Oliver does as he's told, sucking the sensitive piece of skin between his teeth. I inhale sharply and then we are off to the races. In no time, my fingernails are clawing his hair, my back is sweating, I'm cursing, and basically riding his face.
"Come on, Gemma. Let go, come on my lips."
Oliver taunts me with dirty words, words I think he knows will only get me closer to climaxing. He's been eating me out for probably ten minutes now, but what can I say, I take a while. I envy any woman who can get off in under five minutes.
But once he sticks two fingers in me as he works my sensitive nub, I'm a goner.
"Just. Right. There," I grit out before sensations hurtle down my spine. The room spins, my ass and pussy pulse with release, my skin and pores dance with the feeling of sweet relief.
I'm still on a high when Oliver comes up for air. "Where are your condoms?"
"I like a responsible man, thanks for not trying to convince me you're clean so protection isn't needed. They're in that drawer." I point, barely able to move from the orgasm that knocked the goddamn wind out of me.
Oliver's eyes are stormy gray as they catalogue my body. He rolls the condom on before assuming the position between my knees.
"Actually, I want to watch this sweet ass the entire time I'm inside of you." Without asking, he flips my leg with ease, turning me over until I scramble up on all fours.
It's so not what I was expecting, and neither were all of the parts south of my waist. Suddenly, they're tingling with anticipation once more.
Is it strange that I’m this turned on by practically sober Sunday afternoon sex with a stranger? I usually hate being in the daylight, for any man to be able to see my fat and insecurities.
But the only thing I can think when Oliver Anders enters me, and yes I have to keep calling him by his first and last name because he's just got one of those names, is FUCK YES.
"Ahhh …" The growl comes from deep within his throat and makes my nipples hard.
There is something about doggy style that's more illicit than any other position. A lot of girls I know think it's demeaning, only made for male pleasure. But really, it's mutually beneficial. I don't have to look at him, whoever he might be, and I get to focus solely on my pleasure. Or the pleasure we are giving to each other without having to maintain eye contact.
I can screw up my face however I like, say words I might not say face-to-face. And the way his cock is hitting my G-spot … only doing it from behind makes me feel this way.
A small chill runs up my back, and while it feels good to have Oliver stroking in and out of my slickness, I'm nowhere close to coming again.
He picks up speed as he mutters oh yeah's and fuck's under his breath.
"I want you to come again. That's what you wanted after all." His voice is deeper somehow; lust has wrapped its tendrils around his body.
I won't come again, I know it. But I also don't want to keep Oliver here for the next twenty minutes, when I know he just wants to come.
So I do what any woman does in this situation.
I fake it.
Thrusting my hips back, moaning like the cows are coming home, scratching at my comforter. All signs that I am about to come, yet my buzz of arousal remains at the same level.
"Yes, oh my God, I'm going to come." I make my words breathy as he picks up his pace.
"Fuck yeah." His pace is punishing, and my bed squeaks with the impact of the headboard against the wall.
My neighbors will probably complain later, but I’m willing Oliver to come and I can’t even think about that now. His fingers tighten around my waist, so much so that I know I’ll wear bruises and that two-piece I was hoping to wear to the beach is definitely a no-go now.
"Fuck, fuck …"
His breathing, words and unintelligible sentences blend together as his body stills and everything goes rigid for a split second. Then a growl rips from him as he presses his pelvis tight against my ass and comes into the condom.
I let out a breath of relief and annoyance. I could have come again if he had lasted maybe five minutes longer, but then again, I wasn't going to say anything and embarrass myself.
"So it was uh … nice to meet you." Oliver cracks up as he pulls out and hobbles over to my garbage can.
I flip over to a sitting position and hold one of my pillows to cover myself. "Don't you find it weird that animals can fuck like this all the time and then just go back to their lives like nothing happened."
He chuckles as he latches his belt. "The curse of being a mammal. We can do that too. I don't have to ask for your phone number right now."
We're at a crossroads. I could take him up on his offer, but I could also go back to him whenever I wanted a quick orgasm with no strings. It wasn't the best sex of my life, but it wasn't bad by any stretch. It would be so easy.
"But what if I want to booty call you?"
"Don't go putting labels on us now, Gems." His bright blue eyes flash.
We have a banter going, and it's fun.
"A nickname? If that doesn't spell commitment I don't know what does." I hit him as good as I take it.
Oliver actually tilts his head back and laughs, and I can't help but watch the curls bounce on his head.
"Fair enough, fair enough. All right, I'll take your number and you take mine. That way the ball is in no one's court to call the other, but if you want hot sex you know where to find me."
I don't tell him I faked my second orgasm as we exchange numbers.
"And now you can leave because I have twelve hours to veg out before a brutal Monday morning. I'd walk you out, but that seems too polite. So bye!"
I wave from the bed as Oliver smiles and nods before walking out.
So I didn't find my soulmate today, but I didn't find another frog. I'd call that an even split.
Chapter Eight
Gemma
Girls of my generation grew up worshipping relationships like Carrie and Big, Rachel and Ross, Peyton and Lucas.
