Ash
On the rare occasions my dad spoke to me instead of yelled, it was almost always about how you have to be prepared.
“You never know what’s going to happen,” he always said. “You gotta be ready for it.”
I don’t know where he got all his bullshit about being prepared. He never served in the military. He was never even in Boy
Scouts. When shit got real at home or even at his office, he always headed straight for a bottle of bourbon. He was the least
prepared of anyone I ever met.
I took his advice, though. I always try to prepare for the unexpected.
But nothing could have prepared me for being kissed by Francesca Giovanni.
She didn’t just kiss me, either. She pressed her body up against me. I could feel everything through the material of that
dress. It fit her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Then, as quickly as her lips—and body—pressed against mine, she was gone, releasing me and jumping back to nervously tuck a strand of that long dark hair behind her ear. She isn’t used to wearing it loose.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Was that okay?”
“That was more than okay!” I hope I sound enthusiastic enough. My voice has gotten a little hoarse, maybe because when she kissed me, I
could feel her nipples pressing against me through the feather-soft material of her dress. They were as hard as they’d looked
this morning when she’d been in her swimsuit, only this time, I don’t think it’s because she’s cold. I’m hard as a rock, too,
and it has nothing to do with the temperature.
Maybe she’s noticed this, since she takes another step away from me, this time toward her house.
But if I thought it was because she’s calling it a night, I’m soon corrected.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s do this.”
I just stand there staring at her. She can’t be talking about what I think she’s talking about.
“Do you not want to?” she asks, her eyebrows raised questioningly.
“I—” I have no idea what to say. Because I have no idea what’s going on. I consider myself a fairly smart guy, but this is
above my pay grade. “I—”
“It’s abundantly clear we’re attracted to one another,” she says, her gaze on the front of my jeans. Oh, okay. So she noticed.
“If two people have physical chemistry and aren’t in a romantic relationship with anyone else who might be hurt by it, I see
no reason for them not to see if that chemistry leads somewhere. I have a feeling we might be compatible . . . at least for
sex. You’re not in a relationship, are you?”
I say, now with maybe a little too much enthusiasm, “Absolutely not.”
“Me, either. And I’m assuming you’re up-to-date on your screenings for STIs?”
“Got tested at my checkup last month,” I tell her. I try to keep my tone casual, but it’s tough. I might be about to have
sex with Dr. Francesca Giovanni. “Clean bill of health. And no partners since.”
“That’s great. Me, too. I don’t see any reason for us to make a big deal out of this. We’re both reasonably young and in good
shape, and people who are sexually active are less stressed, and therefore have lower risk of both heart disease and dementia.”
This is a new one for me. I’ve been propositioned before. I like to think I’m pretty sexually adventurous. I was even in a
threesome once (in Berlin with two girls who seemed a lot more interested in each other than they were in me, but hey, it
was an honor just to be asked).
Yet this is the first time any woman has suggested having sex because it’s part of her heart-healthy lifestyle.
But it makes sense a doctor would feel this way.
“Sounds good to me,” I say, and give a shrug like I get propositioned by my hot doctor neighbors all the time.
“Great,” she says. “Let’s go.”
She turns around and heads toward her house, not looking back to see if I’m following.
But I’m following, all right.
The moon is so high above the trees now that the whole street is cast in a silvery light. The same light causes Frankie’s
hair to look almost blue—at least until she climbs the steps to her front porch. Then the yellow light from the lamp she’s
left on in her living room turns it back to its normal color.
“Be careful of the cat,” she says to me over her shoulder as she unlocks the front door. “She’s just waiting for a chance to escape back to her life outdoors.”
“Do you even remember who you’re talking to?”
“Oh, right.” Her tone sounds wry. “You’re the cat whisperer. Sorry about that.”
She gets the door open, and the cat does, indeed, make a run for it.
But I’m too fast for cats—especially when I’m motivated like I am now.
“Got her,” I say, easily catching the little creature and tucking her beneath my arm like a football as I follow Frankie inside.
The cat, furious, tries to kick me with her hind legs, but that only makes me hold her more tightly. Nice try, kitty. But
nothing—not even you—is keeping me from having sex with your owner.
