“Sex,” I say, taking silent pleasure at Antonio spitting his drink all over the bar. Serves him right.
“Thanks,” Antonio says to Ben, who shuffles over with extra napkins. He wipes the counter. “Repeat that one more time, Doe.”
I roll my eyes at the nickname. Gentle and innocent Miriam is getting laid and sprayed tonight—without the pee. I have limits.
“All anyone sees when they look at me is a brain with no human needs. I prefer the quiet of solitude, so I get written off as undesirable. People think I operate on batteries. I may spend days in a ‘library tower’ and not know the best words to say in social settings, but that doesn’t make me someone to discard. I like the idea of sex, and I want lots of it. I just haven’t prioritized it while pursuing my research. That doesn’t mean I don’t think about sex positions and accessories. I have lots of toys and have identified the optimum conditions for achieving orgasms.”
I’m rambling. Badly.
Here I am, in my thirties, at a bar on New Year’s Eve, unleashing a rapid stream of thoughts in hopes of attracting a man for the night. The words won’t stop, and, oh, how I wish they would. I always do this when I overthink or anticipate judgment.
My conversation with Antonio is now a monologue about my tragic love life and abandoned vagina. It’s pointless to assess his unreadable expression while I’m talking a mile a minute, but something shifted from when he sat down until now.
I clear my throat, ready to cut my losses at his hardened stare, when he does the unexpected.
He kisses me.
It’s soft, but it anchors me to the barstool as he drags it between his thighs. My gasp is muffled on his lips, which are now stretched to accommodate his tongue against mine. When we come up for air, my hands are in fists next to my armpits. My chest heaves in the rise and crescendo of ragged breaths.
Jinkies.
Heat from Antonio’s body pulls me like a magnet. To experience his steady gaze boring through my skin in silent expectation is…indescribable.
My first taste was months ago, at a rugby party in DC that Julian, his best friend, held. Even in a crowded room full of rugby teammates and their partners on the dance floor, Antonio’s nearness overwhelmed me.
At first I assumed he was interested in Kierra. Antonio is a charmer who would take one of Blow-up Doll Guy’s harem buddies if he knew he wouldn’t get caught. Whatever “moment” we shared that night was a miscalculation on my part.
Tonight? His desire is pressed against my knee.
“Come home with me.” His tone is low. Hungry. Needy.
“I—excuse me?”
“My condo is down the block,” he says. “If you’re up for the company. I’m not a stranger who meets your criteria, but I promise to cherish your mind, exhaust your body, and kick you out before eight tomorrow morning.”
I grin at his arrogance. “I’d be gone by six.”
“Even better.”
Am I really agreeing to this?
You did put on the dress.
He isn’t a stranger, which saves me money for therapy in theory and body wash for trying to scrub away a bad decision. I might still wake up with regret and fatigued muscles, but he is the safer option.
“Sex is all I want,” I blurt. “Tomorrow—”
“You go back to your library tower, and we only bump into each other twice a year,” he says. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and I promise not to fall in love.”
“Good.”
“You will be.” He settles our tabs, drapes my coat over my shoulders, secures his, and extends a hand. “Ready?”
My mind sprints until he kisses my wrist, his wet lips settling over my racing pulse. Heat spreads from my belly to between my thighs.
“Don’t overthink it,” he whispers.
And off we go.
