Pumpkin Pounder

by Laura Lovely

  The Irishman turns back toward me, wiping a hand over his mouth. He gives me a cute little wink, but the moment is definitely broken.

  I shrug. “Maybe we should get out of here?”

  “Maybe so.”

  I hop off the desk and start for the door. He pulls me against him before I can reach it. “Thanks for the tour.” He drops a kiss on my cheek and smirks when the scratch of his scruff makes me shiver. “Lead the way.”

  I take us upstairs to the deck. The moon is high above us, huge and yellow. The Irishman wraps his arms around me. Even though the party on the pier and below decks is thumping, it feels like we are alone.

  Until we hear some truly awful retching from behind us. An astronaut is puking his guts out over the railing, just beside us. Another mood killer. I look at The Irishman, his horrified expression mirroring mine. Then we double over with laughter.

  After a few moments, I fan my face. “Do you want to get out of here—like, go somewhere else?”

  “Head on? Sure.”

  “I have to tell my friend we’re leaving.”

  I grab his hand, guide him back over the gangplank and to the bar.

  Rachel is positioned at the corner of the bar, charging a long line of guys a dollar to take a selfie with the third breast of her costume. She waves at us. “No charge for gingers!”

  The Irishman chuckles. “Well in that case…” He pulls out his phone and gestures to me. “Get in here.”

  We squat next to Rachel’s chest and take a terrible selfie, complete with our faces, the fake nipple, and thumbs up. Rachel demands to see the selfie. “Gorgeous,” she proclaims.

  “We’re getting out of here,” I tell Rachel. “You okay if I leave?”

  Rachel whips out her phone. Before The Irishman knows what’s going on, she’s snapped a photo of him. “I watch Law & Order, sir. If anything bad happens to her, I have your face.”

  “Understood.” The Irishman nods emphatically.

  “Okay, have fun!” She gives me an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek.

  The Irishman swoops in, gives Rachel a quick peck on each cheek. “Cheers!”

  If Rachel were an emoji, her eyes would be hearts right now. My own knees are going a bit weak. That was the most adorable goodbye I’ve ever seen. The Irishman grabs my hand. I wave to Rachel who mouths, “I love him forever.”

  I don’t have a chance to say goodbye to Seiko or April, because The Irishman, suddenly Mr. In Charge (and don’t get me wrong, I’m into it), deftly weaves us through the packed pier, along the tracks, and back to the highway.

  “Sorry, it was absolutely jammers back there.” He squeezes my hand. “Where did ye have in mind?”

  I point across the street, and we’re off.

  Chapter Two

  “Ah, there we are.” The Irishman stops short so suddenly, I almost trip.

  “There? Where?” I’m confused, until he points to a random Italian restaurant on 11th avenue. “You want to go in there?”

  I’d been doing some quick recalibration of my Pumpkin Pounder agenda. Find a dive bar—they’ll all be shit shows on Halloween but maybe we can find a nice, dark corner. We’ll make out, then I’ll suggest we go back to his place. I prefer not to host so I can make a clean exit whenever I want. But The Irishman is pointing excitedly to this tiny place with a canopy strung with twinkle lights that bears the name La Italiano Amore. I don’t speak Italian but even I know that’s incorrect. The restaurant boasts a candlelit table set for two in the window, so diners can be conveniently engrossed in each other and in watching the world go by.

  “We can sit in the window. Like in the films.” He flashes a crooked grin that’s so charming, I can’t possibly ruin this for him by pointing out the corniness of that window table, of the whole vibe of La Italiano Amore.

  Before I know it, he’s held the door open and ushered me into the small, dimly lit restaurant. We’re greeted by a short, jovial man. Whether or not he’s of Italian descent, he is definitely committed to the “Italian maitre’d” oeuvre. He makes a big show of leading us to the table in the window, dropping Italian words into his speech at a clipped pace. The Irishman pulls out my chair for me. The host drapes a napkin in my lap and remarks about it being a “beautiful evening for a beautiful woman.” I’m starting to feel like I’m in a Disney movie and the single votive candle is going to bust into a rendition of Be Our Guest.

