The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs

by Cat Kelly

  "I'm not dumping you at a hotel," he added. "Wouldn't be chivalrous. My grandmother would never forgive me."

  Hopefully it would only be a few hours, she thought. It was nine thirty now. She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder. He was humming a tune, fingers tapping his knees. Of course an ice storm wouldn't bother him much. He never had to rely on public transportation to get anywhere. If he didn't feel like going in to work tomorrow he didn't have to. The beauty of being his own boss.

  She said nothing and he didn't wait for any agreement, just told his driver to take them home to his apartment. And as she stared at the window again, catching her reflected expression, she knew what the night held in store. It was readable there in her eyes, large print.

  Where he'd held her waist earlier she still felt the warmth of his hand, the strange possessiveness she'd never expected from him, never experienced from anyone. The night was passing like a weird dream where things were only normal on the surface. Underneath it all, nothing was really quite the same. She ought to pinch herself, she thought, quirking a little smile at her reflection.

  It made her look naughty. Wicked.

  Bryony Mulligan, are you going to get laid tonight?

  Yes, sir. If I have my way.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  She quickly shook her head, straightened her lips. It was not going to happen. She couldn't let it.

  Numbnuts? She must be crazy. So she'd had a crush on him years ago. Maybe—just maybe— she could admit that now. Because she was over it, right? Her tastes had matured since then. And as Helena said, she knew what he was. The Casanova of Manhattan and various international locations.

  He could have any woman in New York and frequently did if the rumors were true. Just because he'd looked at her in a heated way and touched her waist, she'd let her mind wander off into absurd porno territory. Maybe it had simply been too long for her since her last boyfriend.

  She stole a quick glance sideways and saw his fingers still tapping idly on his thigh.

  Damn it, Mulligan, don't look at his dangerous hands.

  Too late. There was nothing she could do, was there? In her head she worked out an excuse to give Helena. The peckerhead had practically kidnapped her. She couldn't open the door and leap out could she?

  Tap, tap, tap went his long fingers.

  Sex. It flashed and buzzed in her mind like the neon letters luring tired motorists to a seedy motel. Right above the "vacancy" sign.

  Twenty minutes later they were walking out of the private elevator into his penthouse apartment. It was everything she expected—sleek, modern, masculine. Luxurious. The press of a remote achieved instant life. Five blue and gold flames shot out of large pebbles in a center fire pit, and muted, recessed lighting glimmered into action, stroking the lush curves of large, spotless white couches. On the exposed brick wall, an enormous flat screen TV blipped awake, while a coffee maker in the kitchen purred in unison. All this from one micro-chip command. Like his women, she mused darkly, his appliances came in coordinated colors and worked obediently on the push of a button.

  "Espresso?"

  "At this time of night?" Bry kicked off her shoes, afraid to mark his wide plank floors and expensive-looking area rugs.

  "Vodka? Brandy?"

  "No. Thanks." Anyone else would offer tea next, or water. He went straight to the liquor. But Bryony was too fidgety, too interested in his apartment to sit still just then. Didn't want to risk spilling anything else. Not here in this pristine show room.

  Tonight she had a rare opportunity to pry into his life and find what the real Ben Petruska did when no one watched. How did he relax? Maybe he didn't. It wasn't the sort of home she could imagine anyone flopping around in. Those white couches wouldn't withstand five minutes with her and a bag of Doritos. Her tatty bunny slippers would be distinctly out of place, for sure.

  No personal photos, she realized. In fact, the decor was quite sparse, certainly not cozy or lived-in. Probably had a professional designer pick everything out for him. A vodka bar had more cozy warmth.

  While he poured his coffee, she found the guest bathroom and slipped inside. Her heart was racing quite a bit, just because she was there with him. Well, not just because of him, for heaven's sake! She was in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, standing in a glitzy bathroom that probably cost more to decorate than her entire apartment. It was about the same size too. The hand towels were neatly aligned and no gunk jammed the soap dispenser.

  This was the last place she'd expected to end up when she set out that evening. Then he went and put his hands on her—on her waist, her shoulders, her arm.

