Ready and Willing

by Cara McKenna

  I suddenly think of poor Noah, venturing out into the fifteen-degree darkness, braving the lumpy, icy sidewalk again, starting up his cold, lonely car, and driving home to Jamaica Plain. It’s hard to stop myself from telling him he can stay the night…but it’s not fair to put him in a position to make that complex and nuanced a decision for us both. And I don’t know if I’m ready to wake up beside him or in the next room from him, to negotiate the shower in the morning, to wind up commuting downtown with him or whatever else might happen if we’re not vigilant.

  Then again, we could have bonus sex in the morning.

  Eventually Noah gets up, and I listen to him wander to the bathroom. I use the opportunity to put my bra and shirt back on. I can feel him leaking from me, like some precious prize escaping my grasp. I like it. It feels dirty and weirdly satisfying, as though this sexy, sweet man has soiled me. I’m grinning when he reappears from the kitchen with a tumbler of water.

  I speak without even knowing I had something to say. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.” He sits on the coffee table right in front of me, attentive.

  “I like you,” I say. “You seem really nice and thoughtful, and I really enjoyed having sex with you.”

  “But?” he prompts.

  “No, no buts. I…I can’t help but feel like I should be telling you to feel free to crash here. But I don’t want you to worry about what I really mean by that. I don’t want you to think I’ve changed what this is all about. I’m worried I’ll scare you off. Which is stupid, considering the psycho circumstances.”

  “I think I understand what you mean.”

  “So, what this is, it’s still the same. You’re here to impregnate me, for money. I’m not after a relationship. But we’re going to know each other kind of intensely for this week and maybe next month. Is it okay if I say stuff like that? Invite you to stay over? It doesn’t mean anything aside from, ‘I’d like you to stay over, if you want that too.’”

  “I think you should feel free to say whatever it is you want,” Noah says, looking me in the eye. “And I promise to take you at face value and not read anything into it.”

  I release a trapped breath. “Thank you. That’s what I was getting at.”

  “And we’ll just both have to agree to not feel offended when the other person says no. I mean, there might be some night when I come over, and suddenly it’s two a.m., and it’s snowing, or we’re a little drunk, and I really just want to crash here. But if you say, ‘not tonight,’ then I’ll go home.”

  “After you sober up,” I say and nudge his uninjured knee.

  “Yeah…unless you feel like picking up my cab fare.”

  “You keep doing what you just did, and you can help yourself to a kidney.”

  * * *

  Noah did sleep over. In my bed. We finished our movie, then stayed up watching TV, and I fell asleep toward the end of one of the late shows. We slept side by side, cautious, neither of us ready or wanting to risk the intimacy of bringing up spooning. He woke up just after me, and we smiled at each other before we spoke. It felt nice and just the tiniest bit nerve-racking, opening my eyes and finding him there.

  He’s in the shower now. I hear the water turn off, and soon he emerges in the same clothes from yesterday.

  I pour him a coffee and point at his torn pants. “Whatever will your fellow faculty members say?”

  “If anybody asks, I’ll tell them I slipped this morning… Thank God my students are on break. They would’ve been all over a suspicious wardrobe repeat like a rash.”

  “Can I pay for your pants? It’s my fault you ruined them.”

  He smiles, filling me with warmth. “I’m a big boy, Abby. I can pay for my own pants.”

  I slide along the counter until I’m close by him. “What time do we need to leave?” He already offered to drive us, a nice change for me from my icy trudge to the Porter Square subway stop and its endless escalator descent into the dim, grumpy realms of commuterdom.

  “Half hour, probably, if you start work at nine,” he says.

  “I do… May I attempt to seduce you?”

  He takes a deep drink of his coffee, eyes focused out the window. “You may.”

  Soon enough I’m on one of the barstools with my legs around his waist. His pants drop, and his boxer briefs join them, and I hold my panties aside for him. His cock looks great in the daylight as he strokes it to his fullest arousal. He could be a penis model for whatever it is penises might model. Cock rings, I guess. Other things I probably don’t want to know about.

