Her eagerness should have been a red flag. It was a slaughter. Absolutely brutal. She kicked my ass—from one end of the apartment to the other.
In my defense, Kate knows how to play a real guitar. That and…she made us put clothes on. How frigging mean is that? I kept trying to catch a glimpse of that succulent little ass peeking out from under my T-shirt. It distracted me.
I never had a chance.
So, by now you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing, right? I mean this is me. One ride per customer—no rewinds, no repeats. So why am I wasting away my Saturday afternoon playing Adam and Eve with Kate?
Here’s the deal: I’ve worked for months to get her where she is right now. I’ve spent night after endless night wanting, dreaming, fantasizing about it.
Let’s say you get stranded on a desert island and can’t eat for a week. And then the rescue ship finally shows up with a big plate of food. Would you take one taste and throw the rest away?
Of course not. You’d scarf down every bite. Devour every crumb. Lick the plate clean.
That’s what I’m doing. Hanging out with Kate until I’m…full. Don’t read any more into it than that.
Did I mention Kate has a tattoo? Oh yeah. A slut tag. A tramp stamp. Call it whatever you like. It’s inked just above the swell of her ass, on her lower back. It’s a small turquoise butterfly.
It’s tasty. I’m tracing it with my tongue right now.
After the Guitar Hero disgrace, Kate decided she wanted a shower. And get this—she asked if I wanted to go first.
Silly, silly girl. Like showering single file was even a consideration.
I stand up and tease her from behind. She’s hotter than the f**king water that hits us on all sides. I move her hair to the side as I feast on that scrumptious neck. My voice is husky as I tell her, “Open your legs for me, Kate.”
She does again.
I bend my knees and slide my c*ck home. Jesus. It’s been two hours since I was deep inside her like this. Too f**king long—a lifetime.
We moan together. Her br**sts are slick from the soap as I slide my fingers to her n**ples and play with them in the way I know makes her purr. She drops her head back against my shoulder, and scratches her nails up my thighs. I hiss at the sensation and pick up the pace just a little.
Then she leans forward, bending at her waist and bracing her hands against the tiles. I cover them with my own, threading our fingers together. I pump in and out unhurriedly. I kiss her back, her shoulder, her ear. “You feel so f**king good, Kate.”
Her head rolls on her neck, and she moans, “God, you feel so…hard…so big.”
That phrase? Hearing that phrase is the dream of every man who has ever lived. I don’t care if you’re a freaking monk; you want to hear it.
Yeah, I’ve heard it before. But coming from Kate—in that sweet voice—it’s like I’m hearing it for the first and only time.
And then she’s begging. “Harder, Drew…please.”
I do as she asks with a groan. I leave one hand on the wall and bring the other to her clit, so each time I push forward, she bucks up against my fingers. She moans at the contact.
Then she’s demanding, “Harder, Drew. Fuck me harder.”
When her command reaches my ears, I snap, like the roof caving in on a raging house fire. I push into her until she’s pinned against the wall, her cheek resting on the cold tile. I thrust rough and fast. Kate’s gratified screams echo off the walls, and we come in perfect synch.
It’s long and intense and f**king glorious.
As the pleasure wanes, she turns, wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me slowly. Then her head is on my chest, and we stand together under the spray. I can’t keep the awe out of my voice as I say, “God, it gets better every time.”
She laughs. “You too? I thought I was the only one who felt it.” She looks up at me, bites her lip, and pushes my wet hair back from my eyes. It’s a simple gesture. But there’s so much emotion behind it. Her touch is gentle, the look in her eyes so cherishing, like I’m the most wonderful thing she’s ever seen. Like I’m some kind of…treasure.
Normally, a look like that would have me ducking for cover—heading for the nearest exit.
But as I stare at Kate’s face, one hand holding her waist, the other moving through her hair, I don’t want to run. I don’t even want to look away. And I don’t ever want to let go.
“No…I feel it too.”
I’M NOT BORING YOU with these sordid details, am I? I could shorten this whole thing by simply saying: Kate and I f**ked each other’s brains out all weekend.
But that’s not really much fun.
And it wouldn’t give you the full picture. By taking the long way around, you get all the facts. And a bird’s-eye view of all our little moments. Moments that seemed silly and insignificant at the time. But now that I have the flu, they’re the only things I can think about.
Every minute of every day.
Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head? Sure you have, everybody does. And maybe it’s a beautiful song, maybe it’s even your favorite. But it’s still annoying, isn’t it? It’s second rate. Because you don’t want to just hear it in your brain—you want it on the radio or live in concert. Replaying it in your mind is just a cheap imitation. A mocking, frigging reminder that you’re not able to hear the real thing.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
Don’t worry, you will.
