The guy waves, and the girls sigh around me.
"Oh shit, you're gonna get some post-brunch action for sure. He's coming over here." Myra gets an evil gleam in her eye. If there is anything Myra loves in the world, it's a hot hookup and details afterword.
I turn back to them and whip my head around, feeling like a damn bobble head as my mind swims through champagne and orange juice to realize where I know this guy from. What if I've already fucked him? I'm not a saint; I've had my share of drunken one-night stands and if I saw one of them out now, there is probably a fifty percent shot I'd recognize them.
"Are you feeling better? Any cramps today?" And now hot nerd guy is upon us and he smells like sandalwood and musk and my clit starts to tingle because, well, alcohol and good smelling man.
When other women tell me that it takes a certain something to turn them on, I feel not normal. Give me a hot, sexy smelling guy and my pheromones go wild. It doesn't take much. He has to be a filthy talker in bed and I'm good to go. His eyes don't need to be pools of amber; he doesn't have to drive a motorcycle. Although possessing a hefty debit card and a sleeve of tattoos has known to make me even wetter.
"Um, excuse me?" It's just now that I realize he didn't say hi. He said something else.
"Your uh, Aunt Flo? That's what women call their monthly visitor, right?"
He says this with such a straight face that I feel the spray from Sam's drink on my arm before I turn to see champagne dripping from her mouth after she's sprayed it.
Oh my fucking God. "Shit, you're that guy who witnessed my awful date the other night!"
I can't even spin his remarks into something else and try to salvage it to make myself look cool. I'm so amused that he even remembers it that I'm not worried about picking him up.
"Oh fuck, the period guy?! You didn't tell me there were witnesses?!" Sam leans forward, a hilarious smile on her face.
She quickly fills Myra and Jill in, and we all have another sidesplitting laugh at my rejection of the beefcake I went out with.
"I've never seen a girl do something like that, of course I remember that. It was the most brutal but honest rejection I've ever witnessed, and I've had some bad replies to some pick up lines I've dealt."
He rubs the back of his neck and his curls move, and I realize that he's sexier than I originally noticed. He's got a cool confidence about him, but he's also oblivious to it.
"If you had been on the date, you'd have done it too. Plus, giving a guy like that a clue about the red rage will shrivel his dick so fast, it's a slam dunk."
Myra cackles and I realize I just said that out loud. To hot geek. And he's smiling so wide that I think I have a high school crush on him by the time he sits at down on the bench beside me.
"I'll remember that next time I have to get rid of a Swipe date. That's what that was, right?"
"Swipe dates are so hit or miss. Once, I went on one that ended with the guy doing me in front of a glass window facing the High Line. It was so fucking kinky. All the lights on. But this other time, the prick ate his weight in chicken wings and Moscow Mules and then told me he forgot his wallet." Myra wistfully looks up at the ceiling, at what I'm assuming is a memory of the guy in the glass window.
"Myra!" Jill looks appalled.
"No, no … it's okay. I get it. I once picked up this woman at a bar, I thought she was hot, sweet. She knew almost every song the DJ played, I liked that about her. When I got her back to my place, she laid face down on my bed and asked me to suck on her feet until she came. I faked a work call so bad, I even said it came from South Korea."
This guy tilts up his lips after his horrible date story and I can't help but want to trace the lines in his face with my pinky. Although, that could be the champagne talking.
"No fucking way. That's insane!" Sam laughs along with everyone else.
The conversation lags after Jill asks why some women are so vulgar and we all kind of roll our eyes. I love the girl but she can be too much of a goody two-shoes to swallow sometimes.
"Hey, we are going to take off. That new lip kit is out at Sephora and I need to grab it before the Times Square tourists do. You stay, swap some more dating horror stories."
I know what they're doing of course. The subtle brush off, the made up excuse of why they have to go and I have to stay. It's the classic set up of trying to get a friend laid.
And I couldn't love them more for it.
