One Night Hand Stand

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Case

If I tell her the truth about how we met yesterday, it’ll ruin everything.

Occupying my mouth with my dinner is a lovely, gustatorial pleasure, but I can think of so many more pleasurable ways to use my tongue, all of them involving sweet, succulent parts of Ms. Sarah Gorenta.

And the sounds she’ll make while I do it.

Never before have I been on a date that was so… aligned. Sarah is everything I could ever want in a woman. As we sit across from each other, happily eating, she’s a tad nervous but that is fading quickly.

We’ve seen each other naked. I know what her ass feels like when I grip it with my hands and pull her closer to taste her sweet, swollen clit. That thought rips through me as I finish my lobster and suddenly, none of the food matters.

No matter how phenomenal it is.

Getting the hell out of here and having lots of hot sex back at my apartment is now my singular goal. We’ve been here for thirty minutes, the last five of them eating our main course, and already Sarah has brought up ass play, rimming, and apparently my accent makes me an honorary gynecologist.

Her legs are the only ones I want to be between.

She’s gotten vulnerable and personal, which makes me fall for her even more.

This is objectively strange.

My database of experience with women is large enough to be able to compare, and I can conclusively state that Sarah and I have chemistry that is so profound we should be wearing hazmat suits to contain all the spontaneous reactions.

Or… something like that.

Bottom line: this is special. She is special. The way I feel when I am with her is more than special, from her secret stash of sugar in a snooty yoga class to the way she tugs my hair when I go down on her to her confession about Merlot and Pinot Noir and cheese and crackers.

Special. All of it.

And when you have someone this special in your life, all you want to do is spend more time licking her to orgasm.

Then bury yourself in her while she moans for more.

What? You were expecting a profession of love?

That comes later.

I guess. This is new territory.

Every damn lick of it.

A shudder runs through my spine, forcing me to shift my legs, re-crossing them as a wave of heat ripples up my arms.

Love.

Am I really thinking the word love ?

Money, sure. I’ve spent the last seven years of my life singularly focused on it.

It and Stacey. And Jared. And their kids.

I wish I’d spent less time on money and more on family, but some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

Sarah’s a lesson I sense I’ll learn the hard way as well, though given how hard I am at this moment, I’m not sure how this could get more frustrating. Wanting her now, immediately, no delays – it makes the meal seem inconsequential.

“That was the best thing I’ve put in my mouth in ages,” she says as she sets down her fork and smiles at me.

I clear my throat, looking openly at my lap. “I’m so sorry to have disappointed last night.”

Cute, how her brow crinkles like that in confusion. Then she gets it.

“Oh! Hah.” Here comes the expected blush. “I rather liked putting your – hmph – in my mouth.”

“We need a better nickname than Hmph .”

“How about Hmph-ry ?”

“Never, ever write comedy, Sarah. Hmph -ry? Really? That sounds like the name of a short little garden troll hidden deep in the moss of some sexton’s back hedgerow.”

“I’ve never named a guy’s – hmph! – before! Give me time. I’ll do better. Promise.”

“You can have all the time in the world. Get acquainted with Mr. Hmph. Let him show you around. Dazzle you. Then give him a name fit for a king.”

She brightens. “How about King Hmph ?”

“I give up.”

“I’m sorry I said this is better in my mouth, but no offense, hmph can’t hold a candle to this.” She gestures at her now-empty plate.

That’s it. My cock will forever be known as Hmph. I can tell already, by the way she grins every time she says it. As someone raised by a Republican – the UK version of that word, thank you very much, meaning someone who wants to abolish the monarchy – having my dick referred to as King anything is going to cause serious psychological problems.

But if it gets me more sex with Sarah, I’ll deal with it.

“Dessert, then?”

She taps her lips with her fingertips, as if deep in thought. “How about just coffee?”

“How about wine and ice cream back at my place?”

“That sounds like a very strange combo. Wouldn’t the wine curdle the cream from the ice cream?”

“Would you prefer I pick up a dozen donuts instead?”

The way she pauses makes me realize I’ve accidentally hit on one of her weaknesses. Oh, goodie.

When I moved to Massachusetts as a teen I was struck by all the donut shops everywhere. It was as if Americans live in a perpetual state of fear that there will be a donut emergency and someone will die without a kruller. You cannot walk half a block in Boston or Cambridge without finding a place known as “Dunkie’s,” aka Dunkin’ Donuts, now known as Dunkin', and the word has turned into a noun replacement for coffee.

