by Ember Cole
“You are so getting a big tip,” Bekka crows, throwing her arms around the headrest to awkwardly hug the guy. “What’s your name again?”
“Ben.”
“I’m Bekka. You may have just saved my girl here’s night, Ben. But not her virtue.”
I bury my burning face in my hands. Bekka has never had a filter, and usually I think it’s pretty funny, but not when my virtue is the topic. Through my fingers, I see her wink at Ben. He grins back. Envy pangs my chest. I wish it were this easy for me.
I barely dated in high school, too focused on my GPA and getting into my first-choice college to care much about anything social. Freshman year at Columbia, I met Ted, who was in my study group. He was serious about his goals like me, and I thought we might be a good fit, but we never got past kissing and a hand job outside his dorm.
He ghosted me after that night, and I decided guys weren’t worth it, but before I could decide whether that was too rash a decision, I had the amazing opportunity to go overseas to teach.
Now I wish I had given it a few more tries, because a little bit of experience right now would be handy.
My heart thumps against my ribs. Can I really do this? Walk up to a guy I don’t know and ask him to have sex with me? My stomach twists into knots. The confidence from earlier is gone.
Bekka must see something on my face, because she leans over and tries to plump up the girls, despite my attempts to get her hands out of my cleavage. The car jerks to the right, then straightens, and I catch Ben’s guilty reflection in the rearview mirror.
“See?” Bekka says. “Tits are a girl’s best friends.” She takes my shoulders and gives them a little shake. “Seriously, babe, there’s not a lot to it. You smile, look him in the eye, and then in a really sexy voice, ask him to fuck you.”
A strangled sound comes from the front seat. Poor Ben. I wonder if he’s ever heard a sex pep talk before.
“You’re not looking for a husband, Kymber. Or a boyfriend. You don’t have to know what his favorite beer is, and you don’t need to tell him you still have the stuffed hedgehog that Mimi gave you when you were eight. Grab him by the dick and enjoy the ride. You got this.”
Strangely, her crazy locker room speech works. She’s right. This is just one night. Sex with a stranger and my first time all in one night. Not one but two things I can cross off my bucket list. I do got this.
Ben pulls up in front of our building, and I push out of the car, already focused on what I’m going to attempt to do.
Bekka follows me to the entrance. “You look amazing in that excuse for a dress that barely covers your tits. All you’re going to have to do is smile at that boy, and he’ll be putty in your hands.”
She throws her arms around me, and I swear I hear her sniffle.
“Are you seriously crying right now?”
“My little girl, turning into a woman tonight. I’m so damned proud.” She wipes at her fake tears, and I smack her arm. “Look, you’ll need some privacy, and I’m sick of waiting for a certain someone to get his head out of his ass, so…” She grins. “I’m going to see if Ben wants a little company.”
I know she and her latest guy are on the fritz, but she’s going to hook up with our Uber driver? I mean, he’s cute, but seriously? “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
She looks sad. “When do I ever have good ideas?” As quickly as it was there, though, her frown is gone. “You get one life, bitch, so you better grab it by the balls and yell ‘giddyap.’”
I shake my head and smile. The guy who tames my best friend is going to have his hands full, but he’s also going to get to be with the best person I know. I just wish he’d show up sooner rather than later so all these dicks she finds, literally and figuratively, can get lost.
She walks backward toward Ben’s car. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“That doesn’t leave much!”
“Exactly!”
She slides into the passenger seat, and I wait until I can’t see taillights anymore before facing our building. I suck humid air into my lungs.
I got this.
My palms are sweaty as I push the door open. I take a deep breath and with each step, repeat those famous and inspiring words from The Little Engine That Could.
I think I can. I think I can.
I cross through the lobby and head down the hallway, coming to a stop in front of the door marked OFFICE. My heart thumps in my throat. He’s probably not even there. It’s really late, technically Saturday now, and if he’s as hot as Bekka says, he’s probably already in bed with someone. Except the light is on. I can see it coming from under the door.
No more lame excuses. It’s do-or-die time.
I smooth my sweaty palms down over the silky material of my dress. The hem hits several inches above my knees, and the shoes I chose, four-inch black heels that lace up my ankle, accentuate my already-long legs. Even though I feel like a giraffe, Bekka says my legs are my second-best asset, my ass being the first, which was why she picked out this dress for me to wear tonight. Short and tight in all the right places.
I dash back into the lobby and stare at my blurry reflection in the old elevator door. It’s not exactly a mirror, but I do my best to check my makeup and touch up my lipstick. I suck in a deep breath. Wide, unsure blue eyes stare back at me. The girl in the elevator door does not look confident. With club music pounding through my veins and then a cute Uber driver helping Bekka egg me on, it was easy to decide I could do this. Knowing that opportunity might be behind the door in the hall is kind of terrifying.
Also, exciting.
I bite my lip. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll wake up a totally new woman. Minus one thing. But with new experience. What if he is huge and I can’t walk to the kitchen for coffee in the morning? I can’t function without coffee. Or what if it doesn’t fit? Oh God, what if it’s so small I can’t even feel it?
