The Perfect Life (13 page)
“Um, yeah, uh . . .” I cleared my throat as I frantically searched my brain for a sensible response. “I’ve, uh, I’ve got lots of ties. No problem. I can wear one every day if you want me to. All the colors and patterns.”
A stifled giggle escaped Monroe’s mouth, and I could tell she was desperately trying to hold back more where it came from, though whether it was due to my untimely erection, the word-vomit spewing from my mouth, or a combination of the two, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I wanted nothing more than for a giant hole to magically appear and swallow me up, preventing me from saying or doing anything else ridiculous. I’d just gotten finished thinking about how well the day had gone, and yet there I was, as we were saying our goodbyes and setting plans for the next day, doing my best to ensure she thought I was a blathering idiot who couldn’t control his raging hard-on before we parted ways for the evening.
“
All
colors?” she mocked playfully, finally allowing the silky fabric to fall from her fingers. “Even chartreuse?”
My face burned with embarrassment, and I prayed my dark beard helped disguise the flush I felt spread across my cheeks. “Okay, maybe not all colors.”
“Well, whatever you have, I’m sure it’ll look terrific. I’ll text you when I get here in the morning,” she smoothly changed the subject, mercifully saving me from further humiliation. “And if you have any questions or anything about the city, feel free to call or text me. I know you just got here yesterday, so I’m sure you’ll want to get out and explore during your free time. I can help with good places to eat or shop or whatever you need.”
Pulling on the silver handle, I pushed the door open and inhaled a deep, revitalizing breath of the fresh air that rushed inside. “Sounds good, and thank you. I think we made a great decision on the house today. I’ll be ready to go in the morning.”
As I swung my feet out onto the pavement, she said, “Bye, Oliver, have a good night.”
“You too, Monroe,” I murmured before closing the door behind me. Still frazzled, I stood there under the fading afternoon sun and watched until her car blended into the sea of brake lights. Still hard.
That night was spent much like I’d expected, though instead of the sandwich for dinner, I discovered a Chinese noodle house around the corner from my place that turned out to be quite good. After I Skyped with my parents for a little while, which mostly consisted of Mom showing me the sweaters she was knitting for Coltrane and Dad rolling his eyes behind her, I mindlessly surfed the web, reading articles and browsing images on one of those pop-culture websites.
When I randomly landed on a lifestyle piece where they interviewed a bunch of women about which famous female, young or old, they’d most want their daughters to have as a role model, my entire body tensed at the sight of Monroe’s picture as the top response on the poll results, with a landslide seventy-eight percent of the vote. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her beautiful face staring back at me . . . but I was. I mean, not because she’d led the voting; I already knew the entire country had a love affair with her, and for just cause—she was truly an extraordinary person in every facet of life. No, the thing that struck a chord inside of me was the fact I knew her now. Like
knew
her,
knew her. And then, all of a sudden there was this article listing off all these facts about her, just sharing her with everyone else like they knew her too.
She had just spent the entire day with
me
. She had driven to
my
apartment this morning. She had gone house-touring with
me
, where she’d asked for
my
opinion. She had eaten lunch with
me
. She had touched
my
tie and said she liked the way
I
looked. She was
mine
!
Whoa! Calm down there, Saxon. May want to slow your roll a bit with the caveman thing, considering she’s someone else’s wife and all.
Setting the laptop off to the side, I abruptly pushed to my feet and stalked to the bathroom, annoyed at the absurdity of my irrational reaction to seeing the story about her online. Even in a far-off fantasy universe where she wasn’t married to Colin and actually had interest in me, I was never the jealous, possessive type. I hated when I saw guys act like that, because ninety percent of the time, it was a coping mechanism to make up for their own shortcomings and insecurities. I
wasn’t
that guy. Never had been.
I’d been in several semi-serious relationships before. Hell, I’d even lived with Lauren for almost a year and was very close to popping the question at one point, yet I still had never felt that way with her. Anytime we’d go swimming with friends or get dressed up for a night on the town, other guys would openly gawk at her in her bikini or in her mini-skirt and heels, and though I knew exactly the dirty, lascivious thoughts running through their heads, not once did I feel the need to be domineering or overprotective. I knew she was coming home with me, and that was all that mattered.
So why in the hell do I feel that way now? What the fuck is my problem? Why can’t I just view Monroe like all of my other female friends and coworkers?
I stared expectantly at myself in the bathroom mirror for a few seconds and waited for the answers to come. They never did. Irritated, I shoved away from the counter and went to turn the shower on, hoping I could wash the ridiculousness away. After hastily removing my clothes and throwing them in the hamper, I stepped under the forceful spray and closed my eyes as the hot water pelted me in the face.
