“He has a point,” Caden says.
“Oh yeah, and what does your sex life look like?” I ask Caden.
“Does a sex life with work count?” he asks, wincing.
Roman and I both exchange glances and say “no” at the same time.
“Thought I’d try.” He chuckles to himself. “But if you must know, Roman switched the CockDaddy69 profile over to me, and I’ve been chatting with some women. No toe suckers”—he crosses his fingers—“but here’s hoping.”
“You won’t regret it, trust me.” Roman looks off into the distance dreamily and I wonder what the hell is wrong with him.
“Meeting boys, meeting,” Frank says, knocking on my door. “We have plenty of things to discuss and I want to hear more about this toe sucking.”
“Ah hell,” Roman mutters once Frank walks away. “I swear to Christ Himself, if Frank suggests I write an article on toe sucking, I’m quitting.”
“He wouldn’t, you’re not a writer.”
Roman gives me a look as we all stand and head for the door. “Yeah, that’s what you said when he asked me to write a five-hundred-word article on the meaning of hot sauce. What the hell was that?”
I laugh—I’d completely forgotten about that. Frank was trying to test everyone on staff to see if they could add content.
“I don’t know, but your approach was genius.”
“What is Frank’s Hot Sauce?” Roman laughs. “He didn’t appreciate me talking about his lady friends and referring to them as sauce.”
“I sure as hell did.”
* * *
“I knew you were going to have a nice place,” June says, as she takes my apartment in. “I barely remember it from my drunken visit last time.”
I have a modest one-bedroom in an older building right off Central Park West. I don’t have a beautiful view of the greenery that’s right outside my apartment, but it’s spacious enough that I don’t feel claustrophobic when I’m at home. I feel comfortable.
And with June in my apartment, I feel even more comfortable.
She spins around to face me, wearing a pair of leggings and a cropped sweater that falls off her shoulder. She’s casual, but stunning at the same time. I told her there was no need to dress up tonight, that we were going to keep it simple at my apartment. But her simple is a step up, that’s for damn sure.
“Thank you.”
She looks over her shoulder, smiles, and walks over to my bookshelf, where she hinges at the waist and runs her finger over the bindings of all my books.
“You do have a lot, don’t you?” She studies them. “Would you hate me if I said I haven’t read three quarters of these?”
“No,” I say, sticking my hands in my jeans pockets. “You have plenty of life left to catch up.”
“Good answer,” she says and then pulls a book out. From its color and thickness, I can tell she pulled Little Women. Her hand smoothly runs over the cover and she asks, “Do you actually read these or are they just for looking at?”
“A book is supposed to be read, so what do you think?”
“I think you’re crazy for bending these beautiful bindings.”
I walk over to her and pick up The Catcher in the Rye, examining it as well. “I’m careful with the things I cherish.”
She glances at me, catching the seriousness in my eyes. She blows out a quick breath and puts the book back on the shelf. “Once again, the man comes prepared to woo the girl. Looking for that first kiss tonight, Mr. Fancy Hair?”
“Might have crossed my mind a few times.”
Or maybe every minute of the day leading up to this moment.
“I’m holding out to see how these steaks of yours taste.”
Coming up from behind her, I wrap my arms around her waist and rest my chin on her shoulder. It’s a new embrace for us, and I stand still for a second, waiting for her to grow stiff and push me away, but instead, she lolls her head to the side, lifts her arm, and sifts her hand through my hair.
Jesus Christ, that feels good, her hand in my hair. It’s a simple touch, one I’ve definitely taken advantage of before. But right now, I’m committing this feeling to memory.
My hand skims across her bare stomach and when she turns in my arms to face me, my breath catches when her hands fall to my shoulders, her eyes staring up at me.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “You’re incredibly dangerous tonight.”
“Nah, not dangerous, just invested. I like you a lot, and I want you to know that.” And because she also needs to know I’m a man who takes control, I slide my hand under the back of her cropped sweater and splay it across her back, my fingers dancing across the clasp of her bra. She sucks in a sharp breath and moves her hands to my neck and jaw.
Is this it? Is she going to kiss me right now?
We’ve had ten dates.
Trust me, I’ve counted.
Could tonight finally be it?
Can you tell I’m desperate?
But knowing my luck where this girl is concerned, I’m going to say a kiss tonight is a far-fetched idea. I’ve thought she was going to kiss me many times over the past two weeks, and every time she walked away, I felt a piece of me wilt like the damn flower in Beauty and the Beast.
“I like you a lot too, Wes,” she says, seriously. “I actually told my parents about you yesterday.”
“You did?” I ask, holding on to her, keeping her close as we stand in the middle of my apartment. “What did you say?”
“Well . . .” Her fingers stroke the back of my neck. “I told them I met this guy while walking the general, that he almost stepped in dog crap, but I saved him from having to scrub his shoes clean. And after berating him for being so engrossed in his phone, I told them I couldn’t stop staring at him and how good-looking he was.”
“Did you tell them how you swooned so hard I had to catch you as you teetered to the ground?”