Now, where was I? That’s right—Saturday night.
“This is the perfect pillow.”
We just ordered food—Italian—and we’re waiting for it to arrive. Kate is sitting on my couch amid an oasis of pillows and blankets. And she’s holding one bedroom pillow in her lap.
“The perfect pillow?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m very high maintenance when it comes to pillows. And this one is perfect. Not too flat, not too puffy. Not too hard, not too soft.”
I smile. “Good to know, Goldilocks.”
We’ve decided to watch a movie. On-demand cable is the second greatest invention of our time. The first, of course, being the big-screen plasma TV. I get up to fetch the remote while Kate fishes something out of her bag on the floor.
Have I mentioned we’re still nak*d? We are. Very. It’s liberating.
All the good parts are easy to reach. And the view is fantastic.
As I turn to make my way back to the couch, a now-familiar scent assails my nostrils. Sweet and flowery. Sugar and springtime. I look at Kate and find her rubbing lotion on her arms. I grab the bottle from her, like a dog snapping at a bone. “What is this?”
I bring the bottle to my nose and inhale deeply, then fall back against the pillows with a satisfied moan.
Kate laughs. “Don’t snort it. It’s moisturizer. I didn’t realize fighting dry skin got you so revved up.”
I look at the bottle. Vanilla and lavender. I take another deep sniff. “It smells like you. Every time you’re near me, you smell like…like a bouquet of f**king sunshine with brown sugar on top.”
She laughs again. “Aw, Drew, I didn’t know you were a poet. William Shakespeare would be so jealous.”
“Is it edible?”
She makes a face. “No.”
Too bad. I’d have poured it on my food like a rich hollandaise. Guess I’ll just have to settle for tasting it on Kate.
Now that I think about it—that is the preferable option.
“They make a bubble bath too. Since you like it so much, I’ll get some.”
It’s the first reference she’s made about a next time. A hook-up at some later date. A future. Unlike my past bump-and-grinds, the suggestion of a second go-around with Kate doesn’t fill me with indifference or irritation. Instead, I’m eager—excited—about the prospect.
I stare at her for a moment, soaking in the strange enjoyment that comes from just looking at her. I could make a full-time profession out of watching Kate Brooks.
“So,” she asks, “did we decide on a movie?”
She settles up against me, and my arm goes naturally around her. “I was thinking Braveheart.”
“Ugh. What is it with that movie? Why are all men addicted to it?”
“Ah, the same reason women are obsessed with the freaking Notebook. That is what you were going to suggest, right?”
She smiles slyly, and I know I guessed right.
“The Notebook is romantic.”
“It’s f**king gay.”
She hits me in the face with the “perfect” pillow.
“It’s nauseating. I have friends who are flaming homosexuals—and that movie is too g*y for them.”
She sighs dreamily. “It’s a love story, a beautiful love story. The way everyone tried to keep them apart. But then, years later, they found each other again. It was fate.”
I roll my eyes. “Fate? Please. Fate’s a frigging fairytale, sweetheart. And the rest of the story is a bonfire of bullshit too. Real life doesn’t work like that.”
“That’s why the divorce rate is so high. Because movies like that give women unreasonable expectations.”
And the same goes for romance novels. Alexandra practically took Steven’s head off once because he borrowed one of my Playboys. Yet every summer, there’s The Bitch laying out on the beach with her Fabio-covered soft porn.
Yeah, I said, “porn.” That’s what it is.
And it’s not even good porn: “He moved his trunk-like manhood toward the weeping petals of her womanly center.”
Who the f**k talks like that?
“Real guys don’t think like Nolan or Niles or whatever the hell that douchebag’s name was.”
“And any man who would build a room in his house for some chick who blew him off? Any man who would wait years for that same girl to show up at his door, knowing she was with someone else? He’s not a man at all.”
“What is he?”
“A big, hairy, unwaxed vag**a.”
Was that too crude?
I’m afraid that it was.
Until Kate covers her mouth with her hands and falls over on the couch, convulsing in a fit of deep, snorting laughter. “Oh…my…God. You’re such…a…pig. How…how do you even come up with these things?”
I shrug. “I call them like I see them. I won’t apologize for it.”
Her laughter dies down, but the smile’s still there. “Okay, no Notebook.”
Then her whole face lights up. “Oohh, how about Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy?”
“You like Will Ferrell?”
“Are you kidding? Have you seen Blades of Glory?”
It’s one of my favorites. “The Iron Lotus? Classic.”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me and quotes expertly, “You got some sweet cream to soothe that nasty burn?”