  “You have a great dick,” I say, not seeing why he shouldn’t hear this from me.

  “Thanks.” He sounds distracted. He guides himself into me, pushing deep. “Abby.”

  “Be greedy.” I’m lousy at coming first thing in the morning, plus we’re on a schedule.

  Noah holds my thighs and pounds me. He’s as good at fucking as he is as getting ridden. At first his eyes are on the action; then he looks up, right at my face as he’s moaning.

  “You feel so good,” I say. I make a circle with my thumb and index finger and position it at my entrance, giving his surging cock an extra tight treat.

  “Your pussy’s so wet,” he groans.

  “Yeah, for you. You have something for me?” I purr.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  He grunts, hips slapping hard. “My cum. I’ll give you all my cum.”

  “Good.”

  He moans my name again and again, and I know he’s close.

  “Noah,” I say right back. I reach my hands around and grab his gorgeous ass. I wish there was a mirror behind him so I could watch it working, see those unexpected muscles tensing and thrusting at my command. I bring my palms around his waist and push his shirt and sweater up, just enough to catch a glimpse of a lean, muscular stomach I hadn’t even thought to wish for.

  “God, I’m gonna come.” He presses his forehead hard into mine and groans. His hips hammer fast, then plunge deep, holding there, giving me what I need.

  “Good boy,” I mutter through a deep breath. I let his shirt drop and run my hands over his arms, his neck, his hair. He withdraws, delirious, and I toddle to the bathroom. I don’t have time to lie around marinating so I slip in a light-absorbency tampon, hoping it might work like a cork, though I suspect it could easily do the opposite. Classy thing, conception.

  Noah is tucking his shirt back into his pants when I reappear.

  “We better head out,” I say, glancing at the microwave clock. “Parking’s on me, by the way.”

  “I’ve got a pass. No worries.”

  I laugh at his woozy expression. “And you’re okay to drive, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  We head downstairs and climb into his car. It’s a cold, bright day. I direct him to Broadway, and we’re quiet for a half mile.

  “So, how long are you ovulating for?” Noah catches my eyes at a red light, as though he’s wondering how long I’m in town.

  “I don’t know exactly. Maybe through the weekend? Right now is the peak, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Ah,” he says.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Would you… Are you free tonight?”

  I smile at him. “Sure. I wasn’t going to ask you to service me two nights in a row. I thought you might want a day or two or realize I’m a crackpot. But yeah, I’m free. You want to come over again?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Then you should. Why don’t you meet me after work? I have to go to the paper store to get Christmas cards. Want to meet me in the Public Garden at six? The corner across from the church?”

  “Works for me.”

  I smile to myself. Rob’s coming over tomorrow evening, or he said he would. Chances are looking good this week…though a small part of me selfishly thinks a repeat performance next month isn’t so bad as consolation prizes go.

  * * *

  I spot Noah walking toward me
at six precisely. He waves, face lit by the white Christmas lights strung on the trees along the pond. A Macy’s bag swings from his hand.

  “Let me guess,” I say as we meet. “New pants?”

  He nods. He looks a little shy, a little devious. The look of a man guaranteed to get laid.

  “Good day?” I ask. “What do you teach, anyhow?”

  “Film history, mostly. Some screenwriting.”

  “Wow, cool. What’s your favorite era for movies, then?”

  Noah’s face lights up, not unlike the way I hope my future child’s might one day. “Seventies, hands-down. Taxi Driver, Dog Day Afternoon…”

  “Chinatown.”

  He nods. He looks about ready to lean in and cheek kiss me, but we’re interrupted.

  “Abby?”

  Oh, fuck me. It’s Rob. He strides as much as one can over the ice heaves in our direction.

  “Rob,” I say, just as Noah says the same. Then I say, “Huh?”

  “Noah, right?” Rob reaches us and extends a gloved hand. Noah nods and they shake.

  “You guys know each other?” I ask, horrified. So much for discretion.

  “We work out at the same studio,” Noah says and aims a finger down Boylston Street.

  “You kickbox?” I ask him. Noah’s medical history just had “cardio” down for his exercise habits.

