21. My First Sex Errand
MY FIRST SEX ERRAND
Mark
Maybe someone switched bodies with me last night, since this hardly feels like my life. Asher and I eat Cubanos at a sidewalk café by the beach. Ocean waves gently lap the shore in the distance, and pop music saturates the warm air.
With a napkin, Asher wipes the remains of his sandwich from his lips, then says, “Just as good as I imagined they’d be.”
“Same here,” I say, as I ball up a napkin.
He runs a finger across the top of my hand. I shiver. “Mmm. Too many errands,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I say.
“But now that we’ve had our lunch detour, it’s time to hit the bakery,” he says.
We rise, weaving through the early afternoon crowds, chatting about lunch, and Miami, and beaches. “You’ve been to Miami before?” he asks.
“Sort of. Sure. But only on business. I never go to the beach. I’m always in a conference room.”
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “I’m going to have to stage an intervention.”
“I think you already have,” I insist, and he smiles.
The moment is so easy. So normal. Us, surrounded by tanned bodies in the sunshine.
But then, this whole scene must be normal to him. Going out. Dancing through life. Seeing men in New York whenever he wants.
I wince at the thought.
“You okay, Banks?”
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about me.
No way am I letting on that my mind meandered to his romantic life. Nope. I don’t want to know anything about it or how I fit, since this thing between us is not romantic.
It’s a fling. Just Cubanos and sex and errands.
“I’m all good,” I say, and we resume our path to Coco’s Cakes.
Amidst the scent of sugar and frosting, the tanned, curvy baker slinks up to us, all hips and shimmery body lotion, the swell of her breasts visible in a halter top.
Normally, I’d sneak a peek. But I’m on a mission, checking off tasks as I count down to sex o’clock. Only a few more hours till I can get this man alone.
“And this is the tropical coconut cake your sister hand selected,” Coco says, then slides between us at a tiny white wooden table, nibbling on the corner of her lips. “It tastes so decadent. Try it. It’s like a delicious explosion on your tongue.”
Asher chuckles, taking the fork from her. “Good thing I like explosions on my tongue. And I believe my friend Mark was saying the same thing last night.”
Shaking my head, I hold in a laugh. He nudges my foot under the white table, like I didn’t know what he meant.
“Yes, Asher, I said that ,” I reply.
“Try this one then,” she says to me. “The frosting is so rich and creamy.”
“I love it nice and thick,” Asher says, laying it on, well, thick.
And making it very difficult not to laugh as I try the frosting.
It’s sinful, and I tell Coco as much.
“So you definitely like the taste?” Asher asks me, his tone dripping with sex.
So much that my dick sits up and takes notice, hardening in my shorts. “Yes,” I say, since why waste words when I am so damn ready to be done?
“It’s orgasmically delicious,” Coco chimes in.
Now I’m only thinking of orgasms, and I’m at a loss as to what to say to the baker, and why I’m even here.
But Asher's not. “Thank you again, Coco. The cake is great. We’d love a Saturday morning delivery as planned. And now we need to go,” Asher says abruptly. He grabs my hand and tugs me up, and we leave in seconds flat.
“We didn’t get to finish . . . the whole thing,” I point out, but I’m not even sure what I needed to do in there since my mind is filled with rich and creamy thoughts.
“Finish what, Banks? The cake was amazing. Your sister picked it out. And I want to get you the fuck out of here and do bad things to you,” he says on the streets of Miami, teasing at the bottom of my T-shirt, sending a fresh wave of goose bumps down my arms. “You don’t always have to negotiate.
Sometimes, it’s quicker if you don’t,” he says, using my words from earlier.
“Then, you can just leave, so you can get to the good stuff in life.”
And . . . he has a point. Asher insists on enjoying things, and that’s not a bad way for me to live for the next few days. When I return to New York, I’ll return to my way? complete control.
“What’s the good stuff?” I ask, as his hand curls over my ass as we walk.
This man is into touching me in public, and I like it.
He whispers in my ear. 14C, 17B, 22F . Why the hell do we have to see the officiant now?
Errands hate me.
An hour that lasts a lifetime later, we’re done with the officiant, and I rush down the steps of the office building.
I race to the car, and take the driver’s seat. I will speed home now. I will engage the turbo thrusters or what-the-fuck-ever. I don’t care. “Let’s go,” I call out, since Asher’s ten feet away, and why are his feet made of molasses?
Sauntering, Asher takes his sweet-ass time, then gets in the car like we’re sitting on the porch in the summer, frittering away the day. As he shuts the door, he flashes me a smile. “Got somewhere to be?”
