Twelve
SORA
I’m not saying I hate men. On the contrary, I love them too much.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
So, Jack might be patient, but I am not. I’ve been called many things, but “reasonable” and “patient” and “mature” aren’t any of them. And that’s why I’m trying to eat Jack’s face off because he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met. I may have impulse-control problems. Plus, I have just enough wine buzzing around in my brain to think it’s a damn fine idea. Because … this super-hot, super-sexy man tells me I’m beautiful and he’s had a crush on me? Since kindergarten?
And he noticed me back in December. What the hell? I’d been so busy being distracted by Mr. Wrong that I’d completely missed Mr. Right.
My tongue lashes his and all I can taste is him and wine and chocolate. It’s like an orgasm in my mouth. I’m lying on top of his hard body and his hands are roving down my curves, and I’m having the teenage make-out party of my life. And this is what I’ve been missing since February first. It’s like having that first bite of chocolate after starving oneself on a trendy diet. And now I know that the thing I’ve been depriving myself of is the very thing I need to live. The very thing that makes life worth living.
I break away, gulping in air. I shouldn’t do this. I’ve been encouraging people all around the world to take a break from love for this month, and here I am, breaking my own rules.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he pants, hands firmly on my hips. “What about Solo—” But I hush him with a finger to his lips. I am not going to think about Solo February anymore tonight.
“Yes, I want to do this,” I say. “Hell, yes.”
I dive down for another kiss, and our lips meld together as if they’re two halves of the same heart-shaped chocolate box. I squirm against his body, and he groans, gripping my hips tighter, need in his fingertips. I feel that need quivering through my own body like a living, breathing thing, like a force that won’t be contained. I’ve wanted this man since I first laid eyes on him at Margo’s. Now he’s beneath me on my own couch, pinned by my body, and I want to keep him prisoner there for the rest of his life.
Before I know it, I’ve ripped off my T-shirt and it’s on my floor, and in another second, the lacy bralette comes off, too. Jack stares at my nipples with a kind of reverence usually reserved for fine art in museums, as he first kisses one and then the other. Damn, I love a man who knows his way around an areola. I shiver beneath the man’s expert mouth and hands. I fumble with his shirt buttons, and he sits up, with me tumbling back a bit on the couch. He literally rips his own shirt off, the buttons pinging off and scattering across the wood floor and I think I might just die of want right there. Can this man get sexier? Then I see his bare chest, strong, defined pecs, big, muscular shoulders, the kind I want to bite right now. Just a little nibble. That’s all, I tell myself. He’s got miles of muscle, and he’s stout, too, his abs not the no-carbs, no-fun, ridged kind, but the not-too-skinny, not-too-fat, not-gonna-make-you-feel-unworthy kind. In short, he’s 100 percent grade-A that man.
I feather kisses down his neck, while he cups my girls with reverence. I haven’t had a man this enamored, this worshipful of my body since I don’t know how long. If ever.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear. “Completely gorgeous.”
The words feel like liquid molten lava straight to my core. They light me up from the inside, powering up all my buttons, sending electric sparks to every nerve ending in my body. Jack stands then, and I fight the urge to zip down his fly and show him just how much I appreciate him, but before I can, he reaches down, and puts my hands behind his neck. His gaze meets mine.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he says, and then he reaches down beneath my butt and lifts me, and I let him. I wrap my legs around him, only vaguely aware of the fact that I’m wearing only tights and a thong beneath.
“Yes,” I croak. “Let’s go.”
I’m kissing him, our bare chests pressed together as he carries me toward my bedroom. Jack kicks open the door like a lumberjack who doesn’t have the time or patience to use a doorknob. I only vaguely register Larry as he scrambles out of the way and runs into the living room. Jack kicks shut the door, and lays me down like a queen he plans to worship.
He stands at the foot of the bed and slowly unzips his fly, his jeans dropping to the floor. And I see him.
In all his bare glory. And there is lots. And lots. Of glory.
So.
Much.
Glory.
I push myself up on my elbows, and my jaw drops so hard I can hear the joint pop.
Did I mention the glory?
