by Max Monroe
The instant I sent the reply I felt doubt creep into my throat, sitting there like a rock, and there was no amount of swallowing that could make it vanish.
Reed: You trusted me, LoLo. You trusted me to watch you in a very intimate and vulnerable moment, and you did this, trusting that I would watch you without judgment.
And do you want to know what I saw?
Say no. Say no. Say no.
Me: What?
Obviously, I had zero willpower when it came to him.
Reed: I saw a devastatingly beautiful woman pleasuring herself. And even though, on the surface, it might have just seemed like sex, it wasn’t. That insanely gorgeous woman shared a very emotional and intimate moment with me. The kind of moment I bet she’s never shared with anyone.
Reed: Thank you, Lola.
Did he just thank me? For masturbating in front of him?
And more importantly, was he right? Was last night more than just sex?
I replayed the night in my head. The way I’d taken a deep breath and calmed my nerves before I’d found the courage to lose myself to the music, to the moment. The way my heart beat like a hummingbird’s wing inside my chest as I removed my clothes. The way I had felt like my stomach was about to fall to the floor as I started to touch myself while he watched…
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Last night wasn’t just sex.
Goddammit, why is the conclusion always that he’s fucking right?
I opened the message box and started to type out a response.
Me: You’re right.
Delete.
Me: I still hate you.
Liar. Delete.
Me: I think I’m falling for you.
Holy hell. Delete. Delete. Delete.
My Converse tapped across the tile floor in synchronized steps. Back and forth, I paced inside the laundry room. I had no idea how to respond to him. The last six words I had typed—and then deleted—had freaked me out. They made me feel a bit too vulnerable, too exposed, just too much.
Kind of like how you felt last night…
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I glanced at the washers and noted there were only five minutes left until they were finished. Instead of pacing a hole into the tile, I decided to sit outside the laundry room, in the little seating area for tenants to hang out and watch TV.
I plopped my ass down in a leather chair, and with the remote in hand, I started scrolling through the channels. Once Phoebe and Rachel filled the screen, I tried to turn my racing thoughts off and enjoy an episode of Friends.
But my brain had signed up for a marathon and had no intentions of slowing down. Not even to laugh at Chandler’s frequent sarcastic quips or Monica’s OCD. A few minutes later, my phone was back in my hand and my gaze fixated on the text conversation with Reed.
“Oh, I didn’t even see you there.”
The unfamiliar voice had my eyes moving upward until they reached the face of a guy I had never met in my life. He sat down in the chair beside mine, and right off the bat, introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Jon.”
I just nodded and offered a halfhearted smile. Normally, I would’ve done the polite thing of introducing myself, but I wasn’t in the mood. Small talk with some random guy outside the laundry room of my building felt as appealing as writing a column that told the world I, Lola Sexton, thought Reed Luca’s existential outlook on sex, dating, and relationships was pretty fucking spot-on.
“I’m from out of town,” he said with a smile. “Wyoming.”
“Cool.” Why was he still talking?
“I’m staying with a friend,” he continued on. “I was the designated driver for the night, and everyone else is upstairs passed out.”
Either Jon wasn’t too good at reading social cues, or he didn’t care.
He slid his phone out of his pocket and appeared to have found something to busy himself with that didn’t include talking my unwilling ear off.
I internally sighed in relief.
“Tonight is my last night here.” He glanced up from his phone. “I just really want to find something fun to do.”
Obviously, I had jumped the gun. This guy’s words washed the relief right out to sea.
“Well, Jon, there’s really nothing fun to do on a Monday night.” I humored him with a response.
“I just want to make my last night in San Francisco memorable.”
Memorable?
Instantly, I had the urge to giggle, but I stayed strong, swallowing it down and forcing a neutral expression on my face.
He tapped and swiped his fingers across the screen of his phone, and I offered up a silent prayer that he’d managed to occupy himself with Candy Crush or Pokémon Go.
“I’ve been swiping right on everything on Tinder,” he admitted out loud and then looked at my phone and back up at me. “Are you on Tinder?”
Sweet baby kittens. He wasn’t trying to catch Pikachu; he was looking for a Tinder-bone.
The absurdity of the situation caught up with me, and it was a domino effect after that. One snort turned into two, and then the laughter burst from my lungs, on a mission to fill this guy’s ears with the soundtrack of my amusement.
With staccato gulps, track one merged into track two, and my album of laughs reached showstopping sound levels. I legitimately couldn’t stop. No longer little giggles, I was full-on clutching my stomach with howling laughs.
Every time I thought about his words, I laughed harder. And as tears streamed down my cheeks, Jon just sat there, helplessly witnessing my possession of hilarity.
“Why is that funny?” he asked, a self-conscious smile cresting his lips.
Shit. Instantly realizing my laughter had gone on for far too long, I started to feel like a certified asshole. As my guffaws weaned and slowed, awkwardness started to set in. I didn’t have a clue how to answer his question and maintain his dignity at the same time.
