by Claire Adams
“What’s wrong?” the woman asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Eager to please, loathe to offend: it is a beautiful thing.
I nod toward the mirror, and whatever-her-name-is throws a fit big enough to convince the cabbie to give us a discount for the trip.
I’m still hard when we pull up to her building.
We get out of the cab, and I grin as I wish the driver a good night.
I doubt his is going to be anything compared to mine.
Buzzed Girl is all laughs as the doorman opens the door for us, and I’m just hoping she’s not one of those chicks that’ll spend all of our time giggling and talking about how she never does this kind of thing.
I get that the super-innocence thing is a turn on for some guys, but I’m not one of them.
I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.
We get to the elevator, and although we’re not the only people in the car, she’s standing in front of me, rubbing her butt against the front of my jeans.
Yeah, I’m ready.
“Tell me about your roommate,” I say.
She stops grinding.
“What?” she asks. “Why?”
“I mean, if she hears us, what’s she going to do? I mean, she’s not going to call the cops or anything stupid, is she?”
“No,” Buzzed Girl says. She starts laughing again. It’s not a pleasant noise. “She hasn’t yet.”
Ah, a little depravity. That’s what I was looking for.
“Do this sort of thing often, then, huh?”
“What do you think?” she asks, rubbing up against me.
The whole scene makes the elderly man standing next to me shift anxiously. I can almost hear him praying for the elevator to just reach his floor so he can get out.
“There’s just not a good answer to that,” I whisper.
For once, I’m the one trying to be discreet.
“I guess you’re about to find out,” she says.
She turns around to face me, and I can see the man next to me turn his head.
For a moment, I’m worried this chick is going to drop my pants right here in the not-so-private elevator, but she eases that particular fear with a deep kiss, her arms wrapped around my neck.
I’m a fan of kissing. It’s probably my favorite part of the whole game, you know, except for everything else.
That said, this chick is biting my lip hard enough that I push her away.
“Fucking ease up,” I whisper. “Planning on taking that home with you?”
“Only if I can bring the rest of you, too,” she whispers in my ear.
With those words, my goal for the evening has just become trying to nail her roommate.
It’s a lofty goal, but unless this chick can come up with something less clumsy to say to me, I don’t know that I’ve got much choice.
I pride myself on my game, and having a partner who’s not pulling her own weight is a turnoff.
If the roommate thing doesn’t work out, though, I guess I’ll manage.
“Two more floors until we reach heaven,” she whispers, palming the front of my jeans.
“Shh…”
She thinks I’m worried about the other people in the elevator.
In reality, I just want to get her to stop saying such ridiculous shit.
The elevator slows to a stop, and I’m wondering what God this man standing next to me pissed off so much to end up on the floor right beneath—you know, whoever this woman still groping me said she is.
He hurries out of the elevator and Buzzed Girl turns around, rubbing herself against me a little bit more before we get to her floor.
The sweetest sound in the world is that elevator door opening again.
“You have no idea what kind of shit you’re in for,” she tells me.
It’s a challenge.
We’re on her floor and she’s testing me to see how I’m going to react to such a bold statement.
Believe it or not, that kind of thing is enough to make a lot of guys nervous.
“We’ll see,” I tell her.
As we approach her door, she grows quiet, serious.
I was beginning to think the woman didn’t have any spatial awareness. It’s good to know that’s not completely true.
She unlocks her door and puts a finger to her bottom lip.
I wonder if it’s too soon in our 45-minute relationship to gauge her interest in a threesome with her roommate.
“So, tell me more about this roommate,” I whisper as we get into her room and she shuts the door behind us.
“Oh, she is so boring,” Buzzed Girl says. “All she ever does is go to the gym and do yoga. She’s such a flake.”
Be still, my beating heart.
“So you feel threatened by her,” I say.
If I have any chance of making this happen, this is how it’s going to go down.
Buzzed Girl’s eyes narrow.
Tonight is going to be a good night.
* * *
I don’t have the slightest idea what Buzzed Girl said to Yoga Chick, but now I’m lying back on the bed, closing my eyes for a moment so I don’t just immediately trigger.
Yoga Chick has one of her legs behind her head to allow Buzzed Girl better access to her pussy. All the while, Yoga Chick is swallowing my member.
Buzzed Girl’s a little competitive, but that’s not a bad thing—at least right now it’s not, as she’s replacing her mouth with a couple of fingers on Yoga Chick’s clit and the two vie for a better position between my legs.
I’m not taking sides.
Buzzed Girl works her mouth up the side of my erection while Yoga Chick plays with my tip, her tongue warm and soft as she slides her mouth up and down my shaft, clearly trying to get Buzzed Girl to go back between her own legs.
There’s a power dynamic here that’s simply fantastic.
“Who’s better?” Yoga Chick asks, frustrated at Buzzed Girl’s continued trips up the side of my length.
