The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I was right. “You have an ugly dick?” That was way louder than it needed to be.

  He turns his head sharply, giving me a pointed look. “Is any dick pretty?”

  “Well, what defines a pretty dick?”

  “I don’t know. Jesus, what kind of question is that?” he asks.

  “I think a pretty dick is shiny, firm, smooth, and soft. On the contrary, it has no wild hairs, colors, or veins.”

  Logan presses up on his elbow, giving me either a “confused as hell” look, or a “Shit, that’s what my cock looks like,” look. “Wow,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t realize there were so many guidelines to having a pretty dick.”

  “Well, if any of the latter descriptions apply to you, you can always just tie a bow around it, and call it a day.”

  “No, I don’t need to tie a bow around it. According to your standards, I have a pretty dick, I guess.” He looks slightly amused and mildly proud, yet his pants are still on.

  “Great, so what’s the problem?” Oh, I know. Men are so sensitive about their asses sometimes, and I don’t understand why. “It’s natural to have hair on your ass. Is that it?”

  “No, I don’t have a hairy ass.” Thank you, God. I couldn’t do that again. Rick’s ass has scarred me for life. I could braid the shit out of that lion’s mane. Rick was what I once considered to be hot … on the outside, at least, but then when the darkness was revealed, so was a whole lot of hair.

  “Okay, I give up.”

  “Can we just cuddle tonight?”

  “Cuddle? Like, spooning—spending the night in bed and waking up next to each other?” So, normally, I’d get down on my knees and beg a man like him to cuddle with me, but my curiosity of why he won’t sex me is clouding my desire to be held in his arms. At thirty-three, I need sex, then cuddles. There’s no rearranging the whole desire for events in that order, even if it makes me sound like a whore. I have needs, and they haven’t been met, seen, heard, or thought of by anyone in over a year.

  “I can go if you want,” he offers, despondent expression and all.

  “You need to just be honest with me because right now, I’m getting a complex.” I tug at my blanket and cover my naked body.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he says, grabbing the thick material from my hand.

  “I don’t want to be lying here naked while you’re hesitant to take your pants off. It’s weird. Don’t you think? Especially after you saw me in my most vulnerable state yesterday.” It’s more than freaking weird. I’m not a model posing in front of an oil-painting class. Nor would I ever be chosen for such a job, unless it was for idolizing the effects of motherhood and how it wreaks havoc on a once perfect body.

  “Tell me your wildest fantasy,” he softly suggests.

  Another loud laugh bucks from my throat. “I don’t know, eating ice cream in a bathtub without a child screaming, ‘Mommy?’”

  “That’s not the kind of fantasy I meant.” I know what he meant. I don’t have an answer because what the hell have I had to fantasize about lately?

  Logan leans over to the nightstand and hits the light switch. “Never mind. Let me see if I can correct this fantasy issue.” What? He just asked if we could cuddle.

  Why are men so confusing? How in the world do they get away with calling women—

  Oh. Oh, okay.

  His hands are colder than I realized, and they’re around each of my thighs, urging them apart. A breeze sweeps up the insides of my legs as movement encircles my body.

  I don’t have a moment to wonder what his plan is because his tongue is tracing a line up my right thigh but suddenly stops.

  Did you wax? Brielle’s voice echoes in my head. Oh no.

  I place my hands on Logan’s face and pull him up. “Cuddling sounds good,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “Just—let’s take things slow.” My dark hole is pruning at the moment, closing in on itself and pulsating with anger. I was just about to experience the most incredible moment of my life, and I didn’t freaking wax.

  “I can go slow,” he says.

  “From up here?” I counter.

  His fingertips glide up toward my center, and I’m clenching my eyes and teeth in preparation for the recoiling of his hand when he meets the wooly mammoth I’ve allowed to grow in down there. I’m debating if I should stop him. I could ruin everything right this very second.