I looked at Jon and Jon looked at me, and I did the only thing that came to mind. I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks for that, Johnny boy. Thanks for making my night memorable.”
Johnny boy? Holy hell. I’d just made the situation worse.
My flight response kicked in, and the need to extract myself from the room was too strong to ignore. I hopped up off the chair, bypassed the elevator, and all but sprinted toward the stairs. Once I was safely inside my apartment, I leaned my back against the door, and my head hit the wood with a quiet thud. I savored the sweet relief of silence, but it only lasted briefly.
My fucking laundry was still downstairs.
Son of a bitch. I could not go back down there.
But sweet baby Jesus, it was literally laundry day. Unless I wanted to start wearing period panties from high school—let’s not deny that we all have them—I needed to get my awkward ass back downstairs.
I paced the living room, and Louie looked on from his fish bowl.
“Now what do I do, dude? I can’t go back down there.”
Blup. Blup. Yeah, he gave zero fucks about my laundry debacle.
I needed a disguise.
Sunglasses and a baseball cap? Not discreet enough.
The penguin costume from three Halloweens ago? Yeah. I’m sure that wouldn’t be weird at all—leaving Johnny boy high and dry and coming back down in a giant black-and-white footie-d suit.
While I was trying to figure out if I needed to revisit the sunglasses and hat idea, my phone vibrated in my hand, and I glanced down to find another text from Reed.
Reed: Shall I assume you need another 24 hours?
I needed a ninja. That’s what I fucking needed. I’d left a breadcrumb trail of awkward from the basement, up the stairs, and into my apartment, and I didn’t have a clue how to avoid it.
Me: I was in the middle of doing laundry. That’s why I hadn’t responded yet.
Reed: Liar.
Pfffft. That was fresh coming from the king of lies.
Me: Like you should talk.
Reed: There’s a time and pla
ce for playful lies, LoLo. I would never lie to you about something like this.
Well, shit. When he put it like that, I felt kind of bad about my disappearance from our text conversation. Instead of beating around the bush, I settled for point-blank honesty.
Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say.
Reed: Are you still doing laundry?
Me: Well, I should be, but I can’t go back downstairs right now.
Reed: Why not?
Me: I just had a really weird conversation with some random guy while I was waiting for the washers to finish. He told me, “I’ve been swiping right on everything on Tinder.” And then followed that up with. “Are you on Tinder?” I started laughing like a lunatic, and well, it was just a lot of awkward, and now I can’t go back down there.
Reed: LOL. Well…at least he was being honest about his intentions. He deserves some credit for that.
He had a point.
He always has a fucking point. God, he’s an asshole.
Jon was looking for a one-night stand, and he wasn’t putting up pretenses to find it. He wanted sex. And he’d made it very apparent that was all he wanted. Albeit, it was really fucking strange and turned me into a crazy person, but there was definitely something to applaud in his upfront approach.
Me: Are you busy?
Reed: Nope. Would you like me to come over and serve as a buffer if Tinder guy is still downstairs so you can finish laundry?
Oh, boy. It was the best idea I’d heard all day. I probably shouldn’t have been smiling so goddamn much about it, though. I was a few centimeters away from splitting my cheeks open.
Me: YES. PLEASE.
Reed: All right, Roller Skates. Give me 30 and I’ll be there.
Me: THANK YOU!!!
Reed never failed to surprise or amaze me.
And I could no longer deny I was a fan.
The surprises.
The amazement.
Reed.
Huge. Fan.
“Banana?” Reed grinned and held up one of my tank tops that showcased a picture of my favorite yellow fruit.
“I really like bananas.” I shrugged, and from my perch on the dryer, continued to swing my legs back and forth. “And like you should talk, Reed ate waffles.”
“For your information, yesterday Reed ate French fries.”
I giggled and opened the pack of Twizzlers I had snagged from the vending machine. After peeling one away from the bunch, I took a bite and continued to watch lazily as Reed folded my clothes one-by-one as he took them out of the dryer.
“I guess I’m not just a buffer, huh?” he teased.
“Nope,” I said through a mouthful of strawberry goodness. “I really need to invite you over to do laundry more often.”
He chuckled softly and put the last of my freshly folded laundry into my basket.
“What time is it?”
My eyes trailed to the screen of my phone near my hip. “Two a.m.,” I answered, and when I looked up, Reed had relocated to across the room. I tilted my head to the side as I watched him shut the door to the laundry room. The click of the lock reverberated inside the otherwise silent room.
“What are you doing?”
Nothing but heart-pounding, silent anticipation filled the room as he strode back toward me. His eyes searched mine as his hands gripped my thighs, spreading them apart, and he moved his body between my legs.
My thoughts wandered from innocent curiosity to something that bordered on erotic and obscene. Oh, hell, who was I kidding? My head flying back as he sank inside me, sweaty, heated breaths, and a dirty gif of my fingernails scratching the smooth skin of his back—erotic and obscene was the only language my mind spoke at the moment.
