I pull my hand away and she huffs a little sound of disappointment.
“Don’t worry,” I say, spreading some of the moisture around her nipple to see it glisten. “I’ll get back to that in a minute. But there’s something I have to talk to you about. Ask you about, really.”
Her pretty face is clouded with a look of concern, and I immediately try to reassure her. “It’s nothing bad, I promise you. Don’t make that face,” I say, trying to smooth the little creases that have formed between her eyes.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Well, I saw my mom today, and Ryan, and he mentioned you. To her.” I pause, because even though things seem to be going great between us, I’m about to take things to a whole other level. “There’s no other way to say this. I told my mother about you and she wants to meet you. She wants to meet my girlfriend.” I smile, because even though I was nervous to say that, it actually feels fucking great. “My mother requests she meet my girlfriend,” I say it again.
“You like saying that, don’t you boyfriend?” she says, rolling onto her side to face me. “Boyfriend. Girlfriend. You know, you’re kind of romantic. You’re a fucking animal in bed,” she says, reaching down to my cock that stirs the second I feel her fingers, “but a very romantic animal.” She’s stroking me now, her hand easily gliding over my cock, still wet from fucking her. Everything in the world is starting to fade away except for her steady hand on my dick. I lay back to enjoy it. “You like this, baby?” she asks.
“Oh yeah,” I say. Then before I lose all sense of time and place, I remember to add, “We just have to make sure to be wrapped up in time. The reservation’s at eight.”
14
Weaver
I’m a whirling dervish in my bedroom. Clothes, purses, jewelry are thrown everywhere, as I search for the perfect “meet the mother” outfit. If Chris thought I’d spend another hour in bed with him after he sprung these last minute dinner plans on me…well he was right. So now I’m fucked (literally twice fucked and figuratively) because I have twenty minutes to hop into a cab and get to The Supper Club, a fancy midtown restaurant, to meet Mrs. Beliem.
This morning at breakfast with Kate, I laid it all out for her. I told her about my date with Chris last night and how when we parted this morning, he let me know he was serious about me. And I admitted to her that even though I know it’s fast, I feel like this could lead somewhere. Kate’s duty as best friend is to be my cheerleader, but also to be pragmatic when she sees I’m floating three feet above the ground. She told me she was happy for me, that she hopes it leads somewhere good, but she also warned me to kick him in the balls and run if he dropped to a knee and proposed anytime soon. I laughed and told her not to be ridiculous; we’re just dating. But now I’m zipping myself up into my cute little shirt dress, looking for my conservative heels and purse, and although it’s not “kick him in the balls and run” time yet, things have escalated quickly.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m trying to strike a good balance between hot girlfriend and respectable to meet mother girlfriend. I nailed it. My red shirt dress falls below my knees, but the buttons running down the front end just above them, leaving a nice slit the rest of the way down. I leave the top button of my dress open, and it reveals just enough that you’d have to be sitting very close to me to catch a glimpse of my matching red bra. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail, apply a light swipe of lip gloss, and add my favorite gold hoops from high school for good measure. I’ll look like the girl next door to his mother, and the girl of Chris’s teenage wet dreams.
Chris insisted on picking me up even though it’s out of his way. I protested, but I’m glad he didn’t listen to me. The idea of arriving before him and sitting alone with his mother really left me sweating. I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, she’d have to be to have raised such a terrific guy like Chris, but considering our odd courtship all these months, well I’m just not confident I’ll be able to navigate the conversation on my own.
But as we head downtown, I forget all about our weird history as Chris informs me of the various family dynamics he wants me to understand.
“The way you make it sound,” I say, “your grandfather is like some bizzaro quirky puppet-master, man behind the curtain who controls all of you?”