"Sure." I turned to cute guy, the one whose name I didn't even know. "Care to get another drink?"
Chapter Six
Oliver
Brunch really isn't my spot.
I find it time consuming and trendy, two things I usually do not partake in. But when your oldest friend asks you to meet him and his new girlfriend at an Asian fusion breakfast café and promises to give you back your vintage Chicago Bears jersey … well you go.
Except when said buddy stands you up because his girlfriend freaked about the Instagram model he's been direct messaging. And you're alone at the dumbest fucking café in all of New York.
But when I saw the girl from a week ago on the sidewalk just sitting there across the room, gossiping with her friends and eating the ridiculous items on the menu … my interest was piqued. It wasn't everyday I saw a stranger two times on this island, especially a hot one with a sundress that scoops so low I can make out the way her waist curves in just above her ass. I won't say that's why I go over to talk to her when she glances back at me, but it's definitely a contributing factor.
And now I'm here, sitting next to her in this same shitty brunch spot trying not to get distracted by the floral print that rides up her thigh every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs.
When they said men think about sex four hundred times a minute or something of that statistic, they really weren't lying.
"If my dick won't shrivel up, I'll take a whiskey ginger." I use her own words back to her, the way she'd explained why she told her date she had her period still makes me smile.
She laughs and pulls out her wallet, but something in my chest puffs out and won't let me allow her to pay.
"Actually, I'll get these. It's the least I can do to show you that some men still have manners."
She tilts her head, and I already know she’s jumped four steps ahead in her logic about what we’re doing here. I need to shut that down now. Women, sheesh.
“Hey, don’t go thinking this is a date, because come on I just used your own menstrual cycle rejection line to get a seat at your table. I’m simply a nice guy who got stood up at this lame joint and wants to buy a pretty, funny woman a drink. I’m not going to marry you. So stop you’re thinking right there.”
Auburn hair shakes as her laugh tinkles across the crowded bar, and she sticks her hand out. “Okay Most Honest Guy I’ve Ever Met, I’m Gemma Morgan. And I should keep you around. With those tips, I might just land me a decent guy.”
The bartender takes our order and I hand my black AmEx to him, trying to shield it with my palm. It’s bad enough I’m about to tell her my name, she doesn’t need to know what demographic my bank account is in.
“I’ve seen every strategy a woman can pull, stick with me and I’ll have you MacGyvering a four-karat ring from some guy with a house in the Hamptons. Oliver Anders, at your service.”
Those eyes, the color of whiskey and burnt cinnamon, don't even register a hint of recognition at my name.
Good.
As much as I love my inventions and reaping the rewards from them, one thing I don't love is the notoriety. I don't like to be noticed or have my picture taken, and I especially don't like being given special privileges due to who I am and how much I'm worth.
"So Gemma, what do you do?" I take a long sip of my drink and revel as the liquor hits my throat.
I don’t get nervous around women per se … but I was a nerd growing up. Still am, I just filled out and lost the glasses and braces. Half the time, I’m still amazed a pretty woman will look at me.
“I’m an editor at Femme, the fashion magazine? I get to play with makeup and beauty products all day … pretty much every girl’s dream,” Gemma says this with a little smirk on her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Which tells me that while she may love the bare bones of her job, the internal drama or complications have made her come to resent it. I run my own company, I can tell a lot about an employee’s expression while answering a question.
“What do you do?” Gemma’s slim fingers play with the delicate neck of her champagne glass and the red polish on them distracts me momentarily.
“I’m in the technology sector, it would bore you to death.” Vague and noncommittal. I don’t want to tell this girl, no matter how caustic she may seem, that I own my own multi-million dollar company.
“How long have you been in Manhattan?” She hits me with another question, and even though we had an honest beginning, I can tell she’s sidling up to me. Blinking so I notice her eyelashes. Pushing out her chest just a touch.
They might be practiced motives or they might just be unconscious movements in the presence of a man buying her a drink.
“I’ve lived here for about three years, before that I was in San Francisco.” Again, noncommittal.
