So I still have time. Time to… I dunno, make him like me enough to keep my secret? Maybe? I’m kinda grasping at straws.
“Andrew,” I say, whispering still. I make my voice sexy. Not Sexpert sexy, but sweet sexy. A little high-pitched. A teeny bit pouty. It’s very annoying but I don’t care. I’m dying here. Dying. “I have to confess…”
“Yes,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Yes.”
I take a deep, deep breath and when I let it out, I go, “I really suck at blow jobs, no pun intended, and well, pretty much everything else that goes with having noon-time sex with the boss’s best friend. I’m no good. I’m a terrible sexifier. And the blow job, well. I just didn’t know what to do. But like everyone else these days, I stumbled upon those Sexpert videos and I watched a few. OK, more than a few. All of them. Because she’s funny and she’s cool and, frankly, she’s kind of who I wish I could be. And I…. I took notes. I took lots of notes. And committed them to memory. So I’m sorry I used another woman’s repertoire on you, it wasn’t right. Maybe a little bit dishonest because it’s a teeny bit like wearing one of those magic bras that make your cupcakes… I mean, boobies… look great. And then your guy takes your bra off and just looks at them like, ‘What the fuck just happened?’ You know? It’s a little bit like that. And so… well, I led you on. I’m not a good blow jobber and I cheated.”
I gulp air because I used up all my breath with my super-lame excuse, and then huff it back out, making my hair fly up over my glasses.
He just looks at me.
He’s never gonna believe this.
I shift from one foot to another. Then cross my arms. Uncross them and shift my feet again. Push my glasses up my nose. “I’m sorry. OK? What else can I say?”
Really? What else can I say?
Believe me, I pray.
Please, please, please…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – ANDREW
What. A. Load. Of. Horseshit.
I grew up on a horse farm. I know.
I sigh. Because this whole thing is going to end badly. Son of a bitch.
And while it won’t end badly in the cruel and sometimes empty ways all my other relationships have ended badly, it’s still gonna be awful. Maybe this is going to be even worse. It’s not even a proper relationship yet. It’s just…whatever it is. But I liked where it was headed and now… Now, it’s gonna end with the probable devastation of someone who’s cute and sweet and who pouts when she gets frustrated. And devastating a cute, sweet, pouty person is just the worst kind of devastation. It’s like flattening a field of flowers with a steamroller.
Well, that’s a bummer.
So I know what I need to do. I need to just say, “OK,” and then step away from her. I need to climb down off this wall, let her figure out how to get down on her own—because she’s not my problem—and then go back to the office so that I can run the app, pull the conclusive match, so that there’s no more denial and debate, and get this whole thing over with.
Yeah. That’s exactly what I need to do.
But.
My arms reach out and I grab her around the waist, drawing her into me tightly. Her hands immediately come up to grab hold of my exposed shoulders and slide under the fabric of the tank top I have on. Her fingers grip into the muscles along my back and her nails scratch the flesh.
My tongue lances in between her teeth and she duels in kind with hers. Suddenly, I find my hands on her ass, drawing her to me, and as I do, she stumbles forward, kind of biting my lip, her nails digging even harder into me and scraping the skin, causing me to yelp in pain and let go of her. And as I’m pulling back, she drags her teeth along the skin of my bottom lip and now I’m bleeding from my mouth and my back all at once. Which is no small achievement for a five-second make-out session.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she cries, waving her hands in front of her and hopping in place from foot to foot. “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to do that!”
“Ach,” I breathe out, trying to walk off the sting from having been slapped, scratched and bitten. “It’s fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry about it. But those nails are the reason you couldn’t get a grip on the wall. You need to cut those fuckers.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t—Why’d you kiss me?”
“What? I dunno! I like you! Why’d you slap me?”
“Why? Because you’re accusing me of something I didn’t do! I did NOT STEAL PIERCE CHEVALIER’S GODDAMN IDEA!”