failed to make good (so far) and I’ve just founded my first company. I have time for nothing but work.
“Sex,” Maple announces in her outside voice, cupping my face in her hands. “Hot sex. The only ring you have to put on it is one of those vibrating cock rings. When’s the last time you had fun?”
“Never with a cock ring. It’s like plugging up the bath and running the water full bore. The poor guy’s blood has nowhere to go, so he’s totally focused on what’s going on down there because it’s distracting as hell, and he has no choice but to keep it up. It’s like a corset for dicks.”
The waiter leaning in to offer us a new round of appetizers beats a hasty retreat.
Used to my verbal diarrhea, Maple just waits for me to finish. “If cock rings aren’t your thing, find some other toy that you do like.”
“Have I ever struck you as a playful person?”
“Practice,” Maple deadpans. “You just need practice.”
“I could practice until I was eighty. It wouldn’t make me fun. I’m an engineer. I’m a nerd. I’m a freaking entrepreneur. And I like all that. I might not be fun, but I’m happy.”
Am I 100 percent happy? Details. I’m at least 51 percent happy, and that rounds up to 100 percent. It’s basic math. In college I had Friday night study groups and lived in the computer lab. I wasn’t a troll, but working on my social skills hadn’t been a priority. After I dropped out due to a lack of funding and time management skills, I bounced from job to job. This was great for building my skill set, but not so good for peopling. I’d always moved on before I could build genuine friendships. Boyfriends had been the same song, different verse.
Maple, however, has no intention of giving up. “I bet you could be perfectly happy with someone in this room.”
“Sex is a lot of work.” I shrug, forcing Maple to make an emergency grab for my sleeve before I accidentally flash the entire networking event. Off-the-shoulder dresses are worse than corsets, requiring minimal movement and perfect posture. I should probably look for a new dress.
Slapping my sleeve back into place, she snorts. “Don’t be such a giver, then. Be a taker. Let the guy do all the work.”
“I’m not even sure I like sex all that much.” Before Maple can tell me I need a good therapist, or to embark on a journey of self-discovery to find the right penis, I barrel on. “I mean, I don’t hate it, but it’s kind of like going to a spa for a massage. Do I really want to give up an hour of my life to tell someone where and how to touch me? Or do I want to keep on living the happily single life where I DIY and wear old sweatpants to bed and no one points out I haven’t shaved my legs in days? Self-care is much more satisfying.”
Maple groans. “Just promise me you’ll get out there and sample a penis or two. DIY is for home repairs.”
I polish off my champagne and squint, but I can’t spot a waiter. “Maybe after Calla’s launch.”
“At least stay a little while longer.”
“How long?”
“Twelve minutes.” She beams beatifically at me.
Even though she’s pulled that number out of her ass, I nod. Twelve minutes and then I’m out. I can kill at least six minutes in the bathroom if I play my cards right.
“Potty break.” I stand up, twitching my dress back into place. Either it’s gotten shorter, I’ve gotten taller, or parts of me have gotten larger.
Four minutes later, I’m procrastinating in front of the bathroom mirror. My dress is definitely shorter and tighter. The black jersey stops barely south of my butt and far, far above my knees. The off-the-shoulder sleeves seem to be squeezing my boobs in a manner that’s far too friendly. When Maple came by my apartment earlier for a pre-party assessment, she redid my hair into a high ponytail. She also applied my makeup, which means I’m wearing a ton since Maple only does stage makeup. There’s also a whole lot of bare leg between the dress’s hem and my three-inch strappy heels.
Maple vetoed a wrap. She also ixnayed a bra. The no-panties thing, however, is entirely my fault. I prefer to go commando, although I’m usually wearing yoga pants and therefore not in danger of sharing my beaver with the world. Still, I look good. Maybe I do fit in after all.
My return trip through the throng of glittering people takes much longer. I manage to score another glass of champagne, but the event organizers dim the lights before I reach Maple, and someone is holding forth in the center of the room in the sole pool of light. I’m actually relieved to throw myself onto our window seat—my feet are killing me. Instead of hitting cushions, however, my left knee drills into a hard, male thigh while my right lands on something much softer. Off balance, I flail. Champagne sloshes everywhere. I’ve crash-landed on the wrong seat—and it’s already occupied.
Hands catch me, probably more to halt my accidental assault than to help. Fantasy hands, my stunned brain supplies. Wow. I’ve definitely had too much champagne and not enough orgasms, because I swear I go supernova staring at the strong, capable fingers wrapped around my wrists. Capable is a judgment call on my part, but the fingers’ owner is definitely strong—unlike ballet-honed Maple, I’m no lightweight. It’s dark, but I’m close enough to tell he wears no rings. The most delicious black ink disappears beneath pristine white shirt cuffs. A dark tailored suit jacket stretches over his forearms.
Mesmerized, I lean closer. Great white shark. Bingo. This guy is the sleekest and deadliest shark of all. “I didn’t think they let bad boys in.”
Oops. That’s my voice.
“Jesus.” I try not to look up because his voice is every bit as amazing as his hands, a low, gritty rasp that makes me want to beg him to tell me more. About anything. This man definitely sparks joy in all the right parts of me. Looking up would spoil the fantasy.
Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on his wrists and those just-visible whorls of black ink. His skin is sun-bronzed, a downright lickable golden-brown against the impeccable white cuff of the dress shirt peeking out from beneath the dark sleeve of his suit jacket. He could have been a hand model or a mechanic, but whoever or whatever he is, I liked the way his hands caught me so firmly far too much. A guy like this shouldn’t need instructions in bed.
My stranger’s voice rumbles something. Words, words, words. As always, I’m happier filling in the blanks myself. Maybe Maple is right and I need to settle for just sex because I’m on fire where my bare skin brushes my sexy stranger. He might even be worth giving directions to if it turned out he was a little less than capable in the bedroom department.
He reaches between us, cupping my bare knee, and goose bumps erupt where he touches me. I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rub against him. His fingers feel better than any nonsolo sex act I’ve ever participated in.
“Move,” he growls, sounding more than a little pissed off.
I look up.
And...just like that I fall in crush. Is that even a thing? It should be because with one upward glance, my overactive imagination goes crazy. The growler’s face is the perfect cherry on a sextastic sundae. Dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail reveals cheekbones a sculptor would kill to immortalize. He looks like the guy from The Princess Bride but a thousand times larger, harder and less nice. He stares at me, irritation painting his cranky, gorgeous face. When he shifts beneath me, I confirm he’s all muscle. I take a hopefully discreet sniff. Cologne, my best friend. I’ll have to go to Macy’s and do my research because his scent will haunt my fantasies. God, if he could just never open his mouth, this would be perfect.
Maple teases me all the time about my crushes. I spot a guy and I fall in love or at least in like from a safe distance. Imagining the possibilities excites me. Once I get to know my crush, however, my feelings fade rapidly. Cinderella probably came to her senses, too, and realized that Prince Charming wasn’t who she’d imagined