“Now, there’s a question that I’m clearly not going to answer,” I tell her.
I’m the only one laughing.
Yoga Chick takes that as a confirmation of her own victory and moves up, putting one leg on each side of my mouth, lowering her slit enough for me to get to work.
Buzzed Girl, thinking herself to be the victor, snorts derisively at her roommate and doesn’t take her mouth off of me as she reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a condom.
The way she’s positioned, there’s just enough space between Yoga Chick’s ankles and ass for me to watch Buzzed Girl undo the wrapper with one hand.
“Oh, yeah,” Yoga Chick moans, in a clear attempt to make her roommate jealous. “That’s it, baby,” she goes on. “I love the way you eat my pussy.”
Not to be outdone, Buzzed Girl slips the condom over me and climbs on top.
She’s moaning now, and the two continue to grow louder.
Maybe they think it’s some kind of secret, but this is what’s really turning them on: the competition.
I’m just glad to be a part of it.
“I’m going to come!” Yoga Chick yells, and I’m just hoping she’s not a squirter for reasons which should be obvious, given her positioning.
“I’m going to come!” Buzzed Girl yells back.
I’m starting to wonder if they’re just trying to verbally outdo one another, right up until the moment I can feel both sets of legs shaking and the muffled sounds of their groans as they kiss somewhere above me.
This is one of those times I wish I could congratulate myself for a job well done, but honestly, I’m not sure I have more than a mechanical part in any of it right now.
When the two finally separate, I can barely hear them, as Yoga Chick’s thighs are still quivering against each side of my head.
That, mixed with their continued vocalizations, is almost loud enough that I don’t hear it.
“Breann, I told you to turn your cell phone off,” one of them says to the
other.
I wish I could tell which one says it, but my field of vision is somewhat restricted at the moment.
“It’s not mine,” whichever one is Breann answers.
“Shit,” I say—if you can call what I’m doing right now talking. “It’s mine.”
Yoga Chick raises herself off of me just enough to ask, “What?”
“That’s mine,” I tell her. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get that.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Buzzed Girl says, still grinding her hips against mine, pushing me into her again and again, so deep.
“It could be about my apartment,” I tell her. “If I don’t answer, someone else might get it.”
Yoga Chick sighs and lifts herself enough for me to angle my upper body toward the edge of the bed.
Buzzed Girl takes this as an opportunity to get one up on her roommate, and only rides me harder.
I pull the phone out of my pants pocket, just hoping that it’s not my mom calling to see if I’ve found a new place to live yet.
I’m not a total neophyte to the city, but my last apartment, well, let’s just say things kind of got complicated with the roommate.
“If you don’t get the apartment, you can stay in my room,” Yoga Chick says, running her hands down the front of my body.
“Oh, hell no,” Buzzed Girl retorts. “If he’s staying with anyone, he’s staying inside of me.” She giggles.
The slip was clearly intentional.
“Shh,” I whisper. “This is Dane Paulson,” I answer the phone.
I can only hope that whoever’s on the other end can’t hear Yoga Chick lifting Buzzed Girl—by the ass, mind you—off of my cock, or the mostly-self-satisfied tone she exudes as she works me inside of her.
“Dane, yeah,” an only vaguely familiar voice answers, “I just wanted to let you know that my first three choices were unavailable, so it looks like the room is yours.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound anywhere near as relieved as I am to hear the news.
As fun as this whole thing is tonight, I really don’t want to be anywhere near either one of these women in the cold, sober light of day.
“Oh, that’s it!” Yoga Chick gasps as I start working my thumb over her swollen bud.
“What was that?” the woman on the phone asks.
I really need to get better with names.
“Nothing,” I answer. “When should I plan on moving in?”
“Screw it,” she slurs. “Move in tomorrow.”
The line goes dead a moment later.
I can’t quite be certain with the amount of distraction going on at the moment, but the woman on the phone sounded kind of drunk.
Oh well, verbal contract and all that. Right now, I’m more interested in watching as Buzzed Girl places one of her thighs over Yoga Chick’s shoulder while Yoga Chick, straddling me in what amounts to a modified version of the splits, holds her roommate in place with both hands on the latter’s ass and proceeds to go down on her.
All things considered, life is pretty great.
Chapter Three
Resolutions
Leila
My head hurts.
I lie in bed for what feels like an hour before I gather enough courage to open my eyes.
“Mike?”
There’s no response.
The brightness of the tiny beam of light that’s made its way through the blinds is pinning me down and keeping me sightless. I’m not even sure where or who I am right now.
After what feels like another hour, I manage to sit up and scoot over to the side of the bed.
If this is what a hangover feels like, I can’t begin to imagine how anyone in the world has ever decided that getting drunk twice is a good idea.
I did something stupid last night, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.
I’m in my own bedroom. There’s no one in here with me.
That’s a positive sign.
