“I can certainly understand that. I wouldn’t have, either.”
“The funny thing is, you asked about that zing. About being in love. Obviously, I was in love with her, since I married her. But let me tell you, falling out of love was the easiest thing in the world. She made it a complete piece of cake since I can’t love a cheater.”
Nicole nods, her tone serious as she says, “Addiction or not, you don’t break a vow.”
“It’s so simple. Fidelity is so goddamn simple. You keep it in your pants. Case closed.” I take a beat and stare into her eyes. “You can count on me to be faithful. I don’t have any desire to be with anyone else, and I also won’t do that.”
“You don’t miss dating?” she asks like she feels bad for holding me back.
“What is this thing we’re on? Chopped liver?”
“You know what I mean. A date that goes somewhere.”
For a second, I linger on the somewhere. I start to imagine I’m on the path to somewhere with Nicole. Somewhere beyond cupcakes and Knicks games. But that’s probably just all the frosting and sugar going to my head.
“Our dates go to your bedroom,” I say with confidence. “This is about as perfect as dating gets.”
“Good.” She gives me a sly smile. “By the way, do you know what shark week means?”
“No sex?” I say, adopting the mopiest look ever.
“Let’s get out of here, and I’ll show you.”
Her hands are the fastest draw in the west when we reach my place. My belt’s undone, my jeans are unzipped, and my briefs are down. My cock salutes her. I’m ready. Just fucking ready, and she knows it. She has no need to kiss me all over or drag her nails down my chest.
I wouldn’t object to either, but I want her wicked mouth on me. Stat. “You toyed with me that first night, Nicole.”
She drops to her knees. “I did. I wanted to know how you tasted.”
“Now you’re going to find out.”
“I. Can’t. Wait.”
She wraps a soft hand around the base of my dick, and I hiss. Her lips part and she flicks her tongue over the head. I groan. She takes me in, sucking on the crown of my cock.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I grab her hair, threading my fingers through those red strands as she kisses the tip. She lets go and runs her tongue along the underside. Shocks of pleasure rocket through me. It’s so fucking good.
She licks all the way down to my balls, then draws one into her mouth and sucks hard. Electricity shoots through me. “That’s so fucking hot.”
Her eyes dance with mischief as she sucks, her hand curling into a tight grip as she shuttles her fist up and down my shaft. My thighs shake as I watch her. No way am I closing my eyes. No way am I doing anything but staring at her lush mouth playing with my dick. When she lets go of my balls, she wastes no time. She doesn’t tease. She doesn’t toy. She opens wide.
I curl my fingers around her skull. “Want to be in all the way.”
Her eyes twinkle as if she’s saying in due time. But due time is now. I’m a horny fucking bastard in general. That’s amplified ten times over with this wildly sexual woman. And God bless her, she doesn’t make me wait. Her warm mouth becomes a tunnel for my dick. I moan my appreciation, and then she does the sexiest thing ever. She lifts her hands and clamps them over mine on her head. She moves our fingers so I’m thrusting deep into her mouth. She drops hers, giving me control, giving me permission to fuck her mouth.
I shudder as my dick hits the back of her throat. Her eyes water and I pull back. “You okay?”
She nods, and her eyes are blazing. They say do it again. I grip her head tighter and pump. She gags a bit, but she grabs my ass, her nails digging into my flesh, urging me on. I give in to all my base desires, and she lets me. She stops to take one quick breath, then she opens wide, offering me full access to her delicious mouth.
My skin sizzles. Sensations speed into overdrive. My body goes haywire. I am nothing but a collection of nerve endings, firing at once, as I fuck her lovely, gorgeous, willing mouth.
“So fucking good,” I grunt as I rock into her.
She answers me with a hard grab of her nails, a scratch on my skin. Her touch torches me all over and obliterates any last hold I have on the here and now. Release is imminent. Pleasure thunders across my body, and I groan loudly as I come. My thighs shake, and I breathe so fucking hard as I pull back, let go, and watch my dick fall from her mouth.
“Wow,” I say, still seeing stars.
She grins and licks her lips, like a cat finishing his dish of cream. “Guess you like blow jobs.”
“I fucking love blow jobs. But I’m in love with your blow jobs. Madly in love.” I offer a hand and tug her up from the floor. Cupping her cheeks, I look into her eyes and murmur, “Thank you.”
She laughs. “You don’t have to thank me for a blow job.”
“I know, but I’m thanking you for trusting me to do it like that. To do it hard.”
“Don’t you know? I trust you completely.”
For a second, I tense when I hear that vicious word. Trust is a farce in my universe. And yet, when I’m with her, I feel it. I trust in what we’re doing, in how we treat each other, in the openness of what we have, and the mutual understanding of what we don’t want to have. “I’m glad you trust me. It’s the same for me.”
She presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “And I want everything to feel good for you.”
“Oh, it felt more than good.”
“Better than frosting?” She arches a brow.
“It felt like the world was ending.”
She runs her hand over my abs, then along my happy trail. “Or maybe a week of blow jobs is beginning,” she says.