People think it’s adorable.

They are all, without exception, Massachusetts natives.

“You would seriously get donuts and wine for dessert?” she asks in a tone of wonder, as if I were suggesting we go backstage at an Ed Sheeran concert to play Mario Kart with Ed for fun.

“Of course. You do realize that dessert will be in bed, yes?”

“Donuts and wine and you? Naked? Did I die and go to heaven?”

“No, but if you let me strip you naked and dive between those luscious legs of yours, I can make you see nirvana.” I clear my throat as she turns into a heat lamp.

“Oh, my God.”

“What’s your favorite donut?”

“Blueberry lemon.” Her voice cracks.

“I would have guessed pumpkin.”

“Yours is Boston cream pie.”

She is right. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I was just hoping.”

Donuts and wine and Sarah for dessert in bed is suddenly one hell of a fantasy, so tantalizingly close in reality.

Waving the server over, I ask for the check, the request met without a single word, all nonverbal cues and understood gestures, Sarah’s eyes lighting up with mischief.

“An entire dozen, huh? You ready for all that sugar, Case? Think your mouth can handle it?”

“I can handle whatever you put in front of my face, Sarah.”

“How about on your face?”

My pants are a prison. I lean in. She follows, and soon our foreheads nearly touch in the middle of the table.

“You are nothing like the quiet woman I met at a bar last night as you were unwinding slowly.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make sweeping generalizations about who I am, Case.”

“How long do I have to know you before I can do so?”

“I don’t measure that in time.”

“Then what?”

“Orgasms.”

“ Orgasms? ”

“Yes.”

“What is my metric, then?”

“One hundred.”

“Once I’ve given you one hundred orgasms, then I am allowed to make general observations about your personality.”

“Yes.”

“How many did you have last night?”

“Somewhere between seven and forty.”

“Hmmm. That’s not enough. I need to fix that.” I give her a look. “And you need to work on your estimation ability.”

The server slides our check onto the table in a small plastic tray, eyes pinging between us as if we’re about to be featured on some secret Discord channel in story form after her shift ends.

Or worse: she’s been secretly recording us for her TikTok.

I take out my wallet and beat Sarah to the bill, mere milliseconds ahead of her.

“Hey!”

Ignoring that, I give the server my card. She pulls a small reader off a belt around her waist, as if she’s a gunslinger for Visa merchant accounts. I’m handed the machine and enter an outrageously large tip, finishing the transaction as my cock wonders if Sarah would stack donuts on it and eat them one by one, top to bottom.

Or bottom to top. Doesn’t much matter. Switching is fun.

“Thank you,” the server purrs, and I stand, tightening my core, reaching for Sarah’s hand and pulling her close.

“You do mean it?” I check in, just in case.

“Are you trying to get out of your promise? You can’t dangle Dunkie’s in front of a Massachusetts girl.” She bites my earlobe. “Besides, I was just remembering what your dick looks like and wondering how it would feel to go down on you with a mouthful of prosecco.”

My body tingles with anticipation, a roar of testosterone pulsing through me like I’m thirteen and came in my pants from watching the wrong Britney Spears video. “Who are you?” I groan.

“Whoever I want to be, tonight, and right now, that’s the woman who has hot donut sex with you, bud.”

Hot donut sex. I have never heard those three words used in a sentence before, and certainly not to describe a night of debauchery.

There is a first for everything.

“Uber first,” I tell her as we rush out of the restaurant, my hand on my phone, thumbing through screens to find the app. “Dunkie’s second.”

“Sexfest third,” she replies with a laugh, on her phone, too. “I’ll order the donuts and have them DoorDashed. You call up an Uber.”

“And I have wine at my place,” I mention, confirming a ride with a white sedan, three minutes away.

“What’s your address?” she asks as I give it to her, glad I’ve had my apartment cleaned today, in anticipation of this.

Not the donut part, though.

“Oh!” Something flashes on her phone screen. “I get five dollars off an order. So many points.”

“Points?”

“I’m a member of the frequent buyer club for Dunkie’s.”

“Why do people call it that?” I ask as she grins at me, the wind picking up, blowing her skirt a bit, showing off those shapely, strong calves. Can’t wait to have those pressed against my kidneys.

“It’s short for Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“I know that. But why not DD?”

“Then people would mistake it for a bra size.”