“Is this okay?” he asks me. And I know he means sex. In general. Because he’s getting consent, but it also sounds like he’s asking if his glory is okay.
“It’s more than okay,” I manage. Only then do I remember the condoms I keep in my bedside drawer. “Uh … I’ve got condoms…” I try to reach for the drawer, preparing myself for the backlash. The “I don’t like condoms” or “Do we have to” or “I really don’t like the feel of them” discussions that usually follow my attempts to practice safe sex. Most guys cave after small pushback, but I had one who outright refused. “I don’t believe in them,” he had said, as if condoms were like Santa Claus or organized religion. There’s nothing to believe in. They’re latex. They protect against a bevy of STDs. But, no, he was adamant. So I showed him the door.
Jack, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. He reaches for the drawer and grabs one silently, one of only a few magnum-sized swimming around in the drawer from a gag gift I got from Nami’s bachelorette party last month. I never really thought I’d ever use them, except maybe to try my hand at making balloon animals. In seconds, he’s got it unsheathed and rolled down his impressiveness.
I already knew Marley was on the small side. And Dan was about average, but this … this in front of me. Hell, it’s a whole other category. Super-sized.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks me. “I just want to be sure you’re sure.” He hesitates as he stands between my spread legs, his glory completely at attention.
“Yes,” I say. “Oh, hell, yes.”
I wake up the next morning feeling wrapped in the perfect cocoon of snuggly warmth and realize that Jack has his beefy arms around me in bed, spooning me from behind, and there’s literally not a better feeling in the world. I’m sore, the very best kind of sore, from a night filled with the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. The kind of sex that makes me realize for all my adult life, I’ve been doing it wrong.
With the wrong people.
Because this sex, this amazing, electric sex, should never, ever be boycotted.
I close my eyes and lean back into Jack’s strong, muscled chest and inhale, listening to his deep, rhythmic breaths. He’s still sleeping. Then my phone dings with an incoming message.
I think about ignoring it. Why break this beautiful moment? Why risk rousing Jack? But curiosity gets the best of me. I glance at the face of my phone and see Arial’s name.
Hey, Sora. Great news. Solo February is going bananas. I’ve got your extra-hefty freelance check. Thought I’d stop by and give it to you in person? I can drop by your condo on my way to work?
Wait. What?
Before I can text back that I’m indisposed, my buzzer sounds.
It sounds like a goose dying a horrible death, and also, taking my dreams of a full-time magazine writing gig with benefits down the drain with it. Larry barks, too, a reflex to hearing the buzzer. I glance behind me, at Jack’s big, naked body.
I am pretty sure if Arial sees Jack in my bed … that check will be canceled. Immediately.
I sit up, feeling like a cold bucket of reality just fell on my head, as I scramble to reach for my clothes on the floor. Then hobble on my still-tender ankle to the door buzzer, hitting the intercom. Larry meets me in the living room, trying to get to the door, but running into the small foyer table instead, making the glass bowl where I keep my keys and mail wobble.
“Hello? Arial?”
“Yes? Can you buzz me up?” she answers.
“I’m … I’m not dressed.” That’s an understatement. I have no underwear on and only my oversize T-shirt, which, I notice, is inside out and backward. Plus, my condo smells like sex and wine. Larry barks once more. Even he agrees it’s a bad idea. “So sweet of you to bring the check by, but you can just leave it on the mailboxes!”
“Oh?” Arial sounds disappointed. “But I’ve got some other news to tell you. I’ll just be one second? I promise?”
Damn it. I can’t tell my boss no. That would seem weird. But … I have a naked man in my condo, which I do not think she’d appreciate. I hit the buzzer, and then I notice my bedroom door is open a crack, and somehow, Jack still seems to be asleep because I see his big, bare man foot hanging off the corner of my bed. I rush over and close the door, and by the time I get to the front door, I hear Arial on the steps, and then there’s a quick rap on my door. I swing it open, holding it like a shield in front of me.
Arial’s eyes widen in surprise. “I am so sorry? I know you’re getting dressed. I just have the check, but I also have super fun news that I wanted to deliver in person!”