Still, there’s that heavy pull in my gut that tells me I’m going to regret something just as soon as I remember what the hell happened.
I’m naked. Somehow it’s taken me this long to realize it.
I’ve never slept naked in my life. I’m way too uptight to feel comfortable without some sort of clothing on my body at all times; showers and sex excluded, of course.
I lean toward the floor and feel my pants pockets for my cell phone, but it’s not in them.
After the long, nearly impossible task of standing up, I check the rest of my room, but the phone’s nowhere to be found.
Not knowing if there’s anyone sleeping on the couch, I wrap myself in my bathrobe before I open the door.
Empty.
I would think that something happened with Mike last night, but I’m confident that he’d stick around for a while if that were the case. Then again, that would be weird enough that I might never see him again either.
Huh.
I give up on the phone for a while and try to remember what cures a hangover. Apparently, though, even thinking hurts.
Coffee, whether it’s going to help or not, sounds like a great idea right now, so I head into my kitchen and start a pot. The clock on the microwave reads 11:36.
“Great,” I mumble to myself, “even after getting hammered, I still can’t sleep past noon.”
I was trying so hard to be one of those derelicts who throw caution to the wind and, whatever.
There’s a knock on the door, and I’m almost at the peephole when I realize what I did last night. It’s worse than I could have imagined.
If Mike and I had slept together, at least we could chalk it up to being such close friends getting drunk and doing something stupid. It would be weird, but I think we’d both find a way to live with it.
No, the truth is much worse.
“Hey, is anyone in there?”
It’s him.
“Just a minute!” I call out.
There has to be a way for me to get out of this. I know I told him that he could move in here, but in my defense, I was drunk, and drunken people should not be held accountable for their phone calls.
Now that the generalities of the mistake are clear, the specifics start to set in. I can’t really be certain, but I think he was having sex while he was on the phone with me.
“I don’t have a key yet,” Dane calls through the door, and I bite my fingernails on one hand while, with the other, I unlock the door.
“Dane, look, I—”
“I’m glad you called,” he says, trotting in. “Fucking thrilled is more like it, actually.”
“When I called you last night,” I start again, but lose my train of thought.
He shrugs and says, “I don’t have that much to move in, really. I’m having my mattress delivered here today along with some other essentials, but I’m sure I’ll be all settled before I have to go to work.”
“Isn’t it Saturday?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s my busiest night of the week.”
“That’s right,” I yawn. “You’re a musician.”
He shoots me a look that I’m nowhere near interested enough to decipher, and starts talking again. It’s insufferable.
“Yeah,” he says. “In this city, the two best jobs to have are also the ones that’ll kill your Saturday night more than any other.”
I wait for him to expound on his philosophy, but he either chooses not to or simply hasn’t thought it through far enough to have decided what the other “best job” would be. Neither possibility would surprise me.
“Listen,” I say. “It’s Dane, right?”
“You’re good at that,” he says. “I can’t remember someone’s name if we’re fucking.”
I get the feeling the statement isn’t hyperbole.
“Charming,” I mock. “You and I are going to have to talk about that little phone call last night, but before that happens, I have got to get some more sleep.”
“I can tell,” he laug
hs. “Looks like you got hit by the drunkest train in the state.”
“Uh huh,” I say dismissively. “Anyway, so, why don’t you help yourself to some food and make yourself comfortable for a while? Just keep it down. I’d really rather not have to kick you out before I’ve had a chance to drift into a hangover-induced coma and die.”
“You know what helps with that?” he asks.
“What?” I ask, for the first time looking forward to hearing something that’s about to come out of this idiot’s mouth.
“Hair of the dog,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
“Hair of the dog that bit you,” he says. “It means to have a couple of shots or a Bloody Mary or something. Trust me, that shit fucking works.”
“Have you ever gotten through a conversation without pumping it full of obscenity?”
“All the time,” he says. “If you need to go lie down now, I can fix you up something to drink. Just tell me what you like.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I think that would just make me puke right now.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, “you’re going to need a vomit can. I’ll get one for you, roomie.”
I’m done listening to him. That is, until I get to the door to my room and realize that I’m about to pop.
“You look like shit,” he says. “Think you can make it to the bathroom, or are we about to get to know each other in a very new and disgusting way?”
“Just grab me a ‘vomit can’, will you?” I ask, only hoping the phrase means what it sounds like it means.
“All right,” he says. “Go sit on your bed and I’ll bring something in for you.”
I sit on the edge of my bed for about 12 seconds before I give up and lie down flat on my back. It’s a long time before I move again.
Whether I actually fall asleep at one point or another is hard to say, but the next thing I know, I’m hearing what sounds like someone hammering a nail into the drywall in the other room.
I’m about to get up and tell my new and very temporary roommate to “knock it off and, oh, by the way, get out, you’re not moving in here” when I hear a woman’s voice punctuating the same rhythm as the banging noise.