The only way out of this inane conversation is to kiss her, those lips soft and wet against mine, the little sound she makes in the back of her throat turning me into the kind of man who becomes completely and utterly enchanted by one woman for the rest of his life. Never having been such a man before, this is all new, and as Sarah deliciously cups me from the front, her tongue against mine, her thigh sliding up as it strokes me, I have an epiphany.

With a single blink, I become a different version of myself.

The one who is consumed by Sarah.

The one who is delighted by Sarah.

The one who doesn’t just want to fuck Sarah.

The one who wants her to want me as desperately as I want her.

And who is now wholly devoted to her.

Oh, no.

This is happening.

This is really happening.

And it’s happening with a woman I’m lying to.

Who is lying right back.

But as she sighs against my mouth, the smile on her lips blending into our kiss like happiness can be transferred from one breath to another, our embrace deepening, I have another epiphany.

I don’t care.

I don’t care about the lies.

I just care about her. About feeling more of this. How can I feel this forever?

BEEP!

A white sedan stops, the window rolled down, an old dude who looks like a character actor from a sit-com looking at us.

“You two gonna mash on those stairs or get in the car and bang nasties on a bed like normal people do?” he growls, then grins, a big set of pearly whites shining through a wrinkled face covered in salty stubble. “I’m Nabeel. You Casey?”

“I am,” I say, wondering how to walk down the remaining eight stairs with a pogo stick in my pants.

“I’m your ride,” Nabeel says, the familiar click of unlocked doors cutting through my love haze.

“That’s my line,” Sarah whispers before licking my ear and leaving me a tripod.

“Hmph,” is all I can say, as if I’m trying to speak to my own – oh, bloody hell, now I’m calling it hmph , too.

Her eyebrows go up, so I force myself to follow her, finally getting in the car together. Nabeel recites my address and we’re off, as Sarah checks her phone.

“How long?” Sarah asks me.

“About eight inches.”

She reaches for my lap and strokes me, lingering as she moves slowly. “ Hmph .”

“Twelve minutes,” Nabeel says loudly, startling her into decency.

“Oh! Thanks. DoorDash says twenty-seven.”

“Let me guess. Donuts and wine for dessert?”

We both blink in his rearview mirror, looking like shocked twins.

“How did you know?” Sarah gasps.

“Duh. Boston. Two high fliers. Lemme guess. Second date.”

“Are you – are we being recorded for social media? Is this a stunt?” I ask, my voice rising with a demand.

“God, no. Why would I do that crap? My granddaughters always tell me I should. That TikTok stuff brings in bucks, but I just drive people. Got an eye for how they work. You two look like you’re gonna make it.”

“Is Uber requiring some kind of Advice Columnist test to drive now?” Sarah asks.

“Huh? Why wouldja ask that?”

“Never mind,” Sarah and I say in unison as we hold hands and try to clamp a lid on libidos so powerful we could qualify for the Olympics if there were a category for Pheromones.

“Look, kids, I moved to Boston from Detroit thirty years ago. Been driving a cab, now Uber, for decades. Seen it all. Don’t need no advice columnist credential to tell you how a person is. Takes me fifteen seconds to size up someone. And I can spot a liar like that .”

He snaps his fingers.

Sarah catches my eye, a flicker of doubt rippling through her sweet irises, and in a flash I wonder if Nabeel really does see our mutual deception.

“Detroit?” Sarah says, clearly creating a distraction. “What brought you to Boston?”

“Love.” The word is not uttered happily.

“That sounds like a wonderful reason to move,” she replies politely.

“It was. Until it wasn’t.”

“Oh. You broke up?” Sarah’s keen interest in other people fascinates me. Small talk is useful for business deals, but otherwise, it’s a drain. Yet it seems to fuel her. The more curious she is about others, the more I find her alluring.

“Sorta. My wife decided that she wasn’t happy with our life and wanted a change.”

“Oh.”

“So she decided fucking my brother would give her something different.”

“Eek.”

“My identical twin brother.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“That’s… a lot.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, sweetheart. I walked in on my wife playing doggie style with my own twin. What was I supposed to do? Kill them? Can’t kill my twin. Can’t kill the mother of my kids.”

“What, um – what did you do?”

Sarah’s continuing to ask questions while all I can think about is doggie-style now. Sarah’s bare ass. That view. That unencumbered –

“What do you think I did? Joined in and had a threesome?”