I groan in misery. The sun is dipping on the horizon, and I want to return to the mansion and get naked with him. Screw, and then order dinner, and screw, and then swim, and screw. “Yes. In bed. With you. Now.”
I enter the address, hit go on Waze, then pull away from the curb.
A block later, Asher gestures lazily to a side street. “Take a right.”
I point at the concrete ribbon in front of us. “Dude. That’s wrong. The GPS says go straight.”
“Just turn right.”
“No, that’s not the most direct route.” I’m horny as fuck, and it’s all his fault.
“Trust me. I’m not wrong about this.”
I huff out a breath. “You are.”
He drapes an arm around my shoulder, squeezes. “If you know what’s good for you, turn here.”
“This is not good for me,” I grit out, but I listen.
“It is, Banks. It is .”
I turn, and he points to . . . a freaking CVS.
Flicking the signal, I pull into the lot. “Seriously? Do you need shampoo? Shaving cream? Deodorant? Is that what can’t wait?”
His lips curve into the smirkiest smirk of all time. “And to think I was going to tell you. Not sure I will now.”
When I park, he gets out of the car, tips his forehead to the pharmacy. I follow him, because of course I do. He’s where I want to be.
Asher strides through the air-conditioned store with purpose. He does everything with purpose, and he’s hell-bent on passing the gum aisle, the aspirin row, the lotion shelves. Till he turns down . . . oh . . .
Oh, yes.
This is the best errand of my life.
Asher doesn’t even look at me. Just swaggers down the aisle to the condom display. When he stops and reaches for a box, all the air evacuates my lungs as reality hits me squarely in the chest.
I’m going to have sex with a hot man.
This hot man.
I don’t know if we’ll do it tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next night. But it’s happening. It is on. I can barely breathe, I want it so badly.
Want him so badly.
My face goes up in flames as I stop next to him, catch a faint hint of that rainfall and summer breeze smell. What does he smell like when he’s fucking?
Don’t know, but I’m going to find out.
I nearly sway. I may topple over from desire and turn into a puddle on the floor of CVS.
He turns to me, steps closer, brushes his jaw along mine, dips his mouth to my ear. “Like my errand now, Banks?”
My bones melt. “Uh-huh.”
As he pulls back, he locks eyes with me. His flash with dirty deeds. “Some of your list items require lube.”
I say nothing because if I tried to speak, all I would do is croak.
“Now, do you think it’s a good idea we . . . came here?”
It’s the best idea ever , I want to shout.
But there’s no way I can speak without sounding like an overeager teenager who just discovered his first X-rated video. I simply nod, though I can’t hide the smile that’s taking over my face.
I, Mark Banks, am on a sex errand.
My lips twitch and they don’t stop.
“Ah, so errands do get you hot?” Asher teases.
I tug at my T-shirt. “A little.”
He stares at my neck, then his eyes sweep down my body, landing at my crotch. “A lot.”
I just nod several times, giving in. “ Yeah. A lot ,” I say, and I’m in a trance.
But a question hangs over my head. How exactly are we doing it?
Like I did last night when I asked him to dance, I dive into the deep end. “Asher,” I ask, in front of the extra-large condoms, since that seems fitting. “What you said in the car yesterday about not being a control freak. Were you alluding to . . .”
Asher laughs. “Yes, I was.”
And I should know how to do this. This is a negotiation, after all. But I have no clue how this works.
Something else nags at me, though. I don’t know exactly what I want in bed either when it comes to . . .
So I’m quiet because I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
Maybe sensing I need him to handle the conversational reins, he takes them and speaks again. “Let me help you. Do you want to know if I’ll top or bottom?”
Just hearing him ask the question fuels me. I have to know. I have to say those words to him. “Well? Will you?”
He strips away the teasing from his tone. “Like I said yesterday, I’m good with anything. What about you? Do you want to fuck me or do you want me to fuck you?”
Images of us tangled together flash before my eyes. I drag a hand along the back of my neck. I am lava. “All of the above. I think.”
He brandishes the box of protection. “Then we really should buy these right now. And some top-shelf lube.”
“We should,” I agree, as he reaches for a bottle. There’s an issue though. “Trouble is, I don’t think I can move for a while.”
He smiles slyly. “So you really do like my big charm?”
I like it so much, it’s frying my brain cells. I’m a starving man at an incredible feast. Asher’s offering me everything and anything, and I can pick and choose at the buffet of his body.
“Sometimes,” I say, lying and he knows it.
He leans in and I expect him to say all the time . But he doesn’t. Instead, he whispers, “ Je te veux tellement .”
I don’t know French. But I have a feeling that means something like I want you .
It also means he’s figured out his French turns me on.