“Yup, told them that, sure,” she answers sarcastically and then laughs. “I told them you’re a writer and you like popcorn, which they love by the way. And I told them that you like to be referred to as CockDaddy69.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“My dad thought it was a brutally honest name and respected you for it.”
“June, be serious.”
“I am.” She twirls her finger on the back of my neck. “When I showed them a picture of you, my mom said, ‘oh yeah, he’s a cock daddy, all right.’”
I pause, tying to gauge how serious she is, but when she doesn’t crack into laughter, I think she’s telling the truth.
“June . . .”
“Yes?” She bats her eyelashes.
“Did you really refer to me as CockDaddy69 to your parents?”
“I did.” Her hands move forward to my cheeks and her body inches forward, her pelvis against mine. “Is that a problem?”
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. Having her this close, when I’ve been craving her for so damn long, makes my mind melt into nothing as I simply feel.
Feel how her breasts graze my chest.
How she stands on her toes to be close to me.
How her hands cup my cheeks, pulling my head closer to hers.
How she licks her lips and then glances at mine.
Fuck . . .
She wants a kiss.
Right here.
Right fucking now.
My hands slide up her back and I lean closer—so close I can practically taste her.
“Do you want this?” I ask, forgetting all about CockDaddy and her parents.
“I do,” she replies. “I . . . what’s that smell?”
“I sprayed some cologne before you got here.” I lean in closer, licking my lips, and just as I descend, going in for our first kiss, I close my eyes, pucker up, and . . .
“No, what’s that burning smell?” she asks, her head whipping to the side, just in time for my lips to open-mouth kiss her ear.
Her actual . . . ear.
Lips to hearing or
gan.
Mouth crashing against pinna and canal.
Oh dear . . . God.
“Ah, that’s wet.” She wipes her ear frantically with her shoulder and my mind immediately falls to the wet willy reader.
Did I just give June a wet willy?
No, there was no tongue. Just lips.
Either way, humiliation washes over me as I try to think of what to say.
Anything.
Think of anything that would ease the awkwardness of this moment.
She continues to wipe at her ear. Good God, it’s not like I spit in it? Why is she still wiping?
Wait, focus. Say something.
Something smart.
Witty.
Something that won’t make me look like a moron.
“Your ear . . . I uh.” I pull on the back of my neck. “I find it very attractive.”
Gents, please look away. Please, for the love of God, just look away and stop taking notes. This is a moment I’d like to collectively as a whole, forget about.
“What?” She gives me a lost look. “Wes, did you hear me? I think something is burning in your kitchen.”
“Wait, what?” And that’s when the burning smell hits me. “Oh fuck, I’m broiling the steak and potatoes for an added crisp.”
I sprint to the kitchen just in time to see flames coming from the oven.
“Oh fuck. Oh FUCK,” I say louder, dancing in place. “June, I need the—”
In a matter of seconds, as I spin toward June, the fire alarm in the kitchen goes off, sending a shrill screech through my apartment.
Blinded by the sound, I’m unaware that June is holding a red canister in hand. And right on time, I’m blasted in the face with fire retardant from the extinguisher I keep on the wall of my kitchen.
Poof!
While gaining my bearings, the fire sprinklers, which were just installed in our building, thanks to the new law passed in New York City, spring out of their sockets and douse the kitchen in water, drenching me and our dinner.
“Fire extinguisher,” I finish, swiping my eyes clean only to find June standing in front of me, a shocked look on her face, completely dry somehow, and holding the fire extinguisher like she’s about to go into battle.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“Quick on the trigger there, June.”
Still shocked, she blinks a few times and says, “That was . . . wow . . . you know, I don’t think we can eat those steaks now.”
I chuckle and shake the extinguisher off me just as the sprinklers stop and the fire alarm ceases. “How do you feel about pizza?”
“Do you mind pineapple and ham?” she asks with a slight wince.
“Anything you want, June. Anything you want.”
* * *
“I love the way your soap smells,” June says, as her legs are draped across mine, her back up against the arm of my couch.
We’re sitting incredibly close. Pizza’s been consumed, dessert too—thankfully saved from the rain, since the pudding I’d made was in the fridge chilling—and we’re listening to the Jonas Brothers while talking. Yes, the Jonas Brothers—June has accepted my love for them and now hums along to the songs. Catchy and fulfilling, the only way to describe them. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Friday night, well . . . minus the whole fire extinguisher and sprinklers thing.
June was awesome, because while I ordered the pizza then showered, she mopped up my kitchen and disposed of the charred food. I dressed in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt after that, and we’ve spent the rest of the evening exactly like this.
“Thanks. We got these soap samples at work and I was the tester. It’s called Man Soap. It was developed by this guy in Los Angeles. What was his name?” I think about it for a second. “It was a type of beer . . . oh, Porter. Porter Smith. Pretty decent guy. He came to New York to pitch the product with his wife, Marley. Said they made a road trip of it. Apparently, that’s their thing.”
“Well, it smells amazing.” June leans closer and brings her nose to the side of my neck, sending chills down my arm. “Really good. Maybe I need to get myself some Man Soap.”
