deepest breath I’m capable of and wait for her to steadily lower herself down and put me out of my sweet misery. The meaning of life can now be measured in millimeters and warm, slippery inches, and I have never wanted so badly to feel connected to a woman.

  I hold on to her hips, and when she finally sinks all the way down and she is filled up with me, her breath catches and she lets out a loud, sexy gasp, and I’m on fire. I squeeze her fleshy ass and wait for her to start rocking her hips, and when she does, it’s a jolt to my system, and I can’t hold back much longer.

  Fuck it.

  I sit up, and she arches her back, and my mouth is finally on those beautiful tits and my hands are everywhere, and I am starving and feasting and delirious for this woman’s body. I almost make her come from all the licking and sucking. Her legs are wrapped around my waist and my legs are crossed under her and we are rocking back and forth together, and I am so glad I stretched after running today. I had no idea my body could do this, but right now I think I would do anything for her.

  She finally kisses me, and it’s so deep and intense and passionate, it feels like she’s trying to tell me all the things she’d never say with words. The shocking intimacy of it is stunning, but it turns me on even more because I want it. I want her, and I want this, and I never want her to stop sucking on my tongue and nibbling on my lower lip and dragging her fingernails across my back and grinding down on me, and I never ever want to stop feeling her tits pressed against my chest, because God, this is heaven to me.

  But this woman, she will never stop tantalizing me. She leans all the way back down to the mattress, letting her arms fall over her head and lifting her legs up to rest her ankles on my shoulders. I have no moral issues with this shift in positions, and I am plenty happy with the view, so I get on my knees, grab on to her thighs, and thrust harder and harder and deeper and deeper until she is crying out “Oh God, yes, Keaton, oh my God.” This feels better than all the good things I’ve ever felt combined. Fucking hell, she’s hot. I’ve never been so turned-on by a woman, and making her come for me is the only thing that matters now.

  She’s writhing and jerking around and gripping the sheets, and I keep going and going until I just can’t anymore.

  “Come inside me,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

  Five words I did not expect to hear from her tonight, and five seconds later, I do. I say her name just once and explode inside her, and the release is incredible.

  Roxy fucking Carter.

  I disappear into her and into myself and into the universe of me and her that I knew was out there, and if this is the only way in, well I can live with that.

  I only get a glimpse of it, but it is glorious.

  Before I fall asleep, I know without a doubt that I will do whatever it takes to get us back there, over and over.

  16

  Roxy

  “You look different. You look relaxed.” My mother squints her eyes at her phone’s camera.

  “What? No. I just got some sun. Look at this view!” I turn my phone away from myself toward the view from the veranda. Keaton is inside, rolling calls with his assistant. It’s early Monday morning, and I’m about to start dealing with some work stuff, but my parents just Skyped to check in with me.

  “Why aren’t you letting us see your face?” my mom asks. “What’s going on? Is it the boy?”

  “Shh!” I turn down the volume on my phone. “There’s no ‘the boy.’”

  “Where is this boy?” My dad takes the phone from my mom. “What are we talking about?”

  “Hey, Dad. Want to see the view?”

  “Of what? The boy?”

  “Of Antigua.”

  “Who?”

  “Antigua. That’s where I am now.”

  “Who are you there with?”

  “Aimee and her husband. My friend Bernadette and her husband. And their…our friend Keaton.”

  “Keaton? You’ve never mentioned a Keaton,” my mother says, swiping the phone from my dad.

  “Keaton’s a grown man, and that’s his first name?” I hear my dad ask.

  “Yes. He’s a grown man. It’s his first name.”

  “Sounds like a Mr. Hoity Toity Pretty Boy to me.”

  “He’s Chase’s best friend. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him.”

  “Is Keaton the boy?” my mom asks.

  “Did someone say my name?” Keaton practically croons, stepping out onto the veranda.

  I shake my head and try to wave him away.

  “Put him on! Put him on the Skype! Where is he?” my mom yells.

  Keaton strides over to stand right behind me, smiling into the camera over my shoulder. Half of each of my parents’ faces are visible in the Skype window. “Good morning,” he says, turning on the charm. “You must be Roxy’s parents. I’m Keaton Bridges. Roxy’s boyfriend. It’s nice to Skype-meet you.”

  My mother squeals, “I knew it!” and covers her mouth, and my instinct is to throw my phone and Keaton over the railing.

  “It’s a couples-only resort,” I explain, lowering my voice, “so Keaton and I have to pretend to be a couple and share a room. It’s a whole thing, not a big deal.”

  “You’re pretending to be Roxy’s boyfriend and sharing a room with her?” my dad grunts. “Did you lose a bet?”

  “I really feel like I’ve won the lottery,” Keaton says, hand on heart.

  Both of my parents guffaw at that.

  “Please tell me there are two bathrooms!” my mom says.

  “Actually, she’s really started
to pick up after herself.” He pats me on the back. “She’s a very considerate roommate.”

  “Really?” my mom asks. “Is she really? You’re not just saying that? Because we couldn’t wait to get her out of the house.”

  “So far I’ve found her to be very accommodating. And a great card player.” He winks at them. Winks. At my parents.

  “Oh, were you the one? Clever boy.” My mom winks back at him.

  Jesus.

  “Who are you? The card game police? Thanks for blowing the lid off our parenting tricks,” my dad mutters with a smirk. “You tell her about Santa Clause too?”

  “I told her he won’t be visiting this year if she doesn’t tidy up her side of the bathroom counter.”

  “Hey, we should have tried that.” My mom smacks my dad’s arm, and the camera sways all over the place. I feel dizzy, but it might be because Keaton’s hand has slid down to my ass, and I can’t believe he’s Skyping with my parents. This is so weird.

  Keaton’s phone vibrates, and he checks the Caller ID. “I am so sorry, but I have to take this call,” he says to my parents. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, I hope to see you again soon.” He sounds so earnest, I almost believe him.

  “Nice to meet you, Keaton! Have fun with our girl!” My mother waves at him.

  “It’s impossible not to!” he calls out as he walks back inside and shuts the doors.

  “He looks like the kinda guy who doesn’t wear socks,” my dad mutters.

  Yeah. That’s what I was expecting. My dad hates him. “How can you tell that just from seeing his face?”

  “I know faces. I know feet.”

  “Well, he wears socks in the city. In public, anyway. I think.”

  “He looks like the kinda guy who could afford a lot of socks. Nice ones,” my mother says. “You’ve never had a real boyfriend with a real job before.”

  “Yeah, well, I still haven’t. He’s not a real boyfriend.”

  “Well, anyway, you look well-rested. Are you actually sleeping in the same room with him? He sounds like a miracle worker.”