by Mika Jolie
Dragging a hand through my dark hair, I stare at the computer screen that’s mocking me with appointments, trades to be made, emails waiting to be answered. And yet, all I want is to hold Cori, press my face into her hair, or better yet, her neck, so I can inhale her like she’s my own salted caramel cupcake.
Jesus H. Christ. I’m fucking surrounded by her.
I power down my computer, grab my messenger bag, and dash out of my office for my appointment. Cori has me twisted in knots and all sorts of fucked up.
TWO HOURS LATER, I’M SITTING at a trendy restaurant, listening to my client boasting about how he’s feeling rejuvenated, full of life, while his new chick plays footsy with my leg. I guess twenty-something pussies are the fountain of youth. As expected, my plan how to divide assets was returned with a hell no.
From him.
The asshole wants to hand his fortune to Ms. Golddigger on a silver platter. My gut tells me to let him fuck himself and just do as he says. I don’t get paid to be anyone’s morality police. But in some ways, it’s my job to steer my clients off the cliff.
“If you want to remarry, I strongly suggest you draw up a tight as a virgin’s ass prenuptial.” I flash future Mrs. Donner a small smile and move my leg out of reach. “No offense, sweetheart.”
She arches her back, pushing her false knockers front and center. “None taken.”
Perhaps this is where she expected me to flirt with her. Not happening for so many reasons. Respect for my client and shit . . . oh, my dick—well, not even a slight twinge from the dude. Can’t blame him. We don’t dip into another man’s goods.
Speaking of goods. Come to think of it, I haven’t slept with anyone since Lorraine. I’ve become a regular at rubbing one out while thinking about Cori. Now, this is pathetic.
My phone vibrates on the table. I glance at the flashing screen. The temptress herself. Perfect timing.
“Excuse me.” I pick up my phone and read her text.
Need your help. Model canceled. Tonight’s class=Male physique. Say yes.
Cori to my rescue. I swear we are connected, heart to heart. It takes all of my strength not to smile.
Once a week, Cori runs one of those popular wine and paint classes. Every so often, she brings in an actual model and teaches techniques how to draw the human body. Throughout our friendship, she’s never asked me to pose for one of her assignments or anything else. Looks like my Moonchild is in a bind.
For the record, she has files of models she can call anytime. But it’s obvious she doesn’t want one of them. It’s me she wants in that room when she teaches these women how to capture the male physique. Talk about stroking my ego.
“Need to answer this. Work,” I lie, already typing my response.
Be there in one hour.
“I’ll make some of the changes you’ve asked for,” I say to Mark Donner, after sliding my phone in my suit jacket. “But as your financial advisor, I think you should know that the woman you’ve dumped your wife for has been playing footsy with me.”
The way her jaw drops is priceless.
Fifteen minutes later, while the future Mrs. is making a desperate plea for forgiveness, I pay the bill and walk out with a shitload of work to do. But first, a stop at Cori’s studio.
A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR later, I am standing in the middle of the refurbished farmhouse that Cori uses as her art studio and gallery, with nothing on but a pair of black boxer briefs. Every so often, I catch one of them staring at my package while Cori explains tonight’s painting class—the male physique.
“The serratus anterior muscle may be the sexiest muscle on the male physique,” Cori says to the crowd. She’s standing behind me, her chest pressing on my back as her fingers skate across my sides. “This is the muscle group on the side of the rib cage.”
My body is on fire. My hands are aching to touch her as much as she’s touching me. When she reaches my waist, the touch lingers, and I swear my dick—the treacherous prick—spills my secret to the gaggle of women sipping on their wine.
I shift my weight, adjusting my junk. A few of the women smile. One mouths call-me. She’s cute, too. But aw, hell, it’s obvious who is causing this effect on me. Our sexy art instructor.
Think chemistry class. Desperate, I force myself to mentally recite the periodic table. That always does the trick. True enough, the bastard’s excitement goes down a notch.
