Maceo (Filthy Rich Alphas)

My nipples stiffened. Thankfully, I wore a thick shirt. He didn’t need to see that his words had triggered a reaction. As far as the state of my panties, well that was another problem.

“What’s your phone number?” he asked.

“You already have it.”

“Not your personal line.”

“I don’t give that out.”

“But I’m your friend.”

“You’re also a friend who has a cock that is apparently hoping to pump inside of me.”

“Hmmm. This is true.” He bit his lip. “If I can handle my cock, can I get your number?”

“Will your cock be in your hand while you ask?”

“Is that what you want?”

My body warmed as my heart beats sped up. “No.”

He leaned closer to me, not enough to kiss me or anything, but enough to make me tense. “You’re lying.”

“Never.”

“Would you mind if I take my cock out now?”

“N-no. I mean. Yes.”

He put his hands on the top of his pants. “Yes or no?”

“No.”

He unbuttoned. “So no you don’t mind?”

“Good.” He unzipped. “You’ll love him.”

I shrieked. “Don’t take him out.”

“So then later?”

“Yes. I mean no.”

He chuckled and poured me some more wine. “Best picnic ever.”

Picnic score. Maceo: 2, Christine: 1

We talked some more.

The best part was that his cock remained within his pants.

The sun set. Layers of light diminished into a velvety blue sky. Stars and the crescent moon sparkled above us. All of the candles lit up the roof and bathed us both in a romantic glow. I tried to ignore it all, that sensual mood that thickened around me with each minute that I spent with him.

It was hard.

Although the vanilla candles produced that lovely fragrance, his cologne intoxicated me. The damn man made me laugh on several occasions that evening. Too many giggles if anyone asked me. It could’ve been the wine. He’d been pouring and I’d been drinking. And when he wasn’t liquoring me up, he was feeding me delicious morsels from his hand to my lips.

I should’ve stopped him.

This man wasn’t the one for me. I could see the woman for him. She didn’t have several jobs and tasks, dreams of riches and absolutely no time for anything else. The lady for him would’ve swooned at the rooftop picnic, instead of been so difficult to simply talk to.

He interrupted my thoughts. “I’ve had many women fall in love with me, just for my foot massages alone.”

“Bullshit.” I finished my second glass of wine.

Or is this my third? Wait a minute. I had four, I think. Okay. One more and I’m done.

“Take off your shoes.” He crawled over to my feet. “I’ll show you.”

“Wait. Stay right there. Don’t move.” I drank him in as he balanced on all fours.

Umm umm good.

“You have a great ass. I bet women fall for that muscular booty.” I clapped.

“You’re drunk.” He chuckled.

“No way. I’m tipsy.”

“No, correction. You were tipsy when you started impersonating your brother’s hula hooping and fell into the tree over there.” He pointed behind me.

I laughed. “The tree was in my way.”

“Is that right?” He sat down next to my feet and pulled each shoe off, one at a time. “Green shamrock socks. I love a woman that can coordinate her clothing.”

“Leave my socks alone.”

“They’re cute.”

“New topic.” I burped. “Excuse me.”

“That’s fine.”

“How many women have you slept with?”

“Well over a hundred.”

“What? That’s insane.”

“I’m a good-looking man.”

“You’re a man-whore.”

“This from a woman who sleeps with her dancers.”

I shrugged. “I do it because they’re man-whores and not difficult to get into bed.”

“You’re like I used to be. I was wild in my twenties. I thought I was a player of some sort. Women weren’t human beings to me, they were numbers and fun stories to tell my friends.”

“Eeesh.” I poured another glass. “I’m not that bad. You were the man-whore extraordinaire. I’m simply using the male species for the only thing they’re worth … their penises.” I finished pouring. “But you, my friend, just confessed that you’ve slept with a hundred women at least. That’s serious whorativity right there, and no whorativity is not a word. I made it up.”

Okay. This is the second glass I think. Yeah. I’m fine.

“Hey don’t judge me, Christine.” For some reason, Maceo took the wine bottle and set it farther away from me.

“I won’t judge, but how the hell did you get to a hundred women?”

“I’m just estimating, but I usually had sex with three or four women a week for around ten years or so. Granted, some months I didn’t have sex.”

“Why not?”

“I lived a fast life. I would burn out really quickly. Maybe a few months I’m banging any female I can find. Six months later, I can’t look my mom in the eye and I feel sick with myself, so I make a promise to do better, be celibate, or whatever. Months later, I’m back in the club, selling fantasies and sleeping with nameless women.”