“Well, welcome to our little island of heaven. If you can get it here, you can’t get it anywhere else.” She clinks her glass to mine and gulps down the rest of her mimosa. “So, are we going to get out of here or what?”
I actually choke on the dregs of my Maker’s Mark and ginger ale. “Excuse me?”
Gemma tilts her head, her very full lips pouting and those amber eyes mocking me. “Come on, Oliver. I can tell you’re into me. You wouldn’t wait around here buying me a drink if you weren’t. You may be able to land me a husband, but I also know when a man thinks I’m sexy. And since we can be honest with one another, I want to have sex with you. No strings, because I think we’re totally past the obligatory period of pretending we don’t want to go home and use each other to have an orgasm. Let’s just do it. And afterwards, you can tell me more about how I can use a guy’s game against him. But right now, I’m horny. I haven’t had sex in a month and a half. And I think you’re hot, in a nerdy way. So are you in or not?”
Sex with a hot woman, no strings, and no fooling around trying to figure out what she likes? There had to be a booby trap, pun intended, loaded somewhere in this situation.
But with an offer like that, how could I refuse?
Chapter Seven
Gemma
Oliver Anders suggests that we go back to my place for our Sunday afternoon delight. I jump at the offer, because it means I won’t have to awkwardly leave after we’ve both come, and I can immediately put on a robe and eat cheese doodles while my Netflix loads a new episode of Parks & Recreation.
This hookup couldn’t be going better and we’d barely even started. I knew from the moment he started talking about the tactics that people used to date and fall in love, that I’d sleep with him today. Oliver, with his eyes made of dark denim and smile that dripped with genuine sarcasm, was the most honest man I’d ever encountered on the island of Manhattan. Sure, he saw right through my “cool girl” strategy, but I thought he was funny. He didn’t seem like a serial killer. Had a wardrobe that was obviously bought with some money.
He was the perfect hookup material. Too jaded to turn into a serious boyfriend, but sexy and looked like he’d be a barrel of fun.
“A West Village girl, huh? This is a nice area.” Oliver remarks on the scenery as we walk up the stoop to my building.
We opted to walk instead of take a cab, the balmy May afternoon a beautiful day in this city of concrete and man-made gardens. The sun shines through my sunglasses, making my head spin just a little with the five mimosas I consumed. I’m more tipsy than drunk, which might be why I’m allowing a near-complete stranger to take me back to my place and fuck me with no commitments.
“Where do you call home inside of the Big Apple?” I fish out my keys.
“TriBeCa.” Oliver doesn’t elaborate, and I notice this is a talent of his.
The guy clearly doesn’t do commitment, I smelled it all over him the second we sat down at the bar. No real answers, didn’t want to lean into my advances or try to put a hand on me in the bar to ward of other men. He is a clear commitment phobe, which is fine with me. If his dick is big and he knows how to use it, that’s all I care about.
On the walk over, we talked about trivial things. His favorite sports teams, the San Francisco Giants and Oakland Raiders. We talked about my favorite articles I’ve overseen at Femme; the one about nail polish that detected date rape drugs in college girl’s drinks. I learned that he actually grew up in California, and that he hadn’t seen snow at Christmas until he moved here. I told him about my family over the river in New Jersey, and how I didn’t believe there was actually trends being created off of this island.
When we make it to 5C, I push in, hoping to God Sam and I left the place in some kind of neat order. I’m the cleaner, the one who is constantly picking up after her lazy, disorganized ass. Luckily, the apartment smells like the vanilla candle I was burning this morning, and none of Sam’s bras or underwear lay on the couch.
And, she got the hint at the cafe and didn’t come home right away. Girlfriends know the code when one of their friends needs to get laid.
We stand in the middle of my apartment, in broad daylight, and for just a split second I begin to feel awkward.
“Listen, I don’t need a drink of water if you’re going to offer, and don’t feel weird. Come here.”