  You're coming home with me.

  Bossy. Gave her goosebumps. Made her panties moist.

  But it wasn't as if she was a clueless, slack-jawed, virginal co-ed who had never seen a pecker before and had no idea why she was there. This was real life and the only shades of grey were in his dull, fucking decor. So why was she perspiring under her dress and standing in his bathroom trying to catch her breath? Sheer lunacy.

  Stop it, Bryony Mulligan. Get a hold of yourself. You are a new woman now. At least have the presence of mind to act as if this apartment isn't on another planet, or you just rode there with the Beverly Hillbillies in their jalopy.

  Having cooled off for a moment and completed what she went there to do, Bry checked her face in the big mirror over the sink. Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick was still in place. Good. Mascara not yet melting. Looking good, Mulligan. It must be a special, flattering mirror. How much did one like that cost, she wondered.

  Ready. Fully charged.

  He wouldn't know what hit him.

  As she closed her purse, her gaze drifted downward to the marble counter space beside the sink. A straightening iron perched there in a professional holder. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Petruska certainly didn't use that.

  She took it out of the holder and found one long blonde hair stuck to the cold heating plate.

  Maybe he kept that in his guest bathroom for the use of any random woman who stayed the night? It was an amusing thought for ten seconds, but she knew even he wasn't that much of a ladies man. If he was he would have slipped into a smoking jacket by now and lit up a pipe, while pressing a button that turned his couches into a big circular bed under a mirrored ceiling.

  So there was a regular female in his life. Somewhere.

  A blonde.

  That certainly calmed things down, didn't it? For a moment anyway.

  The slow, steady thump of expectation still passed up and down her body on a determined march toward misbehavior. There didn't seem to be anything she could do about it, but since there was a woman in the picture she was safe from forming any deeper feelings, right? She knew what she was getting into. Nothing more could come of this. Nothing.

  This what exactly?

  One night stand. Overdue.

  And a really, really stupid idea.

  But if she didn't take this chance now, she may never have another. It was part of the cleansing, she assured herself, all part of making the new Bryony. Seizing life by the balls. By the...numbnuts.

  She washed her hands, dried them on his neat towels, and opened the door.

  "What were you doing in there?"

  He was right in front of her, shoulder propped against the door frame, espresso cup in one hand.

  "What do you think I was doing in there?" She swept grandly by. "If I wasn't allowed to use the facilities you should have told me."

  "You just took a long time. That's all." He followed her. "Something to eat? I can order."

  "It's ten o'clock at night," she reminded him.

  "So?" He grinned. "We could have a midnight feast. In bed."

  She dropped onto his couch, but then immediately got up again. Where's your girlfriend? she wanted to ask so badly. But she banked it. Didn't want to seem interested. Or remotely disappointed. And Blondie couldn't be that permanent since her hot iron was kept
in the guest bedroom, not the master suite. Thus she justified not asking.

  Icy rain slanted against the wall of windows overlooking the park, reminding her to be grateful that she was inside a warm building and not alone. On a night like this it was good to have company. Suddenly her purse danced. She jumped, opened it and dug for her phone.

  "Hello?"

  It was Helena. "Where did you disappear?"

  No way could she let her cousin know where she was. She could imagine Helena yelling at her to get out of there now, drop everything and run. Suddenly she felt sixteen again, as if her father wanted to know why she hadn't made curfew. "I...went home. I wasn't feeling good." She knew Ben was looking at her. His gaze was intense, burning through her with a smoldering heat. "I tried to find you to say goodbye."

  Bed? Bed? Had he just said something to her about bed? Yes, he had. She'd tried to cancel it out by ignoring it happened. But now she couldn't concentrate on anything else.

  "We could have given you a ride home, Bry."

  We? So things were patched up with Carl.

  Bed. He'd said it. He was thinking the flashing neon sign too.

  "I wanted to get home before the storm," she said to Helena on the phone. "It's pretty bad out there and I knew it would be tough to get a cab. Traffic was awful. Cars sliding all over." Nervous, she crammed words in until they leaked around the edges. "Everything ok?"