  The host presents a wine menu to The Irishman, who selects a Montepulciano with as much finesse as if he were George Clooney on Lake Cuomo. The host scurries away, and The Irishman cracks open his menu.

  “Hold on. Is this a date now?”

  The Irishman looks up with a bemused expression. “Of course this is a date. I’m a proper gentleman.”

  The host returns with the bottle of wine, napkin over his arm and everything. It’s a mid-range bottle but The Irishman samples it with flair, and the host pours the wine into those medium-sized wine glasses you find in generic Italian restaurants all over the world.

  I hold my glass with a lot of suspicion. “If this is a date, what was that on the boat, then?”

  “A lovely introduction. Slàinte.”

  He takes a large sip. I barely let the wine touch my lips.

  “What’s the trouble?” he says.

  I put my wine glass down. “I’m just not sure what we’re doing here.”

  He folds his arms on the table and leans in. In this light, I realize the freckles go all the down his arms and hands, and I’m momentarily distracted. Yum.

  He extends his palm. “Give me your hand.”

  Reluctantly, I place my hand in his. He rubs his thumb in circles over the fleshy part between my thumb and forefinger. It’s relaxing.

  “I can tell you’re the kind of woman who likes a plan. My plan is to treat you to a bottle of wine and a real New York pizza. What I’m after is learning a few things about yourself. After that….” He trails off, a dopey-hot look on his face. I like dopey-hot. I like it a lot.

  I take a big gulp of wine. “What did you want to know?”

  “First, Law & Order. Should I be watching it?”

  I laugh. “No, that’s Rachel’s thing. If you want to impress me, you have to watch Golden Girls.”

  He purses his lips. “I thought Americans were mad for Friends.”

  “Not once you move to New York and realize Monica’s apartment was a big lie.”

  “Next question. Which pizza do you like?”

  “Cheese. Or margherita if we’re being high-class.” I take another sip of wine. This is weird, but okay. I wasn’t planning on talking about anything beyond the order in which I wanted him to take my clothes off, but this is fine. For now. I can answer questions about myself, as long as this pumpkin is going to put out later. “My turn. What brings you to New York?”

  “Business. I arrived a day early to see my cousin.”

  The host interrupts us, and The Irishman orders a pizza. Margherita, of course. He tells me a few more details about his business trip. He works for a tech company that’s working on a possible merger. I learn that he went to university in Dublin and has lived there since. I tell him about coming to NYU for college, thinking I was going to be an actress before moving into arts education. I bemoan the state of nonprofit finances, and he dazzles with me what he knows of Europe’s large national arts budgets.

  “If you say the words ‘government-funded theater’ one more time, I’m going to rip off my dress.” I tear off a bite of pizza to effectively underscore my horniness for effective fundraising.

  “Would you like to hear about cloud optimization?” He waggles his eyebrows as he tops up my glass.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.” The wine slides down my throat. The twinkle lights outside give him a soft golden glow, casting his hair like the deepest parts of a sunset. I’m utterly charmed by the near-blanket of freckles on his body, by his smile, by the easy way he chats and banters with me. I realize I’m not doing any work, I’m simply enjoying h
im. I shift in my chair. This is the first time in…ever? that I’ve enjoyed just being with a guy without chasing down his penis.

  A group of boisterous people in costume passes by the window. The Irishman watches them quietly. “I see why you like it here.”

  “How so?”

  “Everyone knows New York is something fierce, but it’s different when you see it up close, lit up.”

  I prop my chin on my hand and watch the street scene. “It’s electric.”

  “It’s a wonder,” he says. From the corner of my eye, I see he’s not watching the street. He’s watching me. Am I a wonder? I can feel my neck flushing hot.

  The host slides the check onto the table, already paid by The Irishman. He’s so smooth I never even saw him hand over his credit card.

  “You cannot leave without doing one thing,” the host informs us. He gestures above our heads. Pinned to the ceiling is a small sprig of plastic mistletoe. “It’s tradition,” he winks.

  “But it’s not Christmas…” I protest. This joint is really out of time and place. We’re in Halloween costumes, and they’re celebrating Christmas.

