Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (102 page)

The phrase makes me a
little uncomfortable. I glance over at the couch to make sure that the gangly
idiot feels just as uncomfortable about it as I do, but he’s just sitting there
without a care in the world, scrolling through pages of what looks like
apartment listings on a laptop.

“What are you up to?” I
ask.

“Oh
nothin
’,”
Leila says cheerily and gives me a quick peck on the lips. “Mike and I are
looking to see if there’s any place we missed. I hope you don’t mind if we do
that here. Mike’s roommate is back in town, and he’s not the friendliest guy on
the planet.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell
her. “Sorry your roommate’s a dick,” I call to “Mike,” hoping to preempt any indication
of just how little I like the ass hat.

He shrugs, but doesn’t
look up from the computer screen. “Hey, Lei,” he says, “how about this one?”

Leila leaves my side and
goes over to look at the page.

I’m not that jealous a
guy. After all, jealousy is just the admission that someone would make your
partner happier than you do and the selfishness not to allow it.

With that said, it really
wasn’t that long ago that Mike and Leila were sucking the spit out of each
other’s mouths on that exact couch.

I really don’t know what
to do with myself right now.

I don’t like the feeling.

“You two had anything to
eat?” I ask. “I could whip something up.”

“Yeah, Dane’s the chef at
l’Iris
,” Leila tells the
fuckwad
.

“I’m not hungry,” he
says. “Ooh, look at this one.”

So, what is a man in my
position to do?

What I want to do is kick
Mike out the window and take Leila to the nearest soft surface and make love to
her until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore, but the relationship is
less than a day old.

If I start by kicking her
friend out, she’s either going to think I’m a dick and it’ll ruin the
relationship, or she’s going to be strangely aroused by that which means she’s
into weirder stuff than Wrigley is, and I really don’t know if I could handle
that either right now.

I don’t have too much
time to think it over, though, as Leila and Mike finish what they’re doing and,
with a quick hug, Mike’s on his way.

“Sorry about that,” Leila
says as soon as the door is closed, “but he’s been really great, helping me
find places and all.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

Telling her that I don’t
want her to go is another one of those things that probably isn’t the best idea
in the first twenty-four of a relationship.
It’s
right
up there, I would imagine, with telling her friend to move to a different
state.

“You seem upset,” she
says. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah,” I tell her.
“Everything’s fine. I’m just kind of tired.”

“Well, in
that
case,” she says, moving close and
putting her arms around me. She looks up at me with those gentle eyes. “How
about we watch a movie or something? There’s plenty of room on the couch for
both of us to lie down,” she adds. “That is, unless you’d rather keep your
personal space.”

“I would not like to keep
my personal space,” I tell her, bending down to kiss her on the lips. “Really,
I’m kind of hoping for a blanket, few if any clothes and absolutely no personal
space for either of us.”

“Hmm…” she says,
playfully tapping her chin with her finger. “We might miss a lot of the movie
if we did that.”

“Damn. I was really
excited to see whatever it was we’re going to watch,” I tease. “Oh well, I
think I’ll live.”

“I think you’re right,”
she answers and makes her way to the couch.

She pulls the afghan from
atop the ottoman and spreads it out on the couch. While I’m getting settled
in—read that as undressing—she uses my preoccupation to seize full control over
our movie-watching itinerary.

I really could not care
less what we watch.

That’s what I honestly
think, right before she turns around with When Harry Met Sally in her hands.

She’s actually suggesting
a movie which is famous for, among other things, Meg Ryan demonstrating how
easy it is for a woman to fake an orgasm. There are ways a person can tell if
he’s not a complete idiot, but still, I’m not a fan of the pairing.

“I know you’re probably
not into chick flicks, but this is my favorite movie ever,” she tells me.

Fuck.

Now I can’t possibly
protest, and she’s going to be watching to see how I react to it.

“It’s been a little while
since I’ve seen it,” I tell her.

It seems like my best
play. We’ll still end up watching it, but if I don’t end up with some massive,
life-altering epiphany which leads me to tears, it won’t be such a big deal.
I’ve already seen it before, so it couldn’t possibly strike me that deeply,
right?

Then again, maybe she’s
expecting me to have a stronger reaction to the movie
because
I’m watching it with her.

This is a fucking
minefield, and I’m actually dreading watching what I’ll admit to be a classic
movie that I quite enjoy when not under these horrific conditions.

Don’t tell anyone I said
that.

Any of it.

Thanks.

She puts the movie in,
and I lie down on the couch. I lift the blanket as she comes close, and as she
stops to get down to her bra and panties, I start thinking that maybe I’m thinking
about this whole situation in the wrong way.

We don’t see very much of
the movie.

Chapter Seventeen

It’s
Complicated

Leila

The last time I looked at
the screen in any meaningful way was about five minutes into the movie.

The movie’s been over for
a while and we’re still enjoying the foreplay.

