“It was an accident, Doe. I swear.”
“—quotient between longitudinal stress and material strain.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I’m fucking this up.”
Miriam frowns. “I should go.”
Shit, I’m scaring her off.
She disappears between bodies on the makeshift dance floor. I ball my hands into fists to stop myself from doing something else stupid, like chasing after her to kiss her again.
What the hell did I do?
I didn’t mean to. At least, I don’t think I did. She looked amazing, the opportunity was there, and I…this is bad.
It’s been a minute since I kissed anyone. Come to think of it, I haven’t kissed or slept with anyone since I ran into her at the MLK celebration. Maybe that’s why I pounced, but that can’t be true. I’ve been around half-naked women since we came to the pool and didn’t brick like I did when I untied Miriam’s robe.
The urge to satisfy my need for release with a random willing participant isn’t there anymore. It’s her.
“Someone’s in love.”
“Shut up.” I have zero interest in Kendrick’s poolside commentary.
His small braids are in a ponytail, his feet kicked up with a towel covering his blue swim trunks. He eyes me over the rim of his sunglasses and flips the newspaper in his hand. “Had your leg in the air and your toe pointed.”
I collapse onto the lounger next to him and cover my face. “I’m fucked.”
“The first step is admitting it, Papa Smurf.”
Chapter 28
Miriam
“Come on,” I pant in a mix of sweat and frustration.
Getting myself off has never been a problem. I’m well-acquainted with my body and the erogenous zones that will activate an orgasm. You wouldn’t know it based on the hours I’ve spent trying to pleasure myself with the sex toys I bought. There’s enough here to host a convention. Still no happy ending.
I didn’t want to be outside dressed like Lil Kim in the middle of winter, but Antonio’s kiss sent me out the hotel and onto Fremont Street like I was a track star in a past life.
My brain scrambled. I couldn’t think straight, which is how I ended up searching for sex toys after venturing to the Strip.
Turns out my pre-travel checklist wasn’t thorough. Every vibrator I own is at home, tucked away in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. TSA will likely flag my bag for the inventory I’m bringing home. How do I explain, in one of those tiny rooms with no windows, that I’m desperate to get off, but not from the only man who’s touched me infiveyears?
I was determined to eradicate Antonio and his soft lips from my memory. I mustered up the courage to ask the womanbehind the counter, who was assembling a literal bag of dicks, to point me to the good stuff. That statement got a quick revision when she directed me to the biggest silicone penis I’ve ever seen. The thing could plug a pothole and was going nowhere near my vagina.
I left with the anonymity of my hooded winter jacket and two discreet bags. A fairy wand, glass “juicer,” tongue teaser, bullet, rabbit, textured finger stimulator, and clitoral suction device are spread over my rumpled comforter.
Seven toys.
Two hours and fourteen minutes of putting them to use.
Nothing.
I’m a problem-solver by nature. I defined the issue: me not getting laid. I identified the outcome: euphoria from orgasms. I brainstormed potential solutions: my hands and toys. I conducted experiments and evaluated the results:
A testament to good battery life but no resolution for my neglected private parts.
The only malfunction to report is me. My equipment works just fine. I’m the one who can’t get into the right headspace.