“Class, what are some words you’d use to describe our model’s chest?” Cori asks the group of women. My gaze follows her as she moves around the room. She’s in skinny jeans, a gray T-shirt that reads I arted across her breasts with a hand-held palette underneath the black printed words. My mouth quirks at the saying. She has a thing for funny T-shirts and art.
“Broad and powerful,” one woman says.
My eyes flicker between unfamiliar faces.
“Immaculately sculpted,” a pretty, caramel-complexioned woman says. Warm chocolate eyes examine every inch of my body. “Chiseled, V-cut abs, bulging triceps, and—.”
“Can I touch?” a pretty brunette interjects, holding my gaze.
My lips twitch in amusement. I feel like a gazelle, in the middle of the savannah, who wandered off from the rest of the herd, and suddenly realized that those nice striped things in the distance are, in fact, a pack of hungry, hungry tigers. For the record, I’m not too confident that the tiger is the natural predator of the gazelle, in case anyone reading this is trying to learn about ecosystems.
“Touching is not an option,” Cori says, her voice filled with amusement. She returns her focus to me. Her eyes skim over my face, shoulders, rest on the black ink of the Maori tattoo on the left side of my chest, before meeting my gaze. “I’m sure, at some point, each one of you have seen a beautiful male body before.”
A bolt of heat surges through me. Cori thinks my body is easy on the eyes. This is a first. In all of our years of friendship, she’s never once said anything about my physique. When she turns on her heels ahead of me, I can’t help myself. I stare at her ass as her heels click click across the hardwood floor.
“Yeah, but my goodness.” The cute brunette fans herself.
“And he’s just a friend?” Another asks, voice fills with doubt.
Once I got there, Cori explained to the class I am a last-minute stand-in doing a friend a favor.
Another woman adjusts her red framed glasses, winks at me, and says, “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”
Cori raises to the toes of her black heels and reaches for a blank canvas. Her tattoo plays peekaboo with my eyes. Like any perverted man, an image of her on her knees, ass up in the air, tat in full view, flashes in my head.
I groan and peel my gaze away.
“In tonight’s class, we’ll be creating a beautiful male torso that is ripped,” Cori clears her throat. “Drawing the male figure can appear challenging at first sight, but once you master the step-by-step technique we’ll go over tonight, it will be nothing but fun. You will learn how to draw the basic runway pose, and how to represent the proportions of the male figure.”
“From where I’m looking, his proportions are um . . . perfect,” one chimes in.
Someone snorts. Women are ruthless. I smile. Shit like this doesn’t bother me.
“Your friend has a nice package,” says the lady with the red glasses.
As human beings, we are all connected to everything and everyone around us. This is a fact. Not a concept or a dream. So, if someone is staring at you, and thinking and feeling strongly about you, then it is very possible that you could feel it in your body or mind.
Yep, Cori is checking out my package. While I don’t have a full-on erection—not because my dick isn’t trying, but mind over matter—I’m also not suffering from shrinkage. When Cori finally looks up past my waist and meets my stare, I smile. And I swear, she blushes.
“Okay everyone.” She claps her hands together. “It’s time to get creative.”
“There’s a natural chemistry betw
een us as friends.”
THE REST OF THE WEEK turned into a blur. One day was spent driving to the Hamptons and back home. By Friday, I needed a break from the daily grind, which explains why I’m in Hackensack at Riverside Mall tonight.
I’m leaning against the wall at Burberry. The designer store smells like heaven in a handbasket, and the floor shines like the surface of a lake at sunrise. A white, quilted, puffer jacket hooked over my arm, my attention is fixated on my cell phone. Through invisible speakers, the latest hits fill the air without effort. Down to my right, a pretty employee, with blond-tipped dreadlocks, is quietly folding a shirt into a neat square shape. She raises her head, we make eye contact for a few seconds, long enough for her to know I think she’s hot. She smiles.