“Completely eco-friendly too, if you’re into that.”
“I am.” She nods. “I like the earth.”
“What else do you like?” I ask. My arm drapes over her shoulders, and we’re our own personal human pretzel as we sit on my couch.
Comfortable. That’s the only way I can describe this feeling. Absolutely comfortable.
“Hmm, what else do I like? Well, humpback whales are my favorite.”
Random, but one of the reasons I like her so much.
“Humpback whales are legit.”
She leans her head against my arm and gazes into my eyes. God, she’s beautiful.
“I also like confetti cookies. They’re my weakness.”
“Really? I wish I knew that before I made pudding cups. I could have gone to Milk Bar and picked up some confetti cookies.”
She shakes her head. “No, I adored your pudding cups and the added crushed-up Oreos and gummy worms. It was adorable.”
“It was the only thing I could think of to make. My mom used to make them all the time when I was kid.”
“I loved it.” Her hand falls to my cheek. “You’re very thoughtful, Wes. That’s another thing I really like. And you listen. I know I sound unnecessarily critical of cell phones, but how often do you see couples out and instead of talking to each other, listening to each other, you see them playing with their phones? I like nights like this, and you don’t seem to mind sitting here, listening to music, taking time to know me. My grandma once said that it’s the true mark of a man worthy of me. Time. Giving and receiving of time. Clearly I forgot that with Doug.” She pauses, and I want to tell her he was a major asshole for what he did to her. But I wait, because I think she knows that for herself now. “With you? I know from your touches and attention that you want me, but I’ve appreciated that you haven’t seemed angered by my request to go slow. I fear you’re ruining me for all other men.”
“That’s the goal.” I laugh.
“Do you know what I’ve wondered though?”
“Hmm?” I ask, getting lost in her eyes.
“What your lips taste like. You seem to be so good at everything, so are you a good kisser too?”
Excitement shoots up my spine as my body practically shivers with desire. My hand falls to her thigh and I say, “Only one way to find out.”
“I guess so.” Her eyes fall to my lips as she asks, “You know, I’ve never had a guy kiss my ear before.”
My head falls back on the couch. “Come on, I thought you were going to let that go.”
She laughs and shifts her legs off my lap. I’m about to protest, until she straddles me and rests her hands on my chest. “How could I possibly let that slide? I need to add it to my running list of ways Wesley Waldorf Williams is human like the rest of us. Awkwardly kisses girls’ ears. Wet kisses, actually.”
“It wasn’t that wet.”
“It was pretty wet.”
“It was average,” I counter.
“Eh, above average.” She curves her hands around my traps and whispers, “Want to kiss my ear again?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She laughs and turns her head so her ear is right in line with my mouth. “Go ahead, I’m giving you free rein. Have at it. When you’re done, give my earhole some tonguing to signal it’s over.”
Deadpanning, I say, “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
She faces me again. “I do. I really freaking—”
She squeals as I roll her onto the couch and move on top of her, trapping her under my body. Her eyes turn hungry and all joking is gone, as I lift my hand to her cheek and caress her soft skin with my thumb.
I lower my head, searching her eyes, looking for any indication she doesn’t want this. But when her hand wraps around the back of my neck, I know I have the go-ahead.
I move my thumb over her bottom lip tracing the soft fullness of it, committing the feel to memory before lowering my mouth to hers. Millimeters away, I pause, and as she sucks in a harsh breath, I close the space, finally pressing my lips against hers. And fuck . . . fuck, it’s so damn good.
Her lips work against mine, pressing into me, showing me she’s just as hungry for this moment as I am, and that notion sends my stomach into a wild swirl of emotions.
She’s greedy. It’s a stark contrast to her outward calm, but her lips offer a different story, that this is exactly what she wanted to happen tonight. She was expecting it. Waiting for it.
With my thumb, I tilt her jaw up, giving me a better angle, and that’s when I swipe my tongue across her mouth.
Once.
Twice.
And then she opens for me, her tongue greeting mine, matching each stroke. It’s dizzying, heady, by far the best first kiss I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure if it’s because June herself is sending my entire body into a tailspin of lust, or if it’s these deep-rooted feelings I’m starting to develop for her.
It’s probably both.
Easily both.
Parting her lips more, she raises herself to match the fire I’m bringing, the heat that’s swirling between us. So much heat I’m nervous that if I don’t remove myself now, I’ll take things too far, like slipping a hand up her short shirt, or making it clear how excited I am to be able to kiss her.
So with a final peck to her lips, I pull away and stare at her. Her eyes take a few seconds to open and when they do, I’m struck dead in the chest with her beauty, with the honesty that lies behind her pupils.
That was life-changing for her, just like it was for me.
When she catches her breath, she says, “And I like that. I like that a lot.”
I smile down at her. “I like that a lot too, June.”
“Then get back here,” she says, pulling me down by my shirt, and I oblige, because I have a small amount of self-control left.
Only a little.
Chapter Thirteen
Dear Modern Gentleman,
The Modern Gentleman Page 13