No wonder we have a totally fucked up idea of how love should be.
“Well, I’m off. It’s Martin and I’s one month anniversary and I don’t want to leave him waiting. He got us a table at STK!” Dani wiggles her fingers at me and clacks out of the office.
Leave it to women to count silly things like one-month anniversaries. In two weeks time, Dani would be bored with the marketing associate she met at a SoHo speakeasy last month. But for now, he was her sole focus. In the last four weeks, she’d declined all of the industry parties and launches she’d been invited to, hadn’t attended one work happy hour, and spent her days pinning engagement rings and wedding colors.
It was so desperately sad, because I was usually the same way. I met a guy, he spoke politely to me, and in three minutes time I was imagining what Montessori school we’d send our future child to.
Oliver was right; women were given an inch and took three thousand miles. It didn’t also mean most men weren’t horrendous jerks though.
Oliver Anders. It had been three days since our little Sunday afternoon delight, and I had yet to text him. It wasn’t like I’d heard from him either, but the feelings I had toward him weren’t rage or disappointment. We’d both been consenting adults who’d fucked for mutual pleasure and made no lies about our true intentions. I wasn’t sad that he hadn’t called, and my normally romantic brain wasn’t pining for a man I barely knew.
On the contrary, I think the reason why I wasn’t stalking Oliver on social media to see why he wasn’t texting me was because he was honest. I rarely met a person of the opposite sex who was truly honest with me, and maybe the newfound brutal truth that Oliver laid out for me about what we did just kind of shut off any switch of possibilities in my brain.
“She’s insane. You know my friend went out with Martin on a few dates. She said he tried to pee on her during sex!” Whitney had whirled around to face my desk.
“Ew, he wanted to give her a golden shower?” My nose wrinkled up in disgust.
“Yeah, said he was a total pervert. But hey, Dani is completely nuts. Maybe they make a good pair. What do I know? What’re you up to tonight?”
She took a nail file out of her drawer and began filing at a hot-pink tip. I looked over my desk, at the products spilled all over it, articles that still needed edits. At the half-researched piece on period-proof underwear that blinked from my computer monitor.
“I probably should stay here and finish some stuff up, but I feel like I’ve been here for twelve hours already.” Glancing at the clock, I realized I had been at work for twelve hours. “I do have another stupid date, but I was just going to cancel.”
Whitney pursed her lips at me. “Honey, get out of here while you can. You know summer is the slow time, Medusa doesn’t even mind if you take a Friday off to go to the Hamptons. Take it before September starts and runway shows are here.”
She was right, of course. Femme really picked up once September hit and the cities started having their fashion junkets. I should take all the time I could get while we were still in the beginning of June.
“Fine. But if this date ends up being a train wreck, I’m blaming you.”
Whitney shrugs and turns back to her desk, talking to me over her shoulder. “Call me after if it is. I’ll buy you some Grey Goose on the rocks.”
I packed up and put some of the articles I needed to edit into my boho chic Fossil bag before heading down to the lobby in the elevator. The building that Femme was housed in was all metal and glass, meant to exude power.
Outside, the streets were emptying of the rush hour pedestrians, and a few late employees bustled home to their loved ones or Netflix binges. Men and women in after-hours attire walked briskly, headed out for dates or mid-week club nights. I walked past two characters in an Elmo and a Big Bird getup, probably headed for Times Square and trying to make a buck on the warm early June evening. The sun was practically set, casting an orange hue over the city that made me want to walk the streets all night.
I had texted the guy I was supposed to meet on the way out of my building. We’d been talking on Ember for a few days now, and he’d asked me to dinner. His pictures were hot; blond and tall, kind of like a Viking. His name was Henrik, he was a software developer for a large gaming company, and he lived in Brooklyn. Typically Williamsburg hipsters weren’t my type, but he didn’t fit the profile at all and I thought his job was cool enough that he might make for interesting conversation.
So I was going. Trying my hand again at another spin round the Wheel of Dating Misfortune.
I’d worn a flowing teal and blue maxi dress with crossing straps in the back and a pair of wedge sandals to work. It would have to do, because I didn’t have time to change before I had to meet Henrik at Bhandi, a tiny Indian restaurant in Murray Hill.
I could have walked, but it was fifteen blocks, and I was tired after a long day at the office. Springing for a cab, I was there in less than ten minutes. Manhattan traffic on a Wednesday was lemon pie compared to Friday through Sunday.
“Right on time.”
A tall, blond Norske god stood in front of me on the sidewalk as I tipped my cabby. Jesus, this guy was like Alexander Skarsgård wearing Brooklyn garb. Long legs, broad chest, white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
“You must be Henrik. Hi, I’m Gemma.” I held out a hand, hoping it wasn’t clammy from the hot heat of the city in June.
“It’s really nice to meet you. Thanks for having dinner with me, beautiful. I promise, it’s going to be a delight.”
Okay, so a little cheesy on the sweet talk, but overall, good first impression. We enter the restaurant, a small hole in the wall that smells like curry and is done in deep purples.
“I hope you like chardonnay, this place is BYOB.” Henrik pulls a bottle of white wine from his backpack as we sit.