Oliver crosses the room and wraps his long arms around my waist. If I tip my chin up, I’ll be staring at his jaw, his lean form rising a head above mine even in my three-inch wedge sandals. For giving off no-PDA vibes, he sure has no problem taking control when it comes to sex. Just his gesture now tells me, and I shiver when he matter-of-factly bends his head and places his lips on my neck.
“Thank God, because I don’t want to wait another second for an orgasm.” It may be shameful, but it’s true. I don’t know why I’m being so genuine or up front with this guy, but something in his personality speaks to me. He’s no bullshit, and in this situation, neither am I.
“Good, then let’s get these clothes off. I can’t wait to bury myself in you.”
Oliver makes no bones about it, except well … the large and growing bone in his pants. He fumbles with the material until I shrug out of the sundress, his lips tracing a pattern down my jaw and neck. One that has my clit pulsing and tingles shooting down my spine. Jesus, it’s been a long time since I’ve taken a ride on the Bologna Pony.
I shove my hands under his button down, trying to signal to him I want him to take it off. Abs and chest hair greet me, and my fingers delight in trailing what feels like a lot of exercise and hard work.
"How do you like it? On the bed, on the floor? Up against the window? This is your orgasm fest, so you tell me, Gemma."
Oliver may have big hands, but when it comes to my bra, he may as well be using two oven mitts to open it. What is it with men and clasps? It's like a five hundred piece puzzle they're trying to complete in a second flat. They always end up pulling at it, twisting it, I even had one guy blow on it like it was hot food or something.
"Uh, let me." I quickly undo my bra and slip it off, my breasts popping free for his pleasure.
Oliver must have pulled his shirt off while I slipped out of the plain white bra, because when I look up there is a torso full of abs and sculpted biceps practically winking at me.
“I think I picked the right Sunday hookup. Christ, who knew you were hiding that ammo under all of that brainy façade?”
Oliver smiles and my nipples harden. "If your body isn't healthy, then neither is your life. Or more importantly, your bank account."
"I'll keep that in mind when Class Pass has a sale. I want it in the bedroom."
I crook a finger at him and walk towards my room. I want to be on my back, pullin
g at his hair while he eats me to a climax.
As soon as my back hits my blush and gold comforter, Oliver is on top of me. His fingers pull at my nipples and then rub them. Two fingers, flat handed, kind of like how I go at my clit when I'm masturbating. I've never had a guy rub my nipples like this before. It hurts but it's also sending jolts of pleasure and lust down to my slit, waking me up until my cotton thong is soaked.
"Do you like this?" He rubs them harder, so much so that I think they'll be bruised.
But right now I don't care. "A lot."
My answer comes on a gasp as he trails his way down my body, leaving half pressed kisses that don't do anything but make me want to yell at him to get down there faster. I don't know about other women, but I don't need the romantic, lingering kisses. I need a man who can lick and suck me just the right way, for just the right amount of time, to make me come.
"Do it already!" I growl as he takes his time biting my inner thighs.
I hear Oliver chuckle into my skin. "You're feisty. I like that."
He stands then, to my utter frustration, and unbuckles his belt before pushing his jeans and boxers down.
I don't even focus on his dick yet. "Just because I know what I want and can ask for it, doesn't mean I'm feisty. Or needy. A man can do the same thing and he's called dominant, or sexy."
Oliver is buck naked now, his lean body tanned in a natural way and not because it's almost summer. He fists himself, stroking a cock that is long enough to be one of the biggest I've seen. No horrible pubic hair, no veins or scars in the wrong place. He's got a nice, above average dick that will do perfectly.
"No need to get all feminist on me," he chuckles as he strokes again. "I like that you're vocal. Sex should be vocal. Let me know whatever you need."
He wastes no time diving back down between my legs. At first, he just teases me, licking up and down tentatively ... like he's trying out a new ice cream flavor.
"Suck on my clit." I have to guide him if I want my medal from Orgasm University, and I didn't bring him home for this to last hours.
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