My phone pings, drawing my attention to the text message. It’s Lucas, reminding me that I need to make a move. We are tangled in an intense battle of Words with Friends. I study the board, then send him over the game-winning word with a silly, satisfied smile wrinkling my face.
As expected, my phone lights up with a text from Lucas.
Define oxyphenbutazone.
With a big-ass grin on my face, I key in my response.
A phenylbutazone derivative C19H20N2O3 having anti-inflammatory, analgesic, and antipyretic effects.
An emoticon middle finger follows. I laugh and type.
Be my bitch.
Bite me. Brunette or Red 2nite?
My gaze automatically settles on the off-white, closed door. Cori is in the fitting room, trying her third dress for an event with Brandon.
Life is a cruel irony, isn’t it? I’m officially the guy who is lusting after his best friend and helping her pick out a dress for a date.
LOSER!
All caps for emphasis. I’m so deep in the friend zone, next thing I know, she’ll be asking me to meet Brandon’s fucking parents.
The same pretty employee strolls by and openly gives me a once over. I return the admiration until she disappears somewhere in the back of the store, probably in their inventory room. I once fucked a girl in one of those. Good times.
I text Lucas back.
Hanging with Cori.
In less than two seconds Lucas sends another text.
Should I still ask her out?
I respond.
Fuck off.
The fitting room door opens. Cori steps out with the biggest smile on her face. “So, what do you think?” she asks, her hands on slim hips jutted to one side.
I bury my phone in my pocket and focus on Cori. She’s wearing a sleek, fitted, black dress that skims her body in the most sensual way. Today, her lips are almost nude, covered only with her signature, pale pink gloss, which reminds me of a rosebud. She looks more beautiful than the winter sun above pristine snow.
My heart rate kicks up a notch, and my skin prickles. A host of scenes plays in my head. My fingers sliding the oversized ruffle covering her one toned shoulder, as my lips linger on her bare skin, her mouth. A hand cupping one of her breasts.
My dick raises its head, ready for action.
I am still staring at Cori as if she’s a puzzle, and I’m the missing piece, when she speaks. “Is it a no?”
Is she kidding me? She’s fucking stunning. I clear my throat. “It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.”
“I agree with your boyfriend,” a freakishly thin waif says.
A faint flush of pink blooms on Cori’s cheeks. One of the things I love about Cori is the way she reacts to the simplest thing, the sincerity in everything she does.
“Oh, we’re not together,” Cori explains.
The woman eyes me with open interest. “Well, darling,” she says to Cori, “if you don’t want him, then, sugar, I’m free tonight.”
As much as I’m enjoying the admiration, I’ve never been one to dump Cori for a quick lay. Besides, size double-zero and no tits has never been my thing.
“Sorry,” I say directly to the woman. “She may not want me, but I’m all hers tonight.” I catch the slightest curve at the corner of Cori’s mouth.
The woman smiles. “Enjoy him. He’s yummy. When you’re done, feel free to send him my way.” With that, she struts toward the cash register.
Once alone again, Cori turns to me and asks, “You really think so?”
Do I think I’m yummy? Hell yeah. She can take a lick if she wants. But the way she’s chewing the bottom of her lip tells me she’s not thinking about licking my popsicle. “What are you worried about, Moonchild?”
“The dress,” she answers. “Do you think I should buy it?” She twirls around in front of me, her dark hair moves with her, hiding her face until she stops and flicks it back over her shoulder.
“Am I known for sugarcoating shit?”
“You’re not Willy Wonka,” Cori responds and we laugh together.
Don’t look too deep into this about compatibility. It’s a giant cliché. We’ve been friends for over two decades, remember? I’ve said that exact line to her at least a million times in our lifetime.
“You got it.” I place one hand on her bare shoulder and gently turn her toward the fitting room. “Now go change. Dinner’s on me.”
“Dinner.” She looks up at me and raises a brow. “No hot date tonight?”
“What’s that?” I ask, playfully evasive.