Thanks, Nabeel. My boner’s done now. Buh-bye. Pop! I can hear it whistle as it deflates.

“NO!” Sarah practically shrieks, now leaning forward to press her hands into the seatback, as if she and Nabeel are old buddies. “Of course not. I just – you poor man! I cannot imagine being lied to like that by the person who was supposed to honor and respect me.”

For a split second, the car’s interior warps a bit, as if I’m in a Dali painting. Did she really say what she just said? Am I wrong? Is she not doing an investigative piece on Chakroga123, and by extension, me ?

“Thank you.” Oh, lord. Is he choking up? “You’re a true sweetie. You get it. You ever had your heart ripped out and used as a weapon to tear your guts out like a line of string a kitten shreds with its claws?”

“Ah, no. Not exactly.”

He glares at me. Me!

“You’d better not do that to her!”

“First of all,” I announce, “I would never cheat on someone. And second of all, Sarah doesn’t have an identical twin.”

Shocked silence is all I get from both of them.

I touch her arm. “You don’t, right?”

“Case!” she gasps, blinking so hard her eyelashes look like a hummingbird’s wings.

“What?”

“Just,” Nabeel says, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve. “Just don’t do stupid shit in the name of love, okay? My parents didn’t leave Lebanon all those decades ago and move us to Detroit so one of their sons would end up fucking their other son’s wife and then marrying her.”

“MARRYING HER?” we both shout in horror.

“Yeah.” He sniffs. “My wife and I had two girls. My brother and my ex-wife have two boys. Did you know when identical twins have kids with the same woman, the kids are genetically just brothers and sisters and not cousins? Our family tree turned into an infinity symbol.”

“Learn something new with every Uber.”

Sarah elbows me.

“Nabeel, that’s awful,” she commiserates.

“Yeah. Can you imagine when one of ’em does 23andme or Ancestry?” he says with a sad chuckle.

“I don’t think their software can handle that,” I mutter. Sarah elbows me again.

Her phone buzzes.

“Ooh! Donuts coming earlier,” she chirps.

Nabeel lays on the accelerator. “We gotta beat the donuts, man.”

Thankfully, we do, the car pulling up to my building within minutes. As we scurry out, dazed and filled with more questions than answers, and waaaaay too many images of Nabeel’s family’s sex life, he leans across his front seat and says, “Thanks for listening. Normally I’m the one hearing people moan about stupid shit. It’s nice to reverse roles for once. Don’t forget to leave five stars!”

And with that, he’s off.

We stand in front of my building, now holding hands, blinking in shock.

“Did he just – ”

“Was that story too bizarre – ”

“Identical twins and the same woman – ”

“Was he fucking with us? Because that was – ”

“It’s here!” Sarah says as a very familiar silver Nissan Ultima pulls up, brakes engaged, car turned off.

Sean pops out, big box of donuts in hand.

“You two!”

“Sean?” Sarah gasps, as if he’s an old college buddy and we’re running into him at a corporate clambake on the Cape.

“I do DoorDash between Ubers. Easy money sometimes.” He looks us over. “Successful date, I presume?”

“So far,” I mutter as I take the box from him. It smells like sex.

Not literally. Not like he’s jizzed all over it. The sugary, yeasty scent reminds me that we’re about to crawl into bed with donuts, wine, no clothing, and allllll night to wash away any hint of Nabeel’s story from my traumatized psyche.

“Thanks, Sean,” Sarah says as he shows zero sign of walking away.

He looks at the box, then us. “Donuts and wine for dessert, huh? Havin’ a Dunkie Dunkie Date. Boston style.” The way he juts his hips rhythmically on the second “Dunkie” makes me turn into a ragebeast.

“That’s not a thing,” Sarah begins haltingly.

“BYE, SEAN!” I shout as I take Sarah’s arm and we walk to the front door of my building, my phone app letting us in as I wave the code in front of the sensor. We’re in that in-between time, where people are still out on the town for dinner, but not ready to head home and change to hit the nightclubs.

Which means the foyer and elevator are empty.

“You live here?” she gasps, the marble floor and sleek gray and wood lines making her gape.

“I do.”

“I thought only rich – I mean, I’ve never met anyone who lives in one of these apartments.”

“Your apartment is nice.”

“No. It’s not. It’s really, really not. You’ve seen where I live.”

“I’ve made you come in your apartment. That makes it better than mine.” The elevator dings, doors opening as I guide her in. “Time to even the score.”