That’s how the next several nights go. We tackle a few more dates, including a night at the arcade and an epic game of mini golf. Each night ends with an absolutely spectacular, out-of-this-world blow job.
I hereby rename shark week to my favorite week ever—blow job week.
Twenty
Top Five Tips to Turn Geocaching into One Hell of An Awesome Date
* * *
By Ryder Lockhart
* * *
Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you want to impress the woman you’re seeing. I know, crazy idea, right? But c’mon, men. It’s going to take more than just dinner.
* * *
And look, I’m a fan of dinner. A juicy steak, a glass of whiskey, a great restaurant—that rocks. But any guy can do that. Presumably, you like this woman, so you want to stand out from the crowd.
* * *
Here’s a surefire way: geocaching.
* * *
It’s not just for the kids. If you aren’t familiar with geocaching, it’s basically going on a scavenger hunt around the city, tracking down little caches of buried treasure with a GPS app, and then celebrating when you find them. Simple, right?
* * *
It’s also a fantastic way to get to know someone. My personal recommendation? You’ll need to stock up in advance with a few knick knacks—maybe a snow globe, a matchbox car, a key chain. If you take something from a cache, you need to replace it. Otherwise, you’re a douche. And you don’t want her, me, or the lamppost to think you’re a douche, do ya?
* * *
Here’s what you need to know.
* * *
1. Do your research online in advance and tailor the caches to her interests, even her mood.
Maybe she had a crummy week. Perhaps something didn’t quite go her way. Traipsing around the city hunting for treasure is a much better way to get her mind off the shit that didn’t work out than dinner is. Searching for a little pouch of treasure tucked away on a shelf in the New York Public Library is guaranteed to improve her mood. Plus, there’s just something about libraries. They’re catnip for most women. When she finds the red drawstring bag tucked behind Jane Eyre with a miniature book inside it, she might even give you a kiss. And that’s one more thing to help her out
of her funk. If she keeps the miniature book, replace it with a snow globe. A snow globe will get the next man who finds it a kiss, too. Pass it on, bros. Pass it on.
* * *
2. Listen to her.
* * *
Maybe she’s got a thing for the Brooklyn Bridge. Include a cache on the bridge on your hunt. When she tells you the story of how her mother took her and her brother to this bridge to watch the sunset when she was younger, you listen. If she shares a story of how those walks remind her of someone she lost long ago, you pay attention. Look in her eyes, tuck her hair behind her ear, and let her know you care.
* * *
3. Have some motherfucking fun.
* * *
Include a geocache in Grand Central. (There are hundreds. Look them up.) Track one down and replace the Lego dude you discover inside it with, say, a small model train or a matchbox car. But you’re not done. This is a two-part cache, and the second part is a surefire winner.
* * *
Head to the Whispering Arch Gallery on the lower floor of the terminal. It’s near the Oyster Bar, between the intersection of two walkways. If you press your ear up against the tiles, you can hear someone whispering from the diagonal arch. This acoustic anomaly is a chance to tell her something that you’ve been keeping secret, holding back, or just weren’t quite ready to say before. Maybe you’ll say do you want to go out again, or maybe you’ll tell her how you feel about her. Or maybe you’ll admit there’s a part of you that’s glad things worked out the way they did so you can spend more time with her. She might even whisper back her own sweet nothing that can be heard crystal clear over the din of crowds, but only by you. She might even say Me, too.
* * *
4. Pick one in a park.
* * *
Wander through Central Park searching out a cache hidden behind the Alice in Wonderland statue, as kids clamber all over it and she watches them with a smile and a wish in her eyes. When she asks your favorite memory from when you were a kid, tell her it was the hours you spent in the park with your brother and sister, pretending you were pirates and hunting for treasure, too. Tell her you loved that it was always your job to make sure everyone made it home safely. But, dudes, that’s my fucking story. Tell your own.
* * *
5. Accept you won’t find them all.
* * *
Some geocaches will bedevil you. No matter how hard you try to find that one that some website said was absolutely in the 72nd Street subway station or definitely in the lobby of Radio City Music Hall, you’ll never track it down.
* * *
Remember, you’re in this together with your woman, and if you don’t find one, try to have the best time possible. Tell her you’ll do it again the next month. There’s something about those words—try, try again—that might be exactly what she needs to hear.
* * *
When she thanks you at the end of the date, you can thank me for being your guide. Because she just might be into you.
Twenty-One
Nicole
We barbecue on a friend’s rooftop, and we screw. We go lingerie shopping, and we do it. One evening, we see a revival of Private Lives at the Neil Simon Theater, and Ryder takes me backstage afterward to meet the director, Davis Milo, who happens to be a good friend of his.
“Your work is amazing. I loved Crash the Moon,” I gush, mentioning a musical he recently won a Tony for. “Almost as much as I loved what you just did with Noel Coward’s work.”
He nods a thank you. “I’m thrilled to hear you enjoyed both. I had good material to work with.”
He’s as humble as he is handsome.