“What are you thinking about, Roller Skates?”
“What are you thinking about?” I tossed back.
He smirked and put his lips to my ear. “About how tomorrow, my shirt is going to need to say Reed ate Lola.”
A weird noise escaped my throat—equal parts gasp and moan. My body both loved and felt shocked by his forwardness.
He kissed one side of my face and then the other. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“Something along those lines,” I whispered.
He brushed his lips against mine, teasing, caressing, just gently enough to spur goose bumps on my skin. “Is that so?”
Done dancing around the fact that I wanted exactly what he wanted, I pressed my mouth to his and slid my tongue past his lips. He responded with fervor, kissing me deep and gripping my ass with his hands. He was already hard and ready and pressed right against where I ached and throbbed for him.
My breathing grew needy and ragged when the kiss went on for too long and started to serve as some sort of delicious torture, building my desire to feel him. All of him. I gripped the edge of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. His jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped, and his cock was in my hands moments later.
I stared down at what he looked like while I stroked my hand up and down the length of him. I was mesmerized by his size…his feel—soft like velvet and hard as stone—but I wanted his taste. My thumb slid over the tip of his cock, and I brought it to my mouth, sliding it past my lips until the sweet yet salty taste of Reed tickled my taste buds.
A husky groan fell from his lips, his chest vibrating, and my thighs clenched in response.
He pulled me off of the dryer, fingertips clenching into the skin of my hips, and set my ass down on the folding table in the middle of the room.
I watched in anticipation, breathing shaky, as he unbuttoned my jeans. Easing the way, l lifted my hips as he slowly slid them and my panties down my body. His hands gripped my thighs again, and he spread my legs, baring me completely to his heated gaze.
His groan of approval made my heart beat faster as he gently slid his index finger inside of me and found me wet with need. “You’re so beautiful, LoLo.”
“So are you,” I whispered, and I meant it.
I’d never met a more beautiful man than Reed—and I wasn’t just talking about his outward appearance. His soul drew me in. The world wasn’t the same through his eyes, and judgment was something best left to God. Every experience was worthy of at least one try, and he’d never met a stranger. He was beautiful. Everything about him.
“I want you,” I whispered.
“I want you, too.” He pulled a condom out of his back pocket and slid it down the length of him, his lips teasing mine.
I felt drunk trying to concentrate on everything at once.
“Watch, Lo. Watch me slide inside you.”
Defiance wasn’t even an option. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed himself inside me, and I didn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop watching, even when he was pushed to the hilt.
His hand slid up my neck until his fingers reached my chin, lifting my gaze to his. Our eyes stayed locked as Reed moved in and out, bleeding himself into me with every stroke. He wasn’t hurried or harsh, and the intimate connection far superseded our physical joining. There was a current from him that flowed into me, and when it came back out the other side, mine had joined it to form an us.
I could feel everything—his long fingers gripping my thighs, the warmth of his breath brushing across my skin, the way my heart pounded inside my chest. My thighs clenched as I struggled to find air, but I was rooted there, stuck in his blue gaze.
This was the most intimate encounter I had ever experienced in my life. Every time we’d come together had been something, but now, finally free of my own persecutions and judgments, my own avoidance and denial, this felt real.
“This isn’t just sex, is it?” I asked on a whisper before editing my question into a statement. “This isn’t just some random fuck in a public place.”
He shook his head. “Never. Not with you.”
As he thrust inside of me with an intensity that matched his words, it was all I could do to wrap my legs around his waist and bury my face in his neck.
“This is every
thing,” I whispered into his skin, a rush of emotion clogging my throat and my pores and fighting to escape.
His eyes met mine again, and his hands came to my jaw. I softly pressed my lips to his.
“I don’t hate you,” I said against his mouth, and he smiled against my lips.
One soft piece of hair felt cold against the back of my ear as he tucked it there. “I know.”
Our eyes stayed locked, and I searched his endless gaze. To the bottom of his ocean and back, inside those depths of blue, I found only trust and tenderness and affection. A great deal of affection.
Maybe even the same thing I figured lingered under the surface of my own eyes—love.
Something had changed between us.
And I didn’t want to go back.
Around him, I felt good and strong and like everything someone had once suggested about me was wrong, was right.
For the first time in my thirty-two years, Reed made me feel like a woman.
“Reed Fucking Luca.”
I winced as I lifted the hand not clasped with Lola’s and greeted my favorite coffeehouse owner slash barista. “Hey, Tony.”
His eyes lingered on mine for only a moment before straying to the woman attached to me. In an oversized gray sweatshirt that hung off of her shoulders, cutoff olive-green shorts, and her maroon-colored glasses, Lola looked like everything a comfortable woman should—poised, genuine, and a little bit tired from staying up late with me.
It’d been a couple of weeks since she’d admitted to our sex being anything but casual, and there’d only been a couple of bumps in the road. More like speed tables than anything, they’d both revolved around our columns and the root of their purpose—disagreeing with one another.