“Thanks.” Frankie goes inside and drops her keys and bag. “Drink? I might have some beer in—”
I close the door behind me, lock it, put down the cat—sorry, sucker—and cross the room to cup Frankie’s face in my hands.
I have it on certain authority that girls love it when you do this.
Except Frankie, apparently.
“Uh,” she says. “First let me get out of this dress.”
I instantly release her face. “Sorry,” I say. “Should I . . .” I start peeling off my jacket while Frankie watches, a bemused
look on her face.
“Okay,” she says when I start on the buttons to my shirt. “So . . . nothing to drink, then?”
“I’m good,” I say, and rip off my shirt.
Frankie was petting the cat. But when I take off my shirt, I see her fingers still on the cat’s fur, and her eyes widen slightly at the sight of my naked chest.
Hey, she may swim to Center Island and back every day, but I have a personal trainer. Rocco makes sure I never skip a leg
day. Or any other day.
“Carry you into the bedroom?” I ask, even though I know what she’s going to say. I do try to be polite to all my sexual partners,
however, and give them the option. Plus I want to make sure we’re having bedroom sex and not doing it out here in the living
room like animals. Although that would be fine with me, too. But I really do want to see her bedroom.
“I think I can walk,” she says, and starts heading toward the back of the house.
I keep myself from saying anything too embarrassing—such as hot diggity dog—and follow her into the Promised Land.
Frankie’s bedroom is even better than I’d imagined. Her bed is huge—a California king—the light is low . . . but not so low
that I can’t see the massive flat-screen on the wall and the remote control on the nightstand beside . . . is that a bowl
of popcorn?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I need to get my game face on.
Frankie is taking off her boots. I want to impress her with my gentlemanly manners, so I cross the room to help unzip her
dress.
“Oh, thanks,” she says when I seize the long ribbon attached to the zipper, and she realizes what I’m doing. She lifts all
her long, dark hair and turns so she’s standing with her back to me, exposing the tender skin of her neck, one of the most
erotic (in my opinion) places on a woman’s body.
There’s a possibility I may have groaned, because she asks, “Everything okay back there?”
I press my lips to the warm, smooth skin on the nape of her neck. She smells of her shampoo, light and coconutty, and of woman, earthy and clean.
“You have no idea,” I say when I lift my head, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Kiss the back of my neck?”
“Kiss you, in general. I’m not choosy where.”
She sounds surprised. “Really?”
“How could you not know?” I’m pulling the zipper down, watching as the red material parts and reveals more and more of her
smooth, tanned back. “I thought I was pretty obvious.”
Now she sounds amused. “Nothing about you is obvious, Ash.”
“That’s good to know.” The zipper has lowered enough to reveal she’s wearing a black bra. A black lace bra, which happens to be my favorite. Although any bra is my favorite bra. “I feel like I’m pretty much an open book.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes.” Now the zipper has gone so low I can see her panties. They’re black lace, too, and match the bra. I feel a spurt
of pure, unadulterated lust shoot through me. I want to grab the back of those panties with my teeth and yank them down over
that taut, heart-shaped ass I’ve been admiring from afar for so long.
Only I don’t want to scare her. So I settle for running my hands over that ass. It’s everything I’d hoped it would be, and
more . . . especially when she arches her back and leans into me with a sigh.
“I’ve been told I’m actually a pretty funny and charming guy,” I whisper in her ear.
“Oh, yeah?” She turns around in my arms to face me. The red dress, completely unzipped, falls to her bedroom floor. “Has anyone
ever told you that you talk too much?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” To be honest, I’m not really paying that much attention to the conversation. The view is too impressive. “Do I?”
“Yes,” she says, and slips her arms around my neck. Her eyes, when she looks up at me, are heavy-lidded with something I’m
hoping is desire. “All I do all day long is listen to people talk. It’s a fulfilling job, and I love it . . . but sometimes
all I want is a little quiet.” She leans against me, rises up on her tiptoes, and kisses my earlobe. “Is that okay?”
“I can be quiet,” I assure her. I tighten my grip on her ass and lift her up so I can carry her to the big, wide bed a few
feet away. “You’ll be amazed at how fucking quiet I can be.”
And then I show her.