  “You look like you’re afraid this might hurt,” he says. How can he see my face in the dark? I open one eye halfway, noting it’s not completely dark in here because there’s a car parked outside with the lights on. Lovely, let’s shine some light on this subject.

  “I wasn’t prepared …” I try to warn.

  “Relax.” That’s what my OB always says. Don’t say that. I even clean up down there for her. He scoots up, bringing his body parallel in position to mine, which comforts me a bit more. His lips are against my ear. “If you don’t relax, I’ll have to make you relax.”

  I don’t think he’s going to have a choice at this point. His fingers slip inside of me without pausing for a moment to acknowledge the situation down yonder, which allows my mind to slowly filter out all the terrifying thoughts, allowing me to focus on the warmth of his girthy fingers that are gliding in and out of me at just the right speed. Another finger joins the others, and I’m nearly climbing up the back of my bed, expelling moans so loud, the neighbors can probably to hear me. Asshole neighbors.

  His thumb presses on my trigger, and my hips thrust against his hand, bucking wildly off the bed. “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Yes. Don’t stopppp. Right there. Yes, yes. Yes!”

  Limp as a rag, I collapse like liquid into my plush mattress, riding the quivers that are running through every nerve in the lower region of my body. “Thank you,” I cry out in the form of a plea as if he has solved all my world’s problems with just his fingers.

  “I almost got off just watching you get off,” he murmurs.

  “Let me help with that,” I reply.

  I slide off the bed, bringing myself to my knees. I pull his cock out of his unzipped pants and hold it firmly within my hand, noting it is as pretty as I described. He isn’t stopping me, so maybe there really isn’t an issue with his dick. We’ll see, I guess. I just hope the zipper on his jeans doesn’t do any damage. Usually, the pants are off for this part of the night.

  With a firm grip around his shaft, I lower my mouth over the tip and lick gently while following my hand as it glides down his long, really long, wow, okay—dick until the tip hits the back of my throat. His hands tangle in my hair, and his fingers tighten and loosen with every flick of my tongue.

  With a glance up at his face, I hope to catch a glimpse of his expression, but there’s no more light filling the room, so I’m left with my imagination.

  His grip grows tighter the faster my hand and mouth move around his cock, and growls scrape against his throat as his body moves in rhythm with my lips. Logan’s hands find my face, and he squeezes gently. “I’m going to—”

  “I suck him in a little harder, feeling the instant relief of warmth dribble down the back of my throat.”

  “Shit, Hannah, I don’t even know what to say, other than that was probably one of the hottest moments of my life.”

  That’s a nice compliment, and somewhat unexpected. “Thanks.” I sound mousy, shy, and not like the woman who just sucked him off like it was my job. Nope because my job is to be his boss, but I’m better at getting him off.

  And, I’d probably do it again.

  14

  If it were any other Friday, I would be getting ready for work, but instead … there’s another job to be done, and it’s not the one I had in mind.

  What is happening? What? I will my eyelids apart, trying to get a better scope of my situation, but I can’t figure out what’s happening. I can’t breathe. Or move. It’s still kind of dark, but I see sunlight.

  Last night.

  Oh shit.

  That
was nice.

  I twist my heavy head to the right, finding Logan asleep with his arm draped over my naked chest and his hand cupped around my left breast. Maybe that’s why I slept so well all night. Is having warm breasts the answer to a good night sleep? If so, I’ve been doing it wrong my whole life.

  I move my legs around to get the blood circulating, and my bare toes run along the coarse material of his jeans. He’s still wearing his freaking pants. Why?

  I have to pee.

  With an attempt to roll off the bed, Logan’s fingertips seem to stick to my nipple, and he isn’t any more aware than he was a minute ago. Yup, I’m pretty sure it’s going to rip right off if I don’t lift his hand. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and lift slowly so I can adorably tuck and roll like a sea lion—that’s what I imagine I look like at the moment. Thank God he’s asleep, and I can put clothes on before the daylight reveals the truth.