Shit, I sound like Bekka now.
And I’m stalling.
It’s going to be fine. No, it’ll be great.
I straighten my shoulders, march back down the hallway, and twist the doorknob. The door swings open soundlessly, and I step inside the dimly lit room.
Disappointment sinks to the bottom of my shoes.
The chair behind the desk is empty.
He’s not here.
A sigh escapes my lips as I turn back toward the door, but then I hear a click behind me and stop. The air in the room changes, and shivers dance over my skin.
“Can I help you?” a deep voice asks.
The hairs on my arms stand up. Caramel-dipped orgasms wrapped in chocolate. That’s how his voice feels as it rumbles over my skin.
I may have never met Adam in person, but I did talk to him on the phone once before I moved in, and the person behind me definitely does not sound like the same guy.
I turn around slowly, my heart beating in my ears. When I finally see him, I almost swallow my tongue.
Holy. Shit.
The man standing in front of me—and there is no doubt he is all man—is fucking gorgeous. Close-cut dark hair frames a face that could have been carved by Michelangelo himself. Chiseled jaw covered by stubble. Lush lips that draw me like a moth to a flame. In the dim light, I see his dark eyes watch me. Hell, I can feel them. And he’s tall. Deliciously tall.
I can’t find my voice, or my tongue, or my fingers.
All I can do is stare.
I’d bet my future master’s degree that this is the owner of the building. He looks ruthless enough to command an army, and he seems old enough to be Adam’s father, though only barely. I can just make out a sprinkling of gray above his ears. Despite his age, the dark T-shirt he’s wearing fits like a second skin over the tight muscles of his chest and biceps. The shirt hangs looser over his stomach, meeting with faded jeans that cling to his thighs. I continue my downward perusal because I need the whole picture, and find his feet are bare.
If avenging angels came to earth, they wou
ld look like this man, hard and unyielding.
The light scent of his cologne fills my lungs and lights my blood on fire. But it’s not just the way he smells that has my body reacting in a way it’s never reacted before—it’s the entire package. He radiates an authoritative strength that makes my knees weak.
Yep. I can totally see the military commander thing.
He watches me, the intensity of his gaze only adding to the feelings building between my legs. I came here looking for Adam, but I barely remember why. I want this man.
Grab him by the dick and enjoy the ride.
Okay. Right.
I swallow and take a tentative step closer. “I, ahh…locked myself out?”
Am I asking him or telling him? Jesus. The words barely made it out of my dry mouth either way. Apparently all the liquid in my body has settled between my legs. I have to stifle a groan when I take another step toward him and feel the friction of panties against my bare pussy.
“I was out dancing…” I try again. “Well, my roommate and I were out dancing, but she went home with the Uber driver and when I got inside, I realized she must have the key and so I came here because, well, it’s the super’s office and whoever’s in here must have an extra key, right? Because that’s what you do…?”
I ramble so fast that when I stop I have to gulp air into my lungs. So much for acting sexy.
His gaze rakes over me, pausing in all the places I know my dress clings to my curves.
My nipples strain against the silky material, and when his eyes laser in on them, I think hear a low rumble deep in his throat.
“What number?”
I blink. I’m too lost in a haze of lust to remember what he’s talking about. Does he want me to pick a number? I shift, needing to move, to ease the ache that’s settled in my belly.
“Your apartment number. What is it?”
The demand makes me squeeze my thighs together. What is wrong with me? He’s not even doing anything. And I’m supposed to be seducing him, not the other way around.
“4C,” I manage.
He moves to a cabinet and unlocks it with a key that was in his pocket. Once he has what he needs, he comes back, this time stepping into my personal space. Heat radiates from him in waves, and his presence envelops me. I drop my gaze to the floor, but what I really want is to move those last few inches closer, see if his arms are as strong as they seem.
“Look at me,” he commands, and my gaze snaps up to his face. His fingers curl around my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep me in place. His thumb presses against my racing pulse, and I reach out with my free hand to steady myself, my fingers coming to rest on the hard planes of his stomach.
The muscles under my touch spasm, and he sucks in a harsh breath. His eyes have gone so black that all I can see is darkness. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from blurting out something ridiculous about wanting those eyes on me everywhere. His gaze arrows in on where my teeth grip the soft flesh, and I this time I know I hear him growl.
My body reacts instantly to the sound, every nerve ending spitting fire against my skin. The sensations focus on where he’s holding me, on where I can feel my own pulse thudding against his thumb. He must feel it, too, because he shifts a fraction closer.
I feel more light-headed than when I was full of alcohol.
In about three seconds, my knees are going to give out and I’m going to fall.
On my knees.
In front of this god of a man.
All because he’s touching my wrist and he growled at me.
If I could actually think, I’d worry about my sanity, but no. All I’m capable of is the soft whimper that escapes from between my lips.
His fingers tighten. My panties are drenched now. He’s so close that when I shift my weight, my hip brushes against his crotch, and I feel how hard he is in his jeans.
Air hisses from his lungs, and he moves his other hand to press something into my palm. His gaze moves from my lips to my eyes and back.