And I’m impressed. He brought wine and picked a place that already has my mouth watering? Bravo.
The waiter, dressed in traditional Indian garb, comes over to take our orders and set down some Papadum for us to chew on.
“So, Gemma, tell me a little bit about what you do?”
The typical first date question, and I give my typical first date answer. The night goes much like your typical get-to-know-you schtick, but it’s nice. Henrik is sweet, seems interested in what I’m saying, has funny stories about his job, and seems like he has a normal family life.
By the end of my chicken tikka masala and nan bread, I’m starting to have hope that there is one decent man in Manhattan.
And then …
Henrik reveals the flaw that makes him completely undateable.
After the waiter puts down dessert menus, my dashing date leans across the table to me. I’ve had two glasses of excellent chardonnay, the night has gone better than I even anticipated, and if he asks me back to his place I’ll probably go.
That’s exactly what I think will come out of Henrik’s mouth, until …
“You know, for brown people, they really do make some excellent food. Even if it does look like Indian shit.” Henrik whispers across our two-top and winks before sitting back in his chair.
At first, I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”
I’m almost too stunned, that I think maybe it didn’t even happen.
His big, hulking body leans closer to me, and his fingers reach out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I just think … you know, even for people who don’t even belong in this country, and can hardly drive for shit, they make some delicious food. God, they must live above this place though, like four or five people to one room.”
Ding, ding, ding ladies and gentlemen. We have ourselves the freaking racist of all racists.
I jerk my head back from where his hand still lingers on my cheek. “What the fuck?”
My reaction must have him rewinding in his head, calculating where he went wrong in assuming I held the same ideas about the people who owned Bhandi. “Ah, um … Gemma I thought we were vibing. It’s just a little political incorrectness fun.”
I stared at him, seeing him for who he really was. His coifed features, his snowy hair, the pale skin. This guy was as close to an Arian brother that I’d ever seen, and apparently he was a closet racist. Well, not closet, considering he shared his sentiments within only an hour of meeting me.
“That is a horrible thing to say, and so racist I can’t even justify it with a response.” Did this guy even live in this century? Christ!
“Half the people who live in this city think that way, it’s not a crime. Not like I ever jumped a towel head or anything.”
Now he was talking at full volume, and I was mortified for not only the staff, but everyone in the tiny restaurant who was listening to this Nazi jackass.
“That’s enough for me. Have a great life, dickwad.” I stood and grabbed my boho bag.
“Whatever, you’re an Ember slut anyway. Probably would have fucked me if I asked you home!” Henrik yelled at my retreating back.
Oh, hell no. It was one thing to insult the gracious restaurant staff and out himself as a complete racist. But to attack me for being a single female who could do whatever she pleased? This day had been too long already, and my temper flared right up.
I whirled around on my heel, and screamed loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “Maybe I would have, you prick. But guess what? That’s my right. What I do with my own body is completely my choice. You know what you don’t have the right to do? Degrade these people, classify entire races, and just be a general boil on the butt of humanity!”
I was beyond done with another horribly failed date, and another awful guy who ended being the froggiest of all frogs. And certainly no prince.
Stomping out of the restaurant, I finally typed in the number I hadn’t called in three days. If there was any way to end a long, hot, miserable day, it was surely with a bang.
/> Chapter Nine
Oliver
“So what, I’m going to be your fuck toy after every bad date?” I smile as I open the door for Gemma.
“Hey, if the dick is that easy.” She shrugs and smirks, but I can tell the smile doesn’t reach her whiskey-colored eyes.
Gemma is a willow in the long sundress she dons, her tits perky and on display. I’m half hard already, got that way when her number lit up on my phone. I hadn’t texted her since our brunch fuck, but it wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it. That sex had been seriously hot in a way I’d never had before. Gemma had been vocal, honest, told me where to put my hands and lips and teeth. She directed me but took direction, it was good for us both because we took and gave equally. I didn’t have to guess at what she wanted, navigating my way using moans or yeses.
“What was wrong with this prince?” I ushered her in, but she stopped immediately when she saw my apartment.
Shit, I cringed internally. I probably should have warned her, or … I don’t know. Sooner or later she was going to realize who I was, or more likely, Google me. She might want to date me, and that wasn’t something I was interested in.
“You live here? You’re not like, house sitting for some Saudi billionaire?” Gemma’s mouth hangs open.
I crack out a laugh. “A Saudi billionaire? That’s the most realistic scenario you came up with in your head? What if I was a porn star, or an international assassin?”
My quip seemed to make Gemma’s mood better. She set her bag down on the sectional in the middle of my open concept apartment. “I’ve seen your dick, and while it’s big, it’s not porn star big. Also, you’re too nerdy to be an assassin. James Bond would pick you out clear as day.”
I put my hand to my chest. “You wound me. All right, tell me what happened with this bozo?”
I joined her on the couch, where she began unstrapping the high sandals she had molded to her feet. They dropped to my hardwood floor with a thud as she massaged her insoles and groaned.
All the Frogs in Manhattan Page 4