  I tiptoe to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt from the pile that’s still resting on top of my hamper from when Logan folded them the other day.

  My feet hit the cold tiles of my bathroom, and I softly close the door while flipping the light switch. As I face place my clothes down on the counter and look into the mirror, I can only think that I look like a scene from a horror movie when the innocent character looks at their reflection to find a zombie in its place. I need to figure out how to deal with this situation before he wakes up.

  A shower—that’s the answer to all of life’s problems. Hopefully, it doesn’t wake him up. I slip in behind the glass door and crank the water up. The warmth erases some of my humility from last night, but as memories float through me, one by one, I realize I don’t have much to be embarrassed about, except for the whole post-child body in comparison to his iron stealth.

  I lean my back against the shower wall, drowning in the cascading water. How did I get myself into this situation? I have to see this man every day now, and he knows what this disaster looks like. As if I need extra reminders, I look down at the tattoo I got when I was eighteen. It was a small tribal circle with the symbol of life inside. Now, it looks like a child finger painted on my right hip with black ink. This is why marriage is supposed to last. “Through thick and thin.” Well, Rick got the goddamn thin, and now he’s left me with the thick part I was sure no one would want—but now there’s a man who won’t take his pants off, and I’m not sure whether to call it a win.

  With exhaustion draping me, along with the steam, I close my eyes to clear my mind. Blindly, I grab the shampoo bottle and pour the liquid over the top of my head. I let it sit there for a minute before I weakly lather it through my hair that has grown longer than I’ve ever let it before. I’ve never been a short hair kind of person, but lately, I haven’t had the time to blow dry and flat iron the kinky waves I have. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I need to make myself look twenty-something again. Brielle has been whining about me doing something with myself for the past year now, but I’ve been diligently tuning her out. She doesn’t get it. Though, in all fairness, she is the one who gets laid several times a week.

  Onto my next thought of why I’m up so early on a free day when I don’t have a child to take care of. I’m busy burning out my thought engine already, I guess that’s the reason. Does anyone else talk to themselves as much as I do? Does anyone just have a clear head for extended periods of time? Am I like, broken? That must be what this is. Maybe I need drugs. The head doctor did suggest it when I first started going to her after Rick double dipped. Oy.

  I rinse the soap out of my hair and push the strands away from my face, feeling a freshness take over the gross layer I couldn’t seem to shake yesterday. Everything will be okay. I just have to go with the flow.

  A thundering bang scares the shit out of me just as I’m getting the last of the shampoo out of my hair, and some of the suds seep into my eyes. I turn in every direction, reaching for the handle on the door so I can grab my towel, but I stop when I hear a thud.

  What the hell was that?

  The shower floor is vibrating against the loud thuds following the crash. “Hello?” Then, the sound of porcelain hitting porcelain pierces my ears. “Logan?”

  I poke my head out of the fogged-up shower door and peek with my one non-soap-burning eye, seeing the half-naked, stealth-clad man on his knees, vomiting. Oh shit.

  For some reason, I can’t move. I’m frozen, watching this all happen like an asshole. It’s not like I can do much, but watching isn’t nice, so I close myself back into the shower and bite down on the tip of my fingernail. What should I do? “Can I get you anything?” I shout out.

  He answers with a gag, and the slop-hitting-water sound effect informs me he isn’t done yet. I reach my arm out of the shower and grab the towel hanging from the rack. My lip is already curled into a snarl because I hate vomit more than I hate boogers and poop. I know parents are supposed to be used to all that, but my stomach reflexes don’t agree. There hasn’t been a time when Cora has gotten sick that I haven’t felt the need to mirror her expelling situation.

  I turn the water off and wrap the towel around my body, close my eyes, and pull in a sharp breath. I can do this. Man vomit is so much worse than child vomit, but he was there for me the other day. I can’t be a total ass. He’ll take the assumption of my divorce to another level if I don’t do the right thing. I am a caring person.

