Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

I boob propped, I booty shook, I cheek pinched and hair tossed. I was turning into the kind of girl I couldn’t stand. I sucked lollipops, moaned in ecstasy when biting into a donut, and simpered like a fool while holding two avocados in the same hand while caressing an eggplant with the other. He’d asked if I was making a salad.

Not all still waters ran deep. Thank God these particular still waters ran gorgeous.

And while all this was going on, I was also getting ready to fly back to Philadelphia to pack up my things and officially move out to Mendocino.

The day before I left dawned clear and bright. I woke horny and frustrated. I’d spent another night being tortured/delighted by my faceless dark lover. The lover with the hands of a god and the mouth of a poet. With his mouth he told me the words I’d always longed to hear, but had never been told. He loved me, cherished me, would go to the ends of the earth to protect me, and would spend the rest of his life caring for me.

With his hands? He worked my body expertly, arousing me with wild abandon. The dirtiest, sexiest hands imaginable.

This dreamy dark lover was exactly the kind of man I wanted in real life. He was the blend of loving and lascivious that I’d been searching for since I’d first picked up a paperback and realized that dirty books could be a woman’s best friend.

And when I woke from this last round of dreams, pulse racing and skin flushed I brought myself to yet another solitary but somewhat satisfying orgasm.

I needed more. I deserved more. But what I was taking? Right now? Was a cold shower. I had stuff to do.

I had breakfast in town since I wanted to catch up with Jessica before I left.

“Hey, girl, you’re coming back, right?” she asked when I hopped up onto the stool at the end of the counter. She poured my coffee without asking and looked at me concernedly.

“Aw, are you afraid you’re going to miss me?” I teased, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. It was chilly this morning and I wondered what the change of seasons would be like out here. I’d been raised on the beautiful explosion of color of the East Coast in the fall. The woods around our home were a riot of oranges and golds, fiery reds and deep yellows. You think California, you think sand and beach and sun. But this far north, it got cold. Would the leaves change?

“Miss you? Hell, no. I love going through shit from your basement.” She laughed.

“You asked for it, sister. You’re the one that wanted to help.”

“Yeah, I know. Thank God I finally got to get into your attic.”

“Why does that sound so dirty?”

“Because you ain’t got a man?”

“Ain’t got a man?” I snorted, rolling my eyes at her.

“It sounded funnier in my head. But the statement stands,” she said, putting my order in. “How’s it going with Hank?”

I put my head down on the counter and sighed into the Formica. “I got nothing. He barely looks at me.”

“I told you, you’re not his type. You’re hot, sure, but way too short, way too brunette, and way too smart for him,” she said, shaking her finger at me.

One day I’d finally confessed my crush (which she’d already guessed weeks ago) when she caught me staring out the window at him, biting down on a broom handle.

“He likes a very specific type of girl, Viv. I’ve known him a long time and he’s always gone for a Barbie doll. There’s been a Missy, a Cheyenne, a Dakota, and several Sharons when he was in his cougar phase. Never anything as cool as a Viv,” she’d said, patting me on the arm.

I’d gone along with it, nodded when she railed against stupid women guys like Hank always go for.

In my head, though? It all fit the romance novel model. Gorgeous man with a taste for gorgeous woman, the same type over and over again. Trying to right a wrong? Chase a ghost? Punish himself with what he can never have? He needed a ravishing petite brunette with a back full of ink, a brain full of math, and a fistful of dick. His dick, because that brunette will be the one to break him of his punishing streak of one-night stands, hers will be the body he will feast from, her cries of passion will be the ones to erase a thousand nights of empty love and unfilled promises . . .

I mean, dur. It’s practically textbook. So everything Jessica was telling me? Just furthered the cause, made him that much more tantalizing, made the potential thrill all the more powerful when I finally cracked the nut that was Hank.

“God, I need to get laid.”

“Um, right now?” Jessica asked, blinking at me.

“I mean it—I’m dying over here. Sorry, Mr. Martin,” I said when he shot me a look.

“Maybe if you stopped reading so many of those sexy books, you wouldn’t be so wound up.” When color immediately flooded my cheeks she said, “I knew it! I knew those were yours! I thought you’d try and blame poor old Maude.” She cackled, setting down my breakfast in front of me.

“Okay, some of those books? Are in fact Aunt Maude’s. I found an entire Harlequin library in an upstairs closet, so apparently it runs in the family. And yes, I do enjoy a good steamy novel. Now gimme the hot sauce.”

“Pretty sure that was one of the titles I saw on your nightstand the other day.”

“No no, that was Hot Saucy Women and the Men Who Love Them. You’re thinking of Gimme the Good Stuff. Subtitle, Now.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, and beckoned her closer. “Want to know a secret?”