  “A little bit,” he says. “Mostly I regular box.” That explains the arms.

  “How do you know Abby?” Rob asks Noah, and my stomach churns.

  “We, um…” Noah trails off.

  “He’s trying to impregnate me,” I say, then blush so hard I feel overheated, even in the numbing breeze.

  Rob laughs, a loud bark, and Noah’s eyes widen. He stares at me, horrified.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “So’s he.”

  “Holy shit,” Noah says.

  “God, fucking Boston.” I look around us, torn between wanting to laugh and die. Adrenaline leaves my body, making me feel drunk and hyper.

  “That’s a relief,” Rob says. “I was afraid you were her secret infertile husband or something,” he says to Noah. “Or that I’d gotten caught up in some really twisted infidelity scheme.”

  “It is twisted,” I remind him. “But only in the capacity you guys already knew about.”

  Noah’s smiling tightly at my side. I wonder if the whole plan is wrecked, if he’s totally creeped out by putting a face to the genetic competition, or if a bright light has been shone on my spurious morals. I stare at the disgruntled ducks huddled by the edge of the frozen pond for a moment.

  “Is this weird?” I ask, looking between my two donors.

  They glance at each other for a few beats; then Noah shrugs. “No, I don’t think so. Just a bit nuts that we know each other.”

  Rob shakes his head in an agreeable way.

  “Oh good,” I say, though I still feel as though I’ve been caught doing something unseemly. I suppose I have. But the fact that I’ve come this far with my crazy scheme gives me hope that I’ll survive this little lapse in donor diplomacy. Provided Noah and Rob can shrug it off.

  “We can compare notes in the locker room,” Rob says. I’m fairly certain he’s kidding, but Noah laughs nervously, and even in the streetlight I can see his cheeks pinken.

  “I feel like such a slut,” I say, unable to keep the words from tumbling out, and I start laughing so hard I double over, diaphragm convulsing until it hurts. When I recover I find them both smiling at me.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Rob says. “We’re the ones getting paid.”

  I put my hand on Noah’s arm. “Right. Well, we better get back to the harem.” I sound so obscenely cavalier I want to slap myself.

  “Good luck,” Rob says, hurdling right over the tactlessness bar I just set. He gives Noah a little wave. “I’ll see you later, Abby.”

  “Have a good night.” We watch him continue on toward Boylston Street, and I discover I’ve been holding my breath.

  “Wow,” Noah says and rubs a hand over his face. “Weird.”

  “I’m so sorry. Did that wreck the whole evening?”

  He looks me square in the eye and shakes his head. “I knew what the deal was.” He’s quiet for a while longer, and I watch the breath rising from his nostrils as he’s thinking. He gives me plenty of time to guess what he’s about to say, exactly how he’ll word it when he tells me he needs some time to rethink this whole ridiculous arrangement. When he opens his mouth to speak again, I’m expecting something dramatic, possibly ruinous.

  “Should we grab a pizza on the way back to your place?”

  * * *

  Noah is different now. Because he’s met the competition, I assume, and maybe because the competition is someone he’s possibly seen naked and maybe even gotten punched in the face by. In any case, he’s on me as soon as I shut the door behind us. He tosses the pizza box on the floor, and I’m pushed up against the wall, his mouth claiming mine. I try to guess if he’s hot over the wrongness of it all or if he’s looking to prove something. As his tongue slips between my lips, I decide I don’t give a shit.

  We kiss hard for a few minutes, eager hands groping through clothes until the fabric feels hateful. We pull our coats and sweaters off, and Noah struggles with my bra clasp as I tear at his shirt buttons. Buckles clink, and zippers unzip. We kick our pants away, touching each other through our underwear. Noah’s fingers rub my clit, and I lose coordination, pausing to admire his body as he pleasures me.

  “Jesus,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “Your body, Professor Beefcake.” I run teasing palms over the lean, defined muscles of his chest. He’s smooth, just the faintest spray of soft brown hair as proof he doesn’t wax to get this look. Good. Call me traditional, but the whole manscaping trend turns me right off. “I can’t believe we’ve had sex twice, and I didn’t even know what you looked like under your clothes.”