Unfortunately, as I squeezed my lids shut and tried to think about anything but Monroe and the effect she had on me, the more she consumed me. The way her striking green eyes lit up when she talked about the kids she worked with. How she rubbed her full lips together when she was deep in thought. The incredible view of her swaying hips when she walked in front of me. That damn perfume she wore that made me want to lick every inch of her fucking body. The soothing, melodic sound of her voice that I wanted to hear her beg me with before screaming my name in ecstasy.
I didn’t even realize what I started doing, but when I finally opened my eyes and glanced down through my wet, spiky lashes, my fingers were wrapped firmly around my rock-hard cock, rapidly sliding up and down the length.
Fucking hell, it feels so good.
I envisioned what she’d look like in the shower with me—stark naked and on her knees, swallowing the swollen purple head of my steeled shaft as the water rained down around her. I’d let her suck me until I knew I was about to come, and then I’d lift her up to her feet, turn her around to face the back wall so that I could bend her over, and bury my full length inside her tight, sweet pussy. It would feel like nothing I’d ever experienced before, a sensual nirvana I didn’t know existed.
My hand jerked my dick frantically as I imagined her peering at me over her shoulder, overwhelming lust pooling in her eyes while she urged me on.
Deeper . . . faster . . . more. Please, Oliver, I need more.
The sound of our wet bodies slapping against each other filled the bathroom, and the combination of the sweltering passion between us and the endless hot water blended together to create so much steam I couldn’t see anything but her directly in front of me.
I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to. Monroe had hijacked my mind, controlling every thought and action. And when I visualized the look on her face as she found her euphoric release, her walls contracting wildly around my pulsating cock, I exploded violently in my hand with a thunderous roar I was sure people walking by on the street could hear. But I didn’t have it in me to care. I had other, much more serious issues I needed to address . . . like losing my goddamn mind.
After a night of endless tossing and turning, when the morning sunrays finally filtered in through the cream-colored curtains of my bedroom, I took it as a sign to get my ass out of bed. I still had over two hours before Monroe was to pick me up, but I desperately needed to release some of my pent-up energy and frustration, and apparently jacking off wasn’t the answer. Unable to control my deviant, wayward thoughts the previous night after my lengthy shower, I’d ended up typing Monroe’s name into a search engine online and stroking myself to climax two more times, thinking I could possibly work her out of my system. Clearly, I was wrong, because the only thing I was left with was a sore wrist and a metric ton of guilt and shame weighing heavily on my conscience.
Shuffling to the dresser, I grabbed a clean t-shirt from the middle drawer and pulled it over my head as I made my way toward the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and sighed, momentarily forgetting I had yet to go to the grocery store. With a garbled string of curse words, I shut the door and snatched my wallet and keys from the bar, grateful the downstairs deli was open twenty-four seven.
Half an hour later, my belly was full, the caffeine from the coffee had started working its magic in my bloodstream, and I was ready to spend some one-on-one time with the best therapist I could ever ask for—‘Leia’, my Selmer-Paris Series II alto saxophone—before I had to get ready. Even though I hadn’t played much in the last couple of weeks with preparing for the move and the impromptu trip to my parents’, it was just like riding a bike and it didn’t take long for me to get into the groove with her. I warmed up with a few chord progressions and some training riffs, and then, careful to keep the volume down for the sake of the other tenants in the building, I dove into the full forty-five minute set I was used to playing at Grooves, a Chicago blues bar I occasionally played at on the weekends. By the time I hit the last note of Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues,” I felt a thousand times better and was grinning from ear to ear. Maybe I just needed to find a similar club in Boston where I could hum and blow my worries away. Literally.
Once I placed my instrument back in her case, I quickly showered then brushed my teeth and the unkempt mop on my head before tidying up my facial hair with the clippers. Then, moving to the walk-in closet, I changed into some black slacks, a pale green dress shirt, and an understated plaid tie, trying my best not to think about if Monroe would like it or not. Socks, shoes, and a belt later, I was ready to go. And when the text chimed in on my phone, alerting me that Monroe was downstairs, I refused to look at my reflection in the mirror one last time.
It doesn’t matter what she thinks.
Throughout the entire three minute journey from my apartment to her car, I gave myself a silent pep talk full of reminders about who she was, who she was married to, what our relationship was, and how I could play my little Leia to my heart’s content as soon as I got home. But the moment I slid into the passenger seat and saw her toned legs sticking out from underneath a knee-length black pencil skirt and got an intoxicating whiff of oranges and cream, all sensibility escaped me.
The only thing I wanted to play was Monroe-fucking-Cassidy.
