Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

“Okay, okay, no more!” I protested, waving my hands. “It’s enough that I won’t be able to look him in the eye next time I see him; no more yanky-wanky details. Let’s change the subject— Who has news?”

The gossip section of breakfast had officially begun.

“Okay, I’ll start. I found out the Palace of Fine Arts is available; looks like that’s where my reception will be!” Mimi sang.

“Jillian asked me to head up the team bidding on the Claremont Hotel redesign in Sausalito,” I offered.

“I’ve spent the last three weeks in a dark cloud, so I got nothing. But did you know that my hair is long enough that if I lean back far enough I can sit on it?” Sophia volunteered.

We chewed.

“I had a client ask me if I’d mind organizing her p**n collection,” Mimi said.

“I might have ordered a p**n collection at three in the morning a few days ago,” Sophia told the inside of her sweatshirt.

“Simon came home early last night and surprised me. So I had some live-action porn.”

“He came home early? Wow, that’s impressive. Seems like lately he’s been traveling more than usual,” Mimi commented, eating the cannonballs in alternating order. Blueberry. Raspberry.

“Yeah, he has been busier than normal. What can I say? My boyfriend is the darling of the photography world.” I grinned, flushing when I thought about how sexy he looked when he was working.

“I don’t know how you guys do that, be apart so much. I’d die if I didn’t see Ryan every day—I’d just die!” Mimi exclaimed. Blueberry. Raspberry. “I don’t know how you don’t miss him like crazy!”

“Of course I miss him—some weeks it’s really hard. But this is who he is, this is how he’s always been, and we make it work. Honestly? Sometimes it’s kind of great: I have my time, he has his time, and then when he’s home, it’s our time.” I swiped my finger through a little bit of Sophia’s whipped cream, barely evading the tines of her fork. “Anyway, I like the idea that we’re not a couple who has to sleep together every night. Admit it. Don’t you sometimes miss having the bed all to yourself?”

Mimi instantly began shaking her head, while Sophia just avoided eye contact.

“Okay, change of subject again. Let’s talk about the wedding. The wedding of the century”—I started, then backpedaled as soon as I saw Mimi’s look—“at least until Mimi here takes that mantle. Until she does, though, Jillian is going for it! And wait until you see Benjamin’s tux. Good lord, the man can wear tails like nobody’s business.”

At the mention of Benjamin everyone perked up, even Sophia. The category of sexy older man had been created specifically with him in mind, and we all sighed together.

“Anyway, we gotta start thinking about dates for you, young lady. Who are you thinking about taking?” I asked, looking at Sophia. She turned white.

“Ah shit, I didn’t even think about that! Neil’s going, isn’t he?” she asked, her expression panicked. She looked down at herself, then back up at us. “Ack, I can’t let him see me looking like this! What’s he going to think? He’s gonna think I’m, like, on the floor in a puddle over him!”

Mimi started to interject, but I placed a hand on her arm and shook my head as Sophia went on.

“And what if he brings someone? Shit, he’s totally bringing someone, isn’t he? Isn’t he? That’s it—that asshole; he thinks he can show me? He thinks he’s gonna get the better of me? Hell no, not on my watch. Stupid overgrown boy-looking sportscaster motherfucker.”

This entire conversation was had by Sophia alone as she grabbed her purse and headed back toward the bathroom.

Once she was gone, I grabbed the rest of her waffles and divided them between my plate and Mimi’s. We clinked forks and tucked in for a few minutes.

“Do you think he’s bringing someone?” I asked.

“I’m sure he is. I’ve tried asking Ryan about it, but he’s claiming guy code, or bros before hos, or something ridiculous like that.”

“Same with Simon. I wonder if they—” I stopped as Sophia exited the bathroom.

The sweatshirt was now tied around her waist, the revealed tank top tight. Her hair was braided, bangs swept back revealing a clean, shining face. Lip gloss had been added; a little blush too. The girl was stunning once more; you just can’t keep that kind of beauty buried for too long. But what made every man and more than a few women do a double take were her double D’s. Accentuated more than ever by the purposeful rip she’d given her tank top, perfectly highlighting each D to its full potential.