  “Every day is a holiday when you’re in love.” The host positively sashays away, humming a tune that sounds a lot like That’s Amore.

  My mouth hangs open. “Even I am impressed by this New York weirdness.”

  “It’s tradition,” The Irishman mimics our host. “C’mon.” Hands on the table, he half-stands and bends toward me.

  “When in Rome….” I meet him halfway. All around us, candlelight flickers, making a beautiful orange haze around The Irishman’s perfectly red hair. His cheeks are bright as he brings his face to mine.

  “Happy Christmas, love.”

  “Happy Halloween, hot stuff.”

  That’s how I end up in the window of a New York restaurant, smooching an Irishman in a janky FDNY costume for all the world to see. Who says Halloween isn’t full of magic?

  * * *

  Ding. As soon as the elevator doors in The Irishman’s bland midtown hotel close, we are all over each other.

  It’s impossible to find a cab on Halloween, so we spent the whole walk to the hotel making out on many a street corner. I gladly introduced The Irishman to the New York tradition of leaning a woman against a lamppost to kiss the heck out of her. He took to it like a subway rat takes to a found slice of pizza: enthusiastically and with an astounding amount of skill.

  Now I’m similarly pressed against the wall of the elevator, not caring that the molding is digging into my back. The Irishman’s hands roam hungrily along my body. I wrap one leg around his waist, the better to feel his pelvis grind against mine. His teeth graze my collarbone. Fuck. It’s a little nip, but it sets my skin tingling.

  Ding. We startle as the elevator lurches and the doors open. Thankfully the coast is clear. We stumble toward his room, arms still wrapped around each other, like the bit that comes just before a pratfall in a romantic comedy. But we don’t fall. He pushes me against the black door of his room.

  “You’re so hot,” he whispers, my breast in one hand, his key card in the other.

  He tastes like wine and pizza. At this moment, those are my two favorite flavors in the whole world. In about five minutes, I plan to add some dick to the menu and have me a feast.

  “After you.” He opens the door and lets me go first so he can stare at my ass, I guarantee it. His little exhale as I pass by him proves me right.

  The bedside lamps are turned down, the white duvet is smooth and clean. Thank you, Housekeeping, for setting the mood. I kick my shoes off at the edge of the bed and wait for him. He stalks toward me with that dopey-hot look on his face again. I feel a little thrill when he reaches me and places his hand on the back of my neck.

  “Now I’ve got you where I want you,” he says lightly. I chuckle. Here I was, thinking I was the pumpkin predator and it was him all along.

  He kisses me deeply, his hands trailing lightly all over my body, sending shivers racing up and down my spine. I bunch his shirt in my hands to bring him closer. I finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for hours when I snake my hands under his shirt and run them along the dips of his abs and over the muscles that bunch above his hip bones. I want to see if he is indeed freckled everywhere, so I push his shirt up to his pecs. Jackpot. He shrugs out of his shirt and lets me stare. His torso is dotted with warm, orange freckles, so much so that the pale parts peek through like stars in a firmament. I caress the red happy trail that marches proudly to the top of his jeans. He stops me when my fingertips graze the button of his pants.

  “My turn.”

  In slow bunches, he gathers my dress up to my hips, revealing the white tights of my Sally costume, with drawn-on stitches at the knees. I watch his breath sharpen as he gazes at my knees, my thighs, my lower abdomen, and my mound—which feels so bare to his eyes, despite being hidden behind a layer of nylon. His forefinger draws a line from the elastic waist to my pubic bone. My whole body tingles.

  “Um, there’s a lot of layers to this thing.” My voice is so husky it scratches my throat.

  “I love giftwrap.” He drops to his knees and kisses my navel, my hip bone, my thighs. I’m not wearing underwear beneath the tights. I feel his hot breath seep through the fabric into my skin. His hands trace the curves of my ass as he brushes his lips over the top notch of my pussy. My inner thighs convulse. I’m the student now; he’s the master.