I gulp. Kiss me. Please kiss me.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Holy hell, that voice. I sway on my feet, lost in the haziness of desire so strong I’m on the verge of exploding without having been touched.
“Kymber Taylor,” I manage on an exhale.
His jaw clenches, and the pulse in his neck hammers. He seems to wait for…something. I don’t know what. For me to make a move? I’m obviously not the only one affected here.
Screw it. He’s made me hotter in five minutes than any guy I’ve ever known has on an entire date. Seize the day, right?
I perch on my toes, gaining a few inches of height. But right before I press my lips to his, he lets my wrist go and takes a step back.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Is there anything else you need?”
I drop my gaze to where his cock strains against his jeans. I wish I had the balls to tell him I need that, I need him, but my brain is a wreck.
He drives his fingers through his hair and takes another step away from me. His eyes are still filled with fire, but he keeps space between us.
Disappointment floods my hyperaware body.
He reaches across me, and I freeze in desperate anticipation, but it’s only so he can open the door. And to taunt me with how good he smells, apparently. Rejection or not, I can’t help but wish he’d touch me. Judging by the way he moves in close again, cornering me between his body and the door, I think he wants that, too.
So why doesn’t he take what we both want?
I’m pretty sure he can hear the way I’m sucking air into my lungs like I can’t catch my breath. Which I can’t. For several long seconds neither of us moves. Maybe he’s reconsidering?
He shifts away again.
Dammit.
“Good night, Ms. Taylor.”
His voice is low, deep, and guttural, and it makes my stomach knot with desire. It doesn’t sound like he’s asking me to leave, but I’m in such new territory that I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.
Did I miss an important cue? Is he waiting for some kind of signal that this is a go? Maybe this is where grabbing his dick comes in. Did Bekka mean it literally or figuratively? I decide to start with figuratively.
I step out of the office and turn to ask if he’d like to come up to my apartment, but the door closes in my face.
So…not figuratively.
I sigh. “Would you like to come upstairs and have sex with me?” I ask the door.
It doesn’t answer. Go figure.
Trying to get my breathing under control, I trudge toward the elevator. I am so going to kill Bekka in the morning. She made it sound easy. Show some boob and he’d fall at my feet, except somehow I don’t think that the man in the office would fall at anyone’s feet.
But I’m pretty sure he felt something, because I felt something when I we were close. I didn’t have a chance to flash him some boob. Was I supposed to just whip them out? I hate all the not knowing. Whatever the case, I’ve lost my chance. I should have said something sooner. Made a move or whatever, though I’m pretty sure he’d have let me kiss him if he were even the slightest bit interested. I’m obviously way too rusty if I can’t even tell whether a man physically touching me is interested.
It doesn’t matter now.
He didn’t want me.
My V-card is still firmly intact and looks to be staying that way for the foreseeable future.
Unfortunately, my body is still on fire. You’d think his thorough rejection would’ve dumped a bucket of ice water on my libido, but nope. The entire ride to the fourth floor I want to rip my clothes off just to feel cool air on my skin.
As soon as I step into my apartment, I kick off my shoes and shove open a window, but the early summer heat has already arrived, and there’s no relief to be found.
Air-conditioning it is.
And a glass of cold tea. With extra ice.
I wander around the apartment, tall gl
ass in hand, replaying the encounter in my head a hundred different ways hoping to figure out where I went wrong. I was a babbling idiot. Smooth and confident, thy name is not Kymber.
Who can blame me, though?
That man quite literally stole my good sense. I may be a bit naive, but I know a hard cock when I see one, and I definitely saw one pressing against his jeans. Maybe if I accidentally-on-purpose brushed my knuckles over it? Or if I were bolder, slid his zipper down and reached inside to wrap my fingers around it? I bet he wouldn’t have shut the door in my face then.
I need to get a grip and move on, but I can’t get him out of my head. Can’t stop thinking about how his rough fingers felt against my skin. How I wish I could feel them on other parts of my body.
I groan and slump onto the couch, but then something cold floods across my chest and I jump back up with a gasp. Half my glass of tea soaks through my dress, making the thin material cling to my skin.
Crap.
I hurry to the bedroom and peel my clothes off, then wipe a washcloth over my chest. You’d think the cold would have cooled me off, but the abrasive touch only inflames my heated skin more. I can feel my heart pounding against my fingers. The ache between my legs hasn’t gotten any better, either. I should just finger myself and get it over with.
With a groan of frustration I pull a cream tank top over my head and try to ignore the way the material brushes my nipples. I wish it were Hot Commander’s hands.
Or teeth.
I shudder. I need to get a grip, because that’ll never happen. He practically pushed me out the door.
I grab my favorite pair of sweats. They are super thin and ratty, and the string barely holds them up on my hips, but I don’t have anyone to impress tonight. After I clean the makeup off my face and twist my hair into a high bun, I grab the pint of ice cream I bought specifically for tonight.
I thought I’d be celebrating something a little more meaningful than continued sexual frustration and wet panties, but what else can I do? At least the vision of the man who turned my insides to mush will be plenty enough inspiration for getting myself off.