One Fifth Avenue

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s stupid. Yeah, a guy will sleep with you, but then what?”

Then what, indeed, Philip thought, wondering how many men she’d slept with. “Have you ever done it?” he asked.

“Girls Gone Wild? No way. I would maybe take my clothes off for Playboy. Or Vanity Fair, because those are classy. And you have photo approval.”

Philip took a gulp of wine and smiled. She definitely wanted to sleep with him. Why else would she be talking about sex and taking her clothes off? She was going to drive him insane if she didn’t stop.

A little angel on his shoulder, however, reminded him that he shouldn’t have sex with her, while the devil on his other said, “Why not? She’s obviously done it before, and probably quite often.” As a compromise, he made the dinner last as long as possible, ordering another bottle of wine, dessert, and after-dinner drinks. When the inevitable moment arrived and it was time to go home, Lola stood up and fumbled for her snakeskin bag, obviously tipsy. Leaving the restaurant, he put his arm around her to steady her, and when they got outside, she slipped her arm around his waist and leaned in to his body, giggling. In response, his cock swelled against his thigh.

“That was so much fun,” she said. And then becoming serious, added, “I had no idea the movie business was so hard.”

“But it’s worth it,” he said. After the sex talk, and feeling loose from the wine, he’d told her all about his troubles with the studio, while she’d listened, rapt. He moved his hand up from her shoulder to the back of her neck. “It’s time to get you to bed,” he said. “I don’t want you to be hungover tomorrow.”

“I already will be.” She giggled.

Back in his apartment, she made a great show of going into the bathroom to get changed, while he put a pillow and blanket on the couch. They both knew she wasn’t going to sleep there, but it was probably a good idea to pretend, Philip thought. She came out of the bathroom barefoot in a short baby-doll nightgown with silk ribbon stitched around the neckline, unbuttoned just enough to expose her cleavage. Philip sighed. And, summoning all his resistance, he stopped in front of her, kissed her on the forehead, and went into his room. “Good night,” he said. And somehow forced himself to close the door.

He took off his clothes save for his boxer shorts and got into bed, leaving the light on and picking up a copy of Buddenbrooks. Once again, he couldn’t concentrate, not with Lola on the other side of the door in that tiny baby-doll nightgown. Frowning at the page, he reminded himself that she was only twenty-two. He could sleep with her—and then what? She couldn’t work for him if they were having sex. Or could she? He could always fire her and find another researcher. After all, it was probably easier to find another researcher than it was to find a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old who wanted to have sex.

But what now? Should he get up and go to her? For a moment, he had a disquieting thought: What if he was wrong? What if she didn’t want to sleep with him at all, and the excuse about the broken pipes in her apartment building was real? What if he went out there and she rejected him? It would be doubly awkward to have her around, and then he really would have to fire her. Another minute or two passed. And there it was—his answer—a knock on the door.

“Philip?” she said.

“Come in,” he called.

She opened the door as he took off his reading glasses. Acting as if she didn’t want to disturb him, she leaned against the door frame with her hands crossed in front of her like a child. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Can you get it for me? I don’t know where the glasses are.”

“Follow me.” He got out of bed, realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts, and realizing he didn’t care.

She stared at his chest, at the patch of dark curling hairs that made a neat pattern above his pectoral muscles. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” he said, going to the kitchen. She followed him, and he took out a glass and filled it with tap water. When he turned, she was standing right next to him. He was about to hand her the glass but suddenly put it down and put his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Lola,” he said. “Let’s stop pretending.”

“What do you mean?” she asked coyly, putting her hand in

the hair on his chest.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” he whispered. “Because I want to sleep with you.”

“Of course.” She pressed her body against his as they kissed. He could feel her firm, full breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown; he could even, he thought, feel the poke of her erect nipples. He put his hands under the nightgown, sliding them along the sides of her panties and up her stomach to her breasts, where his fingers played with her nipples. She groaned and leaned back, and he pulled the nightgown over her head. God, she was beautiful, he thought. He lifted her onto the counter and, parting her legs, stood between them, kissing her. He moved his hand down to her crotch and pulled aside her panties, which were also silk and lacy, and then, surprised by what he felt, stopped and took a step back.

“No hair?” he said.

“Of course not,” she said proudly. Like all the girls she knew, she had a Brazilian wax once a month.

“But why?” he said, touching the exposed skin.

“Because men like it,” she said. “It’s supposed to be hot.” She took a breath. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before?” She laughed.

“I like it,” he said, examining her hairless vagina. It was like one of those soft, hairless cats, he thought. He lifted her again and carried her to the couch. “You’re spectacular,” he said.

Placing her on the edge of the couch, he pushed her legs open and began licking the purplish skin. “Stop,” she said suddenly.