Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

“How masculine,” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I’m confident enough in my manhood, thank-you-very-much.” A smirk finds my lips.

“Of course, you are.”

“You are always welcome to sample the goods.”

“Is that a part of your pimp business’ customer service?”

“Our motto is we aim to please.” I flash her a slimy, car salesman's grin. She laughs, and I feel it in my chest.

“What do you have in mind?” she quips. She is sharp-witted, smart as the devil, and just about as charming. I don’t remember the last time a woman attracted me quite so much.

“Everything.” I drop the pizza, leaning over to cup the back of her neck and pull her closer. She is tiny against me, her breath catching speed, her skin warming up. I hear the soft thud of her pizza falling on the cardboard box between us. Something shifts in the air. It becomes thick, charged, and heavy. “I have everything in mind, Regina LaPenus.”

She sucks in a breath as I pry her pretty pink mouth open with my thumb, mesmerized by her pillowy lips. They’d look so good wrapped around my…

Easy there, stud.

“I might have to jump your bones if you don’t do it. Just putting it out there in the universe,” she warns.

A low, grumbly chuckle escapes the back of my throat, and my mouth descends on hers, capturing a sweet kiss that’s already waiting for me. She opens her mouth for my tongue, and I thrust in, groaning and bracketing her cheeks, leaning forward to touch more of her.

There’s a soft sound of something being squashed between us, and we both look down to see the hem of my Prada dress shirt sitting atop the oily pizza sauce.

“Good, now I’m not the only one who looks and smells like a long day of labor.” Reggie grins, captures my lower lip with her teeth, and tugs tauntingly.

I feel a rumble in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s laughter, excitement, or both.

I pull her by the hand and lead her to the shower.

The only thing we are going to smell of tonight is my eighty-euros organic soap and sex.

3

Reggie

If I could have predicted how this day was going to end, it would not be in Ho the Not-Pimp’s upscale flat—if I was in America, I’d call it a penthouse, but I’m not—eating cheeseless pizza and making out. I don’t even care about the tomato-onion-oregano breath with hints of garlic we’re both rocking.

All I know is that we’re heading for his bathroom to rinse away the day, his previous two dates, the pervasive and horrible smell of fried food, and dog pee.

And that means we’re getting naked.

I’m definitely stoked about that part.

I’m crossing my fingers that what he’s hiding in his dress pants is going to match the rest of him.

Ho’s bathroom looks nothing like mine. Other than the towels hanging from the rack, it’s a wash of white marble, streaked with black, and flecked with gold. The shower alone is probably bigger than my entire studio apartment. A glass wall, unmarred by water spots separates me from shower heaven.

“Oh my God. This is better than a spa.” I leave Ho standing on the surprisingly warm marble floor, open the glass door, and step inside the cavernous shower. Beyond the enormous UFO-sized rain-style showerhead in the middle of the ceiling, there are also wall-mounted jets and one of those handheld numbers. Three white bottles and a single grey body poof line the recessed shelf. There are also a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a cup, which seems a little odd, but whatever.

I spread my arms wide and do a little spin, not even skimming the tile walls, the shower is so huge. “You could have a party in here.”

He tucks a thumb into his pants pocket and smirks. “That is the plan, is it not?”

He has a point. I tug my shirt over my head. I changed out of my work uniform, into street clothes when I left this afternoon, but since the outfit was in my locker, it too holds the less than pleasant Le Petit Café fragr

ance. And also, more faintly, old sneakers.