“You really didn’t have to come.” Wouldn’t a Zoom call and a stamped envelope have done it?
“I wanted to? Because Solo February is like, an amazing smash? They want you to go on Let’s Talk!”
I blink. That’s my mom’s favorite morning show. I think it’s every mom’s favorite morning show. They offer a book club, a Steal this Deal! segment, and real-time makeovers for studio audience members at least once a month.
“They do?”
“Yes! Oh, and here’s your check?” She hands a manila envelope through the cracked door. I take it.
“Oh, that’s so sweet. So thoughtful. Okay, well, bye!” I swipe it out of her hands and try to close the door.
“Wait! Can I come in?”
“Uh. No!” Arial jumps. “I mean, my stomach. It’s not feeling so great. I’m a little hungover.”
“It won’t take long?” Arial promises. “I thought maybe we could chat about what you could wear? I mean, if you need to borrow something from The Closet, I have tons of options.”
She glances over my shoulder into my apartment. I look backward, too, afraid. That’s when I see … the two empty wineglasses on my coffee table. And the overturned boxes of Valentine’s Day candy … and even worse, Jack’s very large black boots, clearly not mine, near my couch. And his peacoat. And … is that his shirt? And … my bra?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Did you … have a party last night?” Arial asks innocently, her blue eyes sweeping the room and settling on Jack’s boots. How am I going to explain those?
“Yes. Party. Galentine’s.” I grin, anxious.
“Are those … your boots?” she asks. “They look … big?”
“Uh. Yeah. My … uh … dad’s actually. I keep them around for … uh … shoveling snow.” Lies. So many lies. “And I haven’t had time to clean up since the … party.”
Oh, Lord. Larry is headed over to my bra. He sniffs at it. I pray Arial hasn’t noticed he’s inspecting my lingerie.
“The party for two?”
“Uh … yeah. Just one girlfriend.” Cold sweat trickles down my back. Flop sweat breaks out all over the rest of my body. Arial sees right through me. Ack.
Larry’s back at the front door. He dips down and licks her shoelaces.
“Larry!” I push him back in. “Sorry about that,” I apologize to Arial. “Look, sorry. My stomach! Oh, I am so hungover … I really need to go.” I need to close this door. Now.
“Oh! Okay, well then, just let me know if you need anything?” Just then, back in the bedroom, I hear Jack yawn. A monstrous, Tarzan-like, chandelier-shaking yawn.
Arial and I freeze. Larry’s head whips back and he stares at the bedroom.
“What was that?” Arial asks.
“What was what?” Playing dumb is my only hope. Larry trots over to the bedroom and scratches at the door.
“That sounded like a man yawning. In your bedroom.”
“Oh? That?” Think. Think. Think. “Uh … probably my neighbor. My walls are like … paper thin.”
“Really?” The skepticism in Arial’s voice could fill a Russian novel.
I try to push the door closed, but Arial is not moving her foot. Her brown boot stays wedged in there like a designer bootie of doom.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’m going to be sick!” I hear my bedroom door creak open, and pure adrenaline rushes into my veins. “You have to go! Sorry!” I push Arial back a step and she wobbles back over my threshold, shocked.
“Whoa?” she cries, arms pinwheeling as I slam the door shut and throw myself against it, just as my bedroom door swings open. Jack comes wandering into my kitchen, clad only in his boxer briefs, dark hair tousled, sexy beardstache rumpled, and looking like the sex god he is. I’m panting, back against my front door, and I put a finger to my lips, gesturing for him to be quiet.
“Um, Sora?” I hear Arial’s voice outside. “That was … uh, weird? But hope you feel better soon. I’ll send you info on the talk show? Okay? We can coordinate your outfit?”
“Sorry! My stomach!” I cry, hoping that excuse is good enough for strong-arming my boss.
“Oh, uh? Feel better?” Then I hear Arial’s footsteps retreat down my stairs. Thank God.
I glance at the gorgeous and mostly naked Jack Mann.
That was close. Too damn close.
“Uh … good morning?” he offers tentatively. “Is everything okay?”