I don’t know whether it’s
because he’s with me or whether I simply pigeonholed him that first day he came
to the apartment, his tattoos suggesting a sense of unsavoriness about his
character, but he is already the most thoughtful lover I’ve ever had.

We threw off the afghan a
while ago, but there’s no lack of warmth between our bodies.

Right now, I’m straddling
his wonderfully curious mouth and taking his hard cock into my own. I never
liked the term “69,” but the performance, the experience, that’s something else
entirely.

As he explores my folds
with his lips and tongue, I feel that familiar shiver that so recently I’d all
but forgotten. And as that shiver turns into a soft explosion, I take him ever
deeper into my mouth, using the reverberations of my own response to encourage
his.

I’m not expecting it when
it happens. All I can do is hang on and move as necessary while he grasps me
tightly with his arms, arching my back and supporting myself as he sits and then
holding on tight as he stands.

His grip is firm and I’m
not afraid of heights, but returning to suck and play with him while suspended
in his arms as he again uses his deft tongue to keep my fire stoked is a little
disorienting.

He pulls his head back
just far enough and just long enough to ask me if I’m okay.

I’m more than okay.

I’ve never felt anything
like this before.

After a while, though, I
start to wonder how I’m going to get back down.

I pull my mouth from his
pulsating dick and merely whisper the word.

“Down.”

He directs one of my legs
to join the other on one side of him, and he’s surprisingly gentle, though just
as surprisingly quick, to guide my body right-side up and lower me until my
bare feet come to a soft, slow landing on the carpet below.

I’m impressed.

I’m no virgin, not by any
use of the term, but this man has made every sensation feel so new. So I pull
his face down toward mine and I kiss him deeply, moving my body just enough to
wrap my fingers around his shaft once more.

I push him backward onto
the couch and before he’s settled in place, I’m straddling him, rubbing his
penis between my legs and delighting in the jolts of warm serenity before I
guide him inside of me.

He kisses my breasts
softly, his mouth eager, but not desperate.

I tease him a little,
putting my hands on his chest and pulling my upper body just out of the reach
of his mouth just to watch that urge in his eyes grow.

I rock my hips over him
and move my shoulders back and forth just to tempt him further. He leans forward,
but I press my hands firmly into his chest.

That drive in his
movements, his expression, it’s not a selfish one. After all, I’m already
giving him my body the way he’s giving me his. That drive in his eyes is merely
evidence that he wants to give me more.

He’s respectful, though,
and he doesn’t try to push his luck. So long as we’re playing, this is a game,
and it’s one that pays dividends for the both of us.

“So,” I say, brushing the
hair out of my face and directing it to cover the upper portion of my breasts,
“is this what you imagined it would be?”

It’s a terrible question,
I know, but that’s what these moments are for.

“Better,” he says. “I
couldn’t have imagined this.”

“Good answer,” I tell him
and lean forward enough to give him temporary oral access to my nipples.

It’s his reward, and he
revels in it.

After a few moments of
elevated bliss, I pull back again.

“Now that’s just fucked
up,” he says.

He’s smiling.

I shrug.

“Tell me your fantasy,” I
mutter, slowing my pace a little.

“I don’t know,” he says.

I lean back a little
farther. My upper body is already far enough away that only his hands could
touch it, but the action still has the desired effect.

“The bathtub,” he says.

I stop moving a moment.

“The bathtub?” I ask.

He shrugs, and I resume
my motion.

“You mean to tell me that
you, Dane Paulson, chef extraordinaire, pretty much all-around male slut—”

“Hey!” he protests.

“You’ve never had sex in
the bathtub?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve had
sex plenty of—”

Wisely, he doesn’t finish
the sentence.

“No, I’ve never had sex
in the bathtub,” he says.

“I was expecting
something involving anal beads. I’m glad to hear that’s not the case.”

He smirks and shakes his
head.

“Well,” I say, “I wish I
could help you, but all we’ve got is a shower.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Too bad.”

He doesn’t seem too
broken up about it, though, as I lift myself almost to his tip and then slide
all the way back down him, grinding my core against his base.

“What’s your fantasy?” he
asks.

“Does it have to be
something we could actually do right now, or like yours where it currently
isn’t possible?” I ask.

He thinks about it for a
moment, then takes another to place his mouth over one of my nipples as, it
seems, I’ve leaned forward a bit too much.

I quickly pull back and
playfully pat the side of his face in a mock slap.

“I’m sorry,” he says,
“what was the question?”

“Does my fantasy have to
be something we could do here, now?”

“Not necessarily,” he
says, “but yeah, that’d be preferable.”

I lean forward, but
preempt his mouth’s return to my chest by kissing his neck.

“Hmm…” I breathe as I
continue to kiss him.

“Oh, I know you’ve got
something in mind,” he says.

“Yeah, but you kind of
freaked me out with yours,” I chortle. “I mean, doing it in the bathtub? That’s
kinky.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he
says, and I’m feeling a little self-conscious about telling him my fantasies.

“Well, you’re not
secretly a fireman, are you?” I ask.