  He draws my dress up over my head as he stands up. With a soft push, he sits me on the bed. I bring him down with me as I lie back. Finally, we are skin to skin. I arch my neck and cradle his hips with my thighs so he can grind into me while he kisses my neck. It’s just what I want, close, hot, lots of friction. Those freckles so close to me they could brand my skin.

  He rubs against me until I’m panting. Then he pulls back and strokes the hair along my face. We look at each other, goofy and turned on. We’re quiet, like we don’t know what next. His gaze drifts to the top of my bra, and I know what’s next.

  But first it’s time for my “real talk” schpiel. I clear my throat. “Before we go any further, we need a minute of grown-up talk.”

  He brushes a thumb over my lips and nods.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and he sits back on my heels. It’s good to have a little physical distance at this point, so I don’t get distracted by my rioting hormones. I launch into my well-practiced speech, the ground rules I set up for myself when I realized I was a grown-ass woman who needed to have a few things in place if she was going to enjoy herself like she wanted to. “One, I’m on the pill. Two, I don’t have any diseases, but if you do, you should tell me now and I won’t judge you for it. Three, we’re using condoms, and that’s non-negotiable. Cool?”

  Every time I give that speech, I want give a little hair toss. It is some quality phrasing, I think. Also, if a guy were to have a problem with any of it, I would be immediately out the door.

  The Irishman’s grin grows so big. “Aye. Grand. All good here.”

  I let out a small sigh of relief. Thank god. After all this, I would hate to end the night with my dress being the only thing that got off. I scramble to my purse, pull out a condom, put it on the nightstand, then resume my position under him.

  “That was a great speech, by the way. You could hold your own in any pub.”

  “Thanks.” I yank on his jeans so his pelvis falls on top of me. Enough talking. Time to get down to business.

  We cling together in something that’s half wrestling match, half make-out session as he ditches his jeans. His boxer briefs are black, classic. I’ve been getting a teaser of what he’s packing through his jeans, but as he hovers his body over mine, I can really see him now, thick and so heavy. He breathes hard, watching me trace the outline of his dick with my fingertips. He returns the favor by dragging the fabric of my bra down. One breast spills out. He puts my nipple in his mouth. I groan and pop the other breast out too.

  My forgotten cab fare stash springs and hits h
im in the face.

  “What the—”

  “Whoops, sorry. Cab fare. For emergencies.” I arch my breast toward his mouth. Don’t get distracted, buddy.

  “I thought you wanted to tip me.”

  I laugh. “You have to earn it first.”

  His eyes glow. “Oh, I am going to earn it.”

  He brings my hands above my head and presses my palms into the pillow. Then he starts a trail of kisses down my body. I definitely like where this is going.

  When his lips reach the elastic of my tights, he scoots back and pushes my knees further open. He looks straight at my crotch, like my tights are a drape cloth and my pussy is a masterpiece about to be revealed.

  I watch his abs undulate with his breath. He’s so turned on simply by looking at me. Fuck, that’s hot.

  His thumb strokes the gusset of my tights from top to bottom, bottom to top. He finds my clit and presses down. He watches my face through heavy lids, testing what I like (circles, clockwise), what makes my hips buck (his fingers making a peace sign, slid along my pussy, knuckles notching almost inside me), what makes my hands clench the sheets (his mouth, breathing hot through the fabric). My tights are drenched through.

  “Please.” I whine and fumble with my waistband. My tights feel too hot, too much. I need them off. I need to be closer to his mouth.

  His strong hands drag my tights down, the cool air running over my navel, my ass, my thighs. “Stunning.” His breath puffs onto my pubes (trimmed on top, waxed on the sides). Then he sets his mouth on me.

  The Irishman gives head like he talks: melodic, nimble, underscored by the rumbling noises he makes to show his enjoyment. Is it weird that I can, like, feel his intelligence by the way he licks me? He’s keen on my every reaction, a quick study for what will bring me to a brink, and what will make me back off. I glance down to watch his head between my quivering thighs. It’s my favorite view, that fucking gorgeous head of hair, a red shock against my white, splayed legs. That expanse of freckled shoulders, scrunching and stretching when he puts his whole back into eating me out.