“Can you believe I was ever worried about gaining a little weight? Look how great my tits look!” she announced as she came back to the table. “Let’s head over to the park and pick up hot boys. Let’s see how many I can get to stop jogging with these,” she said, pulling a wad of cash from her purse and throwing it on the table.

I couldn’t help but laugh as she dragged a protesting Mimi away from her food. Sophia was back on the prowl, and she took out two busboys on her way out of the diner.

• • •

I went to the park just long enough to see that Sophia was indeed back out of her coma. I doubted she was actually over the situation with Neil, but sometimes you have to pretend to be feeling better to actually feel better. It’s why new workout clothes make you feel like you want to work out.

I was still waiting for that one to turn out to be true . . .

I begged off staying the whole afternoon on the grounds that I had a Wallbanger in my bed, which needed no further explanation. As I turned the corner onto my street after hopping off the trolley, I thought about what Mimi had said earlier, about needing to see Ryan every day. They could easily do that: Both had jobs in the city and rarely traveled for work. Mimi was a professional organizer, helping families declutter and clean up, while Ryan headed up a nonprofit that helped put computers into schools in low-income areas.

Would I like to see Simon every day? Of course I would—the speed bump abs alone are worth the price of admission. But more than that, we just . . . worked well together. There was an ease to our relationship that I had never had with anyone else, maybe because we became friends first. And while we had our share of raised eyebrows like every couple, we rarely fought. Maybe because we spent less time together than regular couples.

I shook my head as I walked up my stairs. It didn’t matter why we worked, we just did. And since Simon would continue to be in demand professionally, we’d continue to make it work long-distance. I liked the idea of an unconventional romance, especially since the beginning of ours was so much so.

I’d been on a dating freeze after a one-night stand with He Who Shall Not Be Named (read Cory Weinstein) scared my orgasm into hiding, disappearing from the earth entirely. Going, going, gone it was; no good-bye, no nice knowing you. Just gone. I’d attempted to recover the O by bringing back a few tried-and-true partners, but no go. And of course I’d tried to reconnect by using the Holy Trinity of Fantasy Lovers (the Leto, the Damon, and the Holy Clooney), but even by my own hand, the O had left the building. Finally Simon and I were able to conjure her again in a poof of flour on the floor of my kitchen, surrounded by raisins and honey.

And speaking of unconventional, Simon had never dated anyone in the traditional sense. When I met him he was king of the Friends with Benefits scenario, with an actual harem. As Simon and I were becoming friends in those early days, he’d confided that all the women he’d ever dated seemed to want the same thing: a white picket fence. I convinced him that in fact not all women want that, especially this woman in particular. I’d told him, “The right woman for you wouldn’t want you to change anything about your life. She wouldn’t rock your boat, she’d jump right in and sail it with you.”

I used to date someone who wanted me to be his picket fencer, his own personal Mrs. Stepford. Or Mrs. James Brown, in this scenario. Lawyer, not Godfather of Soul, to be clear.

Picket fences? Thanks, but no thanks. I liked my life, I liked our life—it was pretty great.

A perfect example was our living situation. As I put the key in my lock, I looked across the landing to his apartment door. When he was home we tended to spend most of our time at my place, but I liked that we still had our own apartments. I’d lived with roommates most of my adult life, and even though I was technically subletting from Jillian (no way would I ever be able to afford this amazing apartment without her rent control), it was still my own space.

Which I shared with a very particular feline. I let myself in, looking around for Clive but not seeing him. I had an idea where he might be, though. Kicking off my shoes, I padded quietly back to the bedroom, peeking my head around the door.

Tucked into the one corner of the bed I typically allowed him was Simon, still sleeping off his long trip home. Curled into a ball behind Simon’s knees, Clive opened one eye and registered that I was home. He flicked one ear and stretched his back out, tucking himself tighter into his favorite spot.

I whispered, “Hiya, Clive, how’s my sweet—”

He cut me off with a quiet but very curt meow.