  "Everything's fine." As if there was never anything wrong. Amazing what a risky quickie can do, she mused. "I'll call you tomorrow," Helena exclaimed in the loud voice she used to tie up conversations. "Just wanted to make sure you got home ok."

  "Yep. No problem."

  When she shut the phone, Ben came to stand beside her and look out. "Why did you lie about where you are?"

  "I didn't lie." She hesitated. "It was a slight evasion of the truth. I didn't feel like answering a barrage of questions."

  "Oh. Right."

  "Besides. Why would I lie? If she asked me outright I would have told her. It's perfectly innocent." She stared at their reflection in the window. He was turned toward her, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Bry knew he was staring at her, but what specifically caught his interest she couldn't tell. Her heart thumped hard. It felt as if her entire body was jumping with it. Maybe he saw.

  Why had she agreed to let him bring her here? In her mind she wrote out the points, scribbling them on a yellow legal pad, adding them up.

  One, the simple answer—she was nosy. That had to be worth twenty five percent. Maybe a little less.

  Two, the embarrassing confession—he was paying attention to her and she liked it. Bry was flattered. Another quarter percent therefore had to be granted to her inner giggling idiot and cheerleader reject.

  Three, absolute truth—Bry was horny and he was the most attractive man she knew. That made the total up to almost three quarters of a reason.

  Finally came the complex, underlying issue—he was the most teasing, frustrating man she'd ever known and it was time she got this out of her system. She would surely be relieved of this dreadful fascination once she'd seen that he was, in fact, just like every other man without his clothes. Besides, on behalf of every other average woman in the street, every other overlooked female, she had a flag to raise and something to prove to Benedick sexy-pants Petruska.

  There was a tiny sliver of the pie chart that couldn't be accounted for. Maybe later she'd figure that out.

  She was about to turn toward him when his phone rattled with the sound of coins falling from a slot machine. He picked up. "Carl?"

  She couldn't hear the other side of the conversation. Carl was nowhere near as loud as his wife.

  "I knew you would get home with Helena....no...no...I just got in....early start in the morning. Yes, I did tell you. Listen, it wasn't my kind of party....yes....no...uh huh...no idea....ok." He shut his phone and set it on the wide window ledge.

  "Why didn't you tell him I was here?" she asked smugly, head tilted.

  "I can, if you want me to." He reached for his phone again, but she brought her hand down on his.

  "No."

  "But it's perfectly innocent." His eyes narrowed. "You said so."

  Ah, so she had.

  * * * *

  The moment her hand touched him, he knew he couldn't let her leave his apartment that night. It was a long time since he'd felt this much excitement shooting through his veins, this much desire for a woman. Was it the first time she'd ever touched him? It felt as if it might be. His skin came alive where her fingers stretched over his knuckles.

  He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Fuck. Suddenly he was goddamn nervous again. "Sure you don't want something to eat?"

  "Quite sure." She was looking up at him, eyes blue and shining—but not with the innocence she claimed a few seconds ago.

  "Are you cold?"

  "No," she replied softly. "I'm never cold. Do I look cold?"

  "It's a thin dress. I just thought—"

  On tip toe she kissed him. He inhaled her spicy perfume, tasted her lipstick. Her breasts moved against his shirt and white hot need burst through his body. Quickly his hands swept up to caress her shape. If she was wearing anything underneath, he couldn't feel it. She was firm but the curves were very full, a perfect weight in his palms. A low groan, emerged from deep in his throat and his cock hardened, his balls tightened.

  "Ms. Mulligan." He circled one finger over the nipple pricking at the front of her dress. "You're not wearing a bra."

  "I took it off in your bathroom," she confessed, her breath blowing soft against his cheek. "Panties too."

  Inside his head a thin wire melted from the heat and he lost whatever old-fashioned gentlemanly restraint his grandmother would have urged. Now he understood his fear. This was a fantasy come to life. He should be fucking scared; it was probably a healthy reaction to the situation.