  He laughs. “I’m always a little fatter in the winter,” he says, laying a hand on his stomach. “Too icy to go running every morning.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re a real tub.” I tap the backs of my fingers against his supposed gut. “Look at this.” I poke my own middle, persistently doughy no matter how often I talk myself into going to Pilates.

  “Girls are supposed to be soft,” Noah says. He runs his hands over my stomach, up to my breasts, spreading heat over my skin.

  “Not according to Maxim.”

  “According to Maxim, every guy is a total asshat. That’s why I read Harper’s. According to Harper’s, every guy’s a liberal wing nut.”

  “I’ll take wing nut over asshat.”

  “Lucky me,” Noah says softly and pulls me close. “You know, pretty soon you’ll be hee-uge.” He cups my sides as if he’s imagining my massively pregnant belly. Something about this innocent tease gets me so hot I feel crazed, burning and impatient, ready to tear at this man’s skin and pull his hair and force his body inside me. I cup his head in my hands and yank his mouth down to mine, kiss him deep and rough and earn myself a few gorgeous moans from this gorgeous man. He’s hard already, the ridge of his cock rubbing against my pubic bone. I step back a few paces, and he follows. Next thing I know, we’re on the floor, and he’s yanking my panties off, shoving his legs between mine and grinding his stiff dick against me. I bring my legs up and hook a toe into either side of his waistband, push his shorts down to his ankles. I love his weight. I love how warm his skin is on mine, love the insistent push of his hips, his thick, ready cock finding my entrance.

  “Jesus, Noah.” I slide my hands to his ass, feel his muscles working as his thrusts tease me.

  “You need lube?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You comfortable?”

  My bare ass is on the hardwood, shoulders and head on the rug. I’ll probably end up with both bruises and rug burn, but right now I can’t be bothered about it. “Just fuck me, Noah.”

  He reaches down, eases his dick inside my pussy
, finds me wet after an inch of tight friction. He slides in and out until the fucking’s smooth and easy. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

  “More.”

  “You’re so wet.” He repeats it a couple times, finding his rhythm. The room is dark except for the reading lamp by the door, but I can see everything I want—all the shapes and shadows of his fantastic body, the cut of his triceps, and the swell of his ass.

  “Abby,” he moans, and steadily his body slows until he’s just braced above me, breathing hard. It makes me nervous, makes me worry he’s thinking about the whole Rob thing, that it short-circuited his brain or his dick.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, holding my breath.

  “Nothing…”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Can I go down on you?”

  “Oh,” I say, as intrigued as I am relieved. “Sure.”

  He pulls out and sits back, his eyes glued to mine as he runs two fingers over my pussy lips. “Sit on the couch,” he says. I like the bossy edge to his voice.

  I move to the edge of the cushions, and Noah pushes the table to the side, gets in front of me on the floor, takes hold of my hips, and brings his face in close. “You smell so good.”

  I hold my breath, waiting. I’ve missed this the last six months—seeing a man on his knees, mouth between my legs. Noah kisses my clit, and I groan, curl my whole body into the pleasure. Heat pools against his lapping tongue, and I rake my fingers through his short hair, wanting to possess him. His licks are firm and slick and explicit, tight little strokes thrumming my clit, complemented by the soft brush of his stubbly chin against my tender lips. I close my eyes and imagine him above me, coming. I imagine watching him come, not just his face but his cock, his hand as he strokes himself, loses control, and shoots across my stomach or breasts. The heat mounts, and my legs tremble, my feet feel tingly, and my clit is burning up.

  “Don’t stop.”

  He keeps his tongue working and moans, the sound vibrating through my body and magnifying all the sensations. One hand leaves my leg, and I feel his knuckles brush my pussy, tease my crease before he slides two fingers inside.

  I keep one possessive hand on the back of his head, then palm my breast with the other. I study his strong arms and shoulders, the shape of his eyebrows. “Yeah. Fuck me, Noah.”