“That’s right, the great Dean Conrad Morello only fucks his women.”
“It’s a mutual understanding.” I give her a gentle nudge toward the fitting room.
She pauses, tilts her head and twiddles her hair in a seemingly absent-minded way before saying, “One day you’ll fall in love.”
My heart trips. Ignoring the reaction, I tap my rock hard flat stomach. “Don’t bet on that. Now go. I’m starving.”
A few minutes later, she joins me in her usual jeans and an oversized tee. She pays for her outfit, then we head to Oceanaire—a seafood restaurant at the mall. The environment is sophisticated and lively.
After we place our order, she leans forward and searches my face. “Do you think the dress is too fashion-forward?”
“Oh, hell, woman. The dress is hot. Abercrombie boy will be putty in your hands.”
“I’m serious, Dean,” she says with a smile.
“Okay, maybe a little, but that’s a part of who you are.” She’s a beautiful mixture of teacher, hippy, and sophistication. “If Mr. Lawyer thinks it’s too much, he should be dumped.”
She laughs, her shoulders easing back in her chair. “We’re not exclusive.”
I ignore the clench in my stomach and take a long draft of my beer, before asking the one-million-dollar question. “Do you want it to be?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve only been on a few dates,” she says with a shake of her head.
Four dates. They were together last night. “He’s inviting you to a company function. He wants serious.”
Her smile fades, replaced by a thoughtful frown. It’s a look Cori gets when she’s troubled by doubts. “We’ll see.”
There’s uncertainty in her voice. Before I can question it, my phone buzzes. It’s Red, asking to meet at her place at ten. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her. Shit, next week, she’s coming to New Hampshire with me. Must tell Cori. But not tonight. We’re having dinner. I helped her pick out a fucking dress for her date with Brandon. Can’t ruin such a bonding moment.
Without taking my eyes off the screen, my fingers move swiftly across the keyboard and typed
Got a thing.
“Need to leave?” Cori asks.
“No, we’re fine.”
My phone buzzes again with another text from Red.
Striking out? Still on next Friday?
This is my window of opportunity to say no. Call the whole thing off. But I can’t. Not over a text message. I’m a lot of things, but never a coward.
Cori’s gaze is on me, watching me. In the past, her scrutiny never bothered me, but tonight, as I sit across from her reading the text, I feel . . . exposed.
&
nbsp; With my stomach coiled in knots, I answer.
Will touch base later.
Afterward, I bury the phone in my jacket. Sometime between tonight and next Friday, I’ll come clean. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. Last time I checked, my relationship status said available, which means, I’m free to do as I please.
Still, a pang of guilt niggles at me.
“You know, we don’t have to have a drink,” Cori says while opening the menu. “I’m well versed on our Friday night routine.”
I raise a silent brow and meet her gaze. The soft warmness of her eyes wraps around me like a blanket and makes me feel at home. “Please explain our routine to me.”
“We meet. We catch up, then you go be with your flavor of the week,” she says, her expression angelic, her voice pure devil, no hint of resentment.
I glance around the room. Under the delicate lighting. The tables are close, but the wine crate stacks help to keep a little privacy. The intimacy gives the vibe of two people on a date. I don’t want the moment to end. “I want to be here. Unless you have plans.”
“None. I’m all yours.”
My heart hammers upon hearing the words. I remind myself, the heart is a lonely hunter. The bastard needs to keep doing its job . . . pump blood.
“Your dress? Wear it tomorrow.”
Cori nearly chokes on her drink. “At your parents’ dinner?”
I nod.
Go ahead, call me ‘selfish,’ but I see it more as ‘honest.’ I don’t need that ‘good person’ badge. I’ve tried to squelch my desire for Cori, to no avail. It’s a losing battle.
“It’s for a date with Brandon.”
“Wear it.” For me.
She stares as if I’d just produced a rhinoceros from my pocket. I can just imagine the sparks in her brain, desperately trying to connect the dots, and instead, just causing a short circuit.