Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“Miller? It’s Sunny.”

“Hey! Right on time. I’ll buzz you in.”

“Okay. See you in a minute.”

Vi slips on her blinged-out flip-flops, pats me on the cheek, and leaves. I do one more check through the condo to make sure I haven’t left any crap lying around, spray my arms with the numbing solution again, rinse with mouthwash, make sure the wine is chilling in the fridge since Sunny likes white, and wait for her to knock on the door. After a couple minutes there’s still nothing, so I peek out into the hallway.

She’s out there, except she’s standing in front of my neighbor’s door. “Hey,” I say before she raises her hand to knock. If Vi’s right about my neighbor being a porn star, she’s the last person I want Sunny to meet right now.

She stops and looks my way, her confusion turning into a smile. “I almost knocked on the wrong door,” she whispers and tiptoes down the hall toward me. She’s wearing a summery dress. It’s off white with wide straps. I doubt she’s wearing a bra. The promise of fall gives a chill to the evening air. If she gets cool enough, I might be able to see her nipples through it. I stop thinking about sex long enough to answer with an appropriate, non-offensive reply.

“You’re good. I caught you.” I wink and open the door wide. “Come on in.”

Sunny kicks off her shoes and looks around. “This is nice. It’s big.”

“Thanks. It’s nothing like Waters’ cottage or his condo in Toronto, but it’s got an outdoor pool. And it’s dog friendly.” I don’t know why I tell her that. It’s not like she’s going to bring Andy or Titan on a plane to visit for the weekend.

“Really? That’s great.”

She fiddles with her hair, and I hook my thumbs into my pockets—even the backs of my knuckles are burned from that hair-removal crap.

We stand there for another minute. It’s probably not that long; it just feels that way because neither one of us is talking—instead we’re staring at each other.

Any other time I’ve had a woman back to my place, it’s been for the sole purpose of fucking. Sometimes there’s food involved, but that’s usually afterward. Sex makes me hungry. This is the first time I’ve ever done this with the intention of having real conversation and dinner prior to getting Sunny into my bed. I wish there was a manual to consult.

“Can I show you around?” I gesture to the open concept living room-kitchen-dining room combo.

“Can I hug you first?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. For sure.” Physical contact I can do. I hold my arms out. She presses her entire body against mine. It feels really nice. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and drop my face into the crook of her neck. I wish I could turn her smell into an air freshener.

Sunny sighs and burrows in, her arms tightening around me. We stand like that until I start to get an obvious hard-on. I back off, expecting Sunny to do the same. Instead she lifts her head and licks her lips.

It’s the sign.

The one where she wants me to kiss her. It’s been almost a week since I’ve had my tongue in her mouth, so I’m all over accommodating her wishes.

I lower my head an inch, and Sunny lifts her chin. The first kiss is soft, lips touching lips. Sunny sucks my bottom lip. I open for her, letting her take the lead. All the nervousness melts away like cotton candy on my tongue. The emotions I couldn’t or didn’t want to name before we made up in Toronto are clear as exploration makes my hard-on ache.

She frames my face with her hands and breaks the kiss to get some air. “This week was long. I like you better in 3D than I do through a computer screen.”

“It’s way easier to make out, isn’t it?”

“Definitely.”

We go back in for round two of tongue wars. She has to be able to feel my hard-on by now. Girls are lucky. All their signs of horniness can be hidden. Guys have this big—if we’re lucky—stick that jabs people in the stomach to let them know what’s going down. Or up.

Sunny starts to run her hands over my biceps, but I catch her wrists. “Maybe don’t do that today.”

She glances at my arms. “Oh my God! What happened?”

“I uh . . . I had an allergic reaction to some cream.” It’s not a total lie.

“Geez. That’s terrible. What kind of cream was it?”

“I can’t remember the name. Anyway, it looks worse than it feels. It’ll be fine in a couple of days.” I hope it doesn’t scab. I have interviews, and if my arms are a mess, I’ll need to wear a long-sleeve shirt. I like golf shirts better; then I don’t have to mess around with a tie.