  I step out onto the plush bath mat and slowly approach him from behind. He’s hugging the toilet with his head hanging over the bowl, and I place my wet hand on his back while kneeling beside him. I do my best to ignore the sight in front of us. That needs to be flushed, or we’re both going to be vomiting. I reach over and flush, forgetting to move back in time to avoid the recoiling splash. Uh, no. It’s just a couple of drops, but I just got out of the shower. Come on, really?

  “I think I’m sick,” he says with a groan.

  “I’m so sorry, Logan. This is all my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he says, looking over at me. His eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and his nose is running a little, yet the green hue of his cheeks brings out the blue in his eyes. Bastard. That’s not fair. No one looks good while puking. No one!

  He begins to shiver, so I get up and run to the bedroom for a blanket to wrap around him.

  I return quickly and place it around his shoulders. “Here, is that better?”

  “Thanks,” he mutters while sliding back on his knees to push himself away from the toilet. I guess that position isn’t comfortable, since he immediately lies down on the tiled floor.

  “I know how awful this feels,” I tell him. He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, and I quickly assume he had his mother wrapped around his little finger with that look. “I’m sorry, Logan.” I run my fingers through his silky hair that somehow still looks perfect after a night’s sleep and vomiting. “Can I do anything?”

  “Just sit here with me,” he says in a whisper.

  I look down at my wet towel. “Okay, sure.” I sit down, leaning my back against the wall beside the toilet paper roll, and Logan scoots forward a couple of inches, placing his head on my lap.

  I’m not sure why, but I’m looking around the bathroom, sort of wondering if anyone is watching this happen. While it wasn’t evident last night when he was making me moan louder than I’ve ever moaned, right now with his head on my lap, I’m realizing how little we know about each other.

  With his back in view, I notice a tattoo—two lines of text written in what looks to be Greek.

  “What’s this mean?” I ask, running my finger along the puckered skin.

  Logan sucks in a short breath of air, and his hands tighten around my thighs. “It—” he swallows and pauses. “It means, ‘We cannot learn without pain.’ It’s about something I lost, and it’s a quote from Aristotle.”

  “Wow, how philosophical of you,” I tell him, smiling a touch at the thought. I’ve had my assumptions about this man, but I may have had him all wrong. “So, w
hat pain have you learned?” I know he was injured in baseball, but I think there’s more.

  Logan curls his legs into his stomach, and I watch the waistband of his jeans dig into his stomach. That can’t feel good, but before I can suggest something else, he’s pressing against me, reaching for the toilet.

  It smells like the devil’s feet in here, and I’m trying my hardest to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose.

  “I think I’m dying,” Logan grumbles.

  “It’s just the flu,” I remind him gently, while running my hand up and down his bare back, which is burning up. “Come on, let me help you to bed.”

  I grab a face cloth and run it under the faucet before he stands up. “Here.” I dab it over his face and flush the toilet. “It’ll be okay.”

  He’s staring up at me as if he just figured something out, but I can’t imagine what could be going through his head right now. “Cora is a lucky girl,” he utters.

  I toss the washcloth into the sink and loop my arm under his. “Come on.” He uses the toilet as leverage to get up to his feet but leans a lot of his weight on me too. Logan is not a small man—lean, yes, but those muscles weigh a ton. I manage to get him to the bed and help him under the covers. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Logan grabs my wrist with a weak grip. “Thank you, Hannah.” The bridge between superior and employee has been broken. We’ve taken a completely different path, and we’ll need to figure out how to navigate through this one, but I’m willing to go that way because something feels different right now. Something feels good, despite the situation at hand.

  I slip into a pair of leggings and a baggy t-shirt and jog down the steps toward the kitchen, just as the doorbell rings. It’s way too early in the goddamn morning for company. Come on.

  “Coming,” I shout to whoever is rude enough to ring the bell before nine on a holiday or weekend.

  I open the door, finding Rick, Tiana, and Cora standing on the front step. What the hell? “What’s the matter?”