  He lifted her onto the window ledge, over the heating vents, and then he slipped one eager hand between her parted thighs.

  Sure enough there were no panties and his fingers found their path to treasure unrestricted. Her pussy was already damp, the lips soft as rose petals. "Damn."

  "What's the matter?"

  "I would have preferred to take them off you," he muttered gruffly, one trembling finger slowly caressing her labia. He wanted to bury himself inside that warm, wet haven. All day he'd been thinking about it, making up various scenarios in his head. Sexy Bryony Mulligan owed him this after running away from him all these years. "Next time remember that."

  "Next time?" She gasped, half laughing. "No way. Tonight is a one off." Her hands were on his shoulders, running over the tense muscle under his shirt. "And no one needs to know about it, Petruska. No one."

  Ok then, he thought. If that's the way she wanted it. He'd have to make the most of the time.

  With his free hand, he slid her short dress up over her thigh high stockings. Whatever she said, her legs must have been cold that night, but he'd warm her up.

  As he slid his forefinger inside her, she moaned, eyes closed, the back of her head pressed against the window. Ben leaned into her for another kiss and deepened it. His tongue swept inside her mouth, just as his finger moved further into her tight, slippery cunt, curling upward, seeking her g-spot.He unzipped his pants with one hand and let them fall to his knees, knowing he was rushing this but unable to slow down. She wrapped her legs around his waist, apparently in a hurry too. Their lips parted and Ben dipped his head to lick her left nipple through the material. It blossomed, thrusting at his tongue, and she cupped her tit urging him to suck. He pressed a second finger inside her pussy and she gasped out his name.

  It sounded damn good on her maraschino cherry lips.

  Oh, yeah. He felt her shiver. There it was.

  He touched her clit as he pressed his tongue to the sharpened nipple. He massaged both sensitive points gently, paying close attention to the deepening sound of her moans. Dew soaked his fingers and when the heating clicked
on, blowing up at her through the vents, she squirmed, exclaiming breathlessly that it tickled.

  Ben smirked, moving his fingers faster in and out. "Take your dress off," he grunted. He wanted her naked in his window while he fucked her. No one could see a thing this high up, unless they used a telescope or binoculars. But the thought of it added a spark to the fire. Add he needed to see her breasts, needed to rub his face on her nipples, breath in the scent of her soft skin.

  "No," she gasped out. "Leave it on." And then her eyes opened. "I'm shy."

  He wanted to laugh. "Shy? Shy?" Somehow he didn't believe it. Nothing about those scarlet lips was timid now.

  "Yes!" She pouted, sliding her fingers down his torso to his erection, where it arched against his Calvins. He was throbbing, aching with need. Her perfume mingled with the musk of her roused sex. It sent a primitive signal to his brain—to the part that had never adapted to civilization, but still thought he lived in a cave and could drag a woman around by the hair if the need arose. The good old days, he mused.

  "I want to see your tits," he managed, after struggling a few moments with the urge to simply tear that flimsy dress right off her. If they only had one night, he was going to make it count.

  She wriggled, pulling the shoulders down and carefully slipping her arms out of the sleeves.

  Ben paused a moment to appreciate and pay homage to her beautiful breasts. Perfect, plump teardrops with dark, very sensitive nipples. One touch of his tongue against them and they puckered. Her breath hitched in her throat. From then on the rhythm of her gasps became more frantic. Her fingers strayed to the waistband of his underwear and she tugged them forcefully down to free his erection.

  He felt her long nails scrape across his sac, her palm cupping his hot flesh, gently squeezing and weighing. Then her fingers wrapped around his shaft.

  "I want this," she purred.

  Funny. That was his reaction the minute he saw her gorgeous butt bent over in front of him that morning.

  "So much for shy," he grunted, half laughing as he felt her pulsing pussy quake with a rough and ready orgasm, squeezing on his fingers. She was going to feel like heaven on his cock. He couldn't wait any longer to taste her honey and now he knew she wanted sex him tonight as much as he'd wanted it all day, the last little fears were gone.