“Speaking of good material, I’ve been enjoying your radio show these days,” Davis tells Ryder as the men do their man-hug thing.
“Good to hear. And if you ever want to commission my life story for Broadway, you know where to find me,” Ryder says.
Davis laughs. “Indeed. Finding the cocky bastard to play you will be the real challenge.”
Ryder laughs. “Just find the most handsome fella around, and you’re good.”
Davis turns to me with a sly smile. “You agree with his casting strategy?”
I run a hand down Ryder’s arm. “I agree wholeheartedly.”
When we leave the theater, Ryder has a town car waiting for us—one with a partition. We make excellent use of the private life we temporarily have in the backseat of the sleek, black auto that cruises through Manhattan. I’m not taking any chances. Just like last month, we’ve been doing it every night in the middle of my cycle. I’m not going to risk missing the window in case it turns out I ovulate early or late. I like to think I’m being thorough.
I’m also just the slightest bit addicted to sex with Ryder.
The next evening, we come up with the genius idea to play spin the bottle with an empty Pinot Grigio from my pre-baby-making days.
Cross-legged on my floor, I spin. It lands on Ruby, and I laugh. “Does that mean I kiss the dog?”
“Do it.”
I bend to her and kiss her soft snout. Next, I plant a wet, slobbery kiss on Ryder’s lips. He returns my lip-lock with an equally tongue-drenched one. When we break the kiss, he says, “Bet you thought I’m one of those guys who doesn’t want to be kissed after you’ve just kissed a dog.”
“The thought actually never occurred to me.”
“Let the record reflect, I don’t mind at all.”
It’s his turn to spin, and the amber glass bottle whizzes in four or five speedy rotations. After it slows, it settles on my door. “Is that your subtle way of kicking me out?” He shoots me a skeptical stare.
“Oh yes. I weighted the bottle because I just don’t have it in me to send you on your way. I had to have the bottle do it.”
He grabs at his crotch. “I’ll just take my sperm and go, then.”
“No, not the sperm, not the sperm,” I tease.
He points to the bottle. “By the way, how the fuck do you play spin the bottle with two people?”
I laugh and shrug. “I don’t actually know.”
“Shame on you. I’m going to tell Cal there is something you don’t know about dating games.”
“Ooh. Those are fighting words.” I stretch my arm to my coffee table and grab my phone, googling spin the bottle for couples. A few Pinterest boards turn up first, and I click on the photos. I zoom in on one from a dating site. It goes with an article called “Date Nights for Couples.”
Hmm. That doesn’t entirely apply. We’re not a couple. Still, I enlarge the photo. It’s a pink homemade board. “Ah, here’s how you do it. You make a game board of challenges.”
“Like what? Like take off your bra, or give me a kiss?”
I study the board. “Basically. But there are others, like truth or dare, or slow dancing, or hold hands during the next turn, or coupon for massages.”
He scoffs. “I remember spin the bottle being more fun in middle school.”
“I had my first kiss during a spin-the-bottle game.”
“Yeah? What was his name? How was it?”
“Peter Lansing. He was this beanpole of a seventh-grade boy. He had braces. I was so terrified of them getting stuck to my lips that I gave him a quick peck and then scurried back to my spot.”
Ryder huffs. “Great. Now I’m jealous of Peter Lansing.”
I shove his shoulder. “You’re jealous of a skinny thirteen-year-old who didn’t even get tongue?”
“Evidently,” he says, grabbing the bottle and setting it on the coffee table. He tugs me up, and before I know what’s happening, he’s scooped me into his arms.
“What was that for?” I ask, wondering why he’s holding me as if he’s going to carry me over the threshold.
“This is my version of spin the bottle,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “Every single piece on the board is the same. Fucking you.”
Shivers sweep down my arms.
He carries me to my bedroom and sets me on the bed. He strips m
e, spending extra time on the red, lacy bra I bought when we went lingerie shopping. “That’ll cover the taking-off-your-bra piece,” he says, as he cups my breasts, making me moan as he kneads them.
“And this will take care of another one,” he says as he drops a kiss on my lips. His kiss is hungry and fevered, and my back arches as he consumes my mouth.
He lets go and brings his mouth to my neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses in his wake. My hands dart out, and quickly I undress him, too.
We are naked together once more. He grasps my hips to move me up the bed. “Truth or dare. Do you want me to come inside you now?”
“So badly.”
He shakes his head, plants his hands on my knees, and opens my legs. “Wrong answer.”
“How was that wrong? That’s what I always want.”
“And you’ll get it. But you come first. Always.”
He stares at me with such heat in his eyes, such fire in the blue sky of his irises. I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. It floors me that I asked him to give me something tremendous, and yet here I am with a man who’s ravenous for me. He climbs over me, straddling my thighs as he runs a hand up and down his gorgeous cock. I writhe as I watch him.
“You like this, baby?” He grips himself with a tight fist.
“Yes. God, yes.”
“You want it, don’t you?”
I lift my hips in answer. He stares down at the wetness between my legs. His throat rumbles. “So fucking pretty.”
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