He’s clearly unsure
whether I’m serious or not. It’s pretty hilarious.

I bring him back to focus
easily enough, though.

“No, I’m not a fireman,”
he says, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to get a costume or—”

“It’s not the uniform so
much as it is the fact of being a fireman. If you’re not, you’re not. That’s
okay, though,” I tell him.

The truth is that I’m
just trying to avoid answering the question a little longer. My fantasy’s
nothing ultra kinky or anything, it’s just not something I really talk about
that often.

“Well,” I say, “if you’re
sure
you’re not a fireman…”

“Pretty sure,” he says,
placing his hands on my hips, guiding my motion, his light push and tug
suggesting a slightly quicker pace.

“Under a waterfall at
sunrise,” I tell him. “But that’s not really something we can do now, is it?”

“Not really,” he says and
laughs.

“Well then,” I say,
leaning forward once more.

His hot breath makes the
sensitive skin tingle, and the attention of his mouth makes my toes curl.

“If you’re not a fireman,
and we’re not under a waterfall at sunrise,” I say, “I guess there is
one
thing we could try.”

He leans his head back
into the sofa cushion.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It may
sound kind of weird,” I tell him. Now I’m really nervous.

“That’s okay,” he says.

“I’ve always wanted to go
out to a bar or some other public place,” I start again.

“Yeah?”

“Pretend we don’t know
each other,” I continue.

His hands move to the
small of my back.

“Yeah?” he asks, pressing
himself into me sweetly.

“Have an ‘impromptu’
date,” I continue.

Yes, I make the little
bunny ears with my fingers.

“Then go back to your
place and make passionate love, knowing that this is the start of something
beyond our wildest imagination.”

All right, my fantasy’s
out there.

Weird, maybe, but not
kinky.

“One quick question,” he
says.

“What’s that?” I breathe,
running my fingers through my hair as I slowly ride him.

“As your place is kind of
my place, too, would that still work?”

I scoff and lift myself
off of him.

“You have no
imagination,” I tell him. “You’d bring me back here, unlock the door and we’d
obviously end up in your room.”

I kiss him deeply and pat
him on the chest.

“Right now, though,” I
tell him. “I really have to pee.”

*
                   
*
                   
*

After my
less-than-dignified departure from our lovemaking, I can’t help but feel
self-conscious again. It’s a stupid and ridiculous expectation that women can
never be assumed to be creatures that use the bathroom, but there it is.

That said, I came back
out to the living room to find Dane missing from the couch.

I called out to him and
he answered from his room.

Still naked, I asked him
what he was doing, and he answered, simply, by saying, “I have a feeling I’m
going to meet a beautiful woman in a bar tonight. My psychic senses—which, I
certainly have—tell me that her name will be Leila, and that we’re going to
have one of those once-in-a-lifetime meetings. I want to make sure I’m
prepared.”

He was laying out a black
button shirt, black pants and a red tie.

Now, I’m sitting at
Locus, ordering a tequila sunrise.

“I’ll buy that drink,” a
dashing, if somewhat overdressed man with a red tie tells the bartender.

“Thanks,” I say, then
quickly turn my attention away from him.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks.

I shrug. “Just keep your
hands to yourself,” I tell him.

“That might be a
problem,” he says.

I turn and, mouth agape,
ask, “What did you just say?”

“I said that won’t be a
problem,” he rejoins, smiling. “So, where are you from? Are you a born New
Yorker?”

“Not at all,” I tell him.
“I’m from a dreary little town where the movie theater only shows movies that
came out ten years ago.” It’s a lie, but tonight is about improvisation.

“Sounds terrible,” he
says.

“Actually, I really miss
it,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I
wondered if you could help me with something.”

It’s a bit forward, but
I’ll allow it. “With what do you need my help?”

“Fancy,” he teases.

I roll my eyes.

At no point did I tell
him my fantasy involved me making it easy for him.

“I’m a chef at
l’Iris
,” he says, “and I find myself with the night off and
nobody to enjoy a nice dinner with me.”

“
l’Iris
,”
I say. “That’s pretty impressive. I love their confit de canard.”

“You know, we actually
just call it candied duck in the kitchen. The whole overuse of French thing is
kind of played, don’t you think?”

He’s apparently not going
to make this easy for me either.

Well played, sir.

“Losing my lady boner,” I
tell him. “Yeah, I really can’t get away with saying that, can I?”

He laughs.

“Well, it’s about the
last phrase I expected, but it put a smile on my face.”

“Okay,” I start again,
“so you’re a chef at
l’Iris
with nobody to join you
for dinner. Is there anything else, or were you just lamenting?”

“I was wondering if you
might know anyone who’d be interested in a free, very high class dinner.”

“I might,” I elude, “but
I hardly know you, and I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”

I may have forgotten to mention
that torturing him a little was part of the game.

He takes it in stride,
though.

“Well,” he says, “I can
certainly understand that. These days, you can never be too careful. For all
you know, I might be one of those corporate types who works for one of those
evil investment firms.”