And he gave me a very specific look, letting me know that my boys needed their sleep and I should leave well enough alone. I chuckled to myself as Simon let out a loud snore, then backed away. Clive remained behind Simon’s knees.

Simon’s Knees . . . What a great name for a band.

While the boys slept I did some laundry, I worked on some sketches for the new hotel project, and I baked. Baking centered me, helped me focus and see my way around corners, especially when I was working on something new. Two loaves of zucchini bread later, I was perched on the kitchen island with a colored pencil in my mouth when I heard shuffling.

Simon came into the kitchen, nose first. I caught my breath, almost inhaling my pencil when I saw him in his loose pajama bottoms, rumpled hair, and sleepy expression. I knew if I pressed my face into the exact center of his chest, he’d smell like Downy and warm boy. Heart, as always, skipped a beat.

“Zucchini?” he asked while sniffing the air, his eyes still at half-mast but scanning for bread. His eyes weren’t the only thing at half-mast . . .

“Zucchini,” I affirmed, nodding my head.

A slow grin crept across his face; nothing could make him happier than homemade bread. Well, almost nothing.

“You want some?” I asked.

He walked toward me, and the bread behind me, with a determined look on his face. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, uncrossing my legs so he could stand between them. “I always want some.”

“Are we still talking about zucchini bread?” I asked, as his hands dug into my hips. Sliding me closer to the edge suddenly, he pressed a wet kiss below my ear.

“I’m hungry, yes,” he whispered, in a voice that instantly told my thighs to part. “And the zucchini bread can wait.”

I moaned. I mean, of course I moaned.

Gone in sixty seconds was everything under my apron, which was flipped up and out of his way. To his knees he went, pulling my h*ps exactly to the edge of the counter, my legs roughly thrown over his shoulders.

“Christ Simon, what brought this—oh!”

I lost my train of thought as his open mouth pressed against me, his tongue strong and searching. With one lick, I was close. With a second lick, I was close to stupid.

With the third . . . Here’s the funny thing about my orgasm. Once I got out of my own way, she was happy to come. Ahem.

“Oh God, you . . . that’s . . . so . . . wow . . . mmm,” I moaned. He moved, I moved. He pulsed, I twitched. He plunged, I . . . Oh, hell. I flailed.

“Responsive, aren’t you?” he murmured, raising his head and wickedly licking his lips. I threaded my hands through his hair and not so gently pushed him back down.

“If you stop now I’ll kill you with this egg timer,” I managed, grabbing for the only thing that was nearby. Which I dropped as soon as he returned to me, my breathing fast and impossible to control. I dug my heels into his back, shamelessly flexing my h*ps to bring him closer to where I needed him. Giving a long lick to the inside of each of my thighs, he splayed his hands under and around my hips, holding me still as best he could and opening me further to him.

“Like I could stop? Don’t you know I dream about this when I’m away?” he asked, nudging me with his nose, exactly where I needed his mouth to be.

“You . . . dream about . . . this?” I asked, arching my back. I was so close, so very close.

“Fuck, yes, are you kidding?” He flattened his tongue and dragged it across my entire sex, dipping inside and continuing up, closing his mouth now and encircling me with his lips. Releasing me with a groan of his own, he brought one hand down, using his fingers to press into me. “I think about this, and the sounds you make when you come, the way you taste. Mmm . . . sweet Caroline, you drive me crazy.”

His words swirled my thoughts. I leaned up on my elbows, skin on fire, my fuzzy gaze on this gorgeous man, this shockingly gorgeous man, with his mouth on me. Riding his hand, my h*ps undulated as his tongue and lips consumed me. His eyes burning into mine, I gasped when my orgasm hit me like a freight train. Shaking, I fell back onto the counter.

He stood, one hand continuing to caress my skin as I shuddered, the other pushing his pajama bottoms down. He ran his fist up and down his length, then pressed inside me, but just barely. His head dropped back as he wrapped his hands around my hips, using my weight as leverage as he slowly . . . sank . . . inside.

He was perfectly still.