chapter one Hello Awkward, My Old Friend #2
We manoeuvre down a hallway until I’m pressed once more against a door. Perfect Guy grinds against me, his hard length so
close to where I need it—but not close enough. He lets go of my ass with one hand to turn the knob beneath it, and the door
swings open so quickly that he almost stumbles and falls. I squeal, preparing to hit the floor. He finds his footing, saving
us just in time.
“That was close,” he murmurs as he unlocks his lips from mine and moves them down my neck.
Too close.
“The bed,” I suggest, hoping there’s less chance of injury once we’re horizontal.
Perfect Guy obliges, carrying me to his well-made bed with a sharp navy duvet and several pillows propped against a walnut headboard.
He lays me gently down, and I take my eyes off him for a moment to scan the room.
Just like the main floor it’s tidy and well-kept, though there is more evidence of masculine energy up here—his dresser is in mild disarray with a few bottles of cologne out of place, his laundry hamper overflowing and spilling to the floor, an empty whisky tumbler on his nightstand next to a wineglass. Is that lipstick on the rim?
Doesn’t matter.
I look back at Perfect Guy, who stares down at me in a dominating position. One of my thighs is on either side of his, and
he towers atop me as I’m sprawled out on his bed. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and his hands have stilled on my
knees, pausing as if uncertain.
“Your shirt,” I suggest with a nod of my chin.
His hands leave my legs and move to the buttons, undoing one at a time, taunting and slow. Too slow. I sit up so that my chest
is flush with the tent pressing at the seam of his pants and look up at him through my eyelashes. I take over the buttons,
undoing them much faster, revealing each bump of his abdominal muscles that meet at a delicious V-shape disappearing into
the waistband of his slacks, along with a delightful trail of short, coarse brown hair.
I peel his shirt off and toss it in the general direction of his laundry hamper. Forget leg day and cardio day; this guy must
be doing HIIT training or some shit, because damn. I didn’t think men like this existed in the wild. Don’t you need to be in some sort of ridiculous calorie deficit to have
your abs pop out like this? It’s not just his abs, but his arms, too. He has all those fabulous veins and tendons coiling
around his forearms up to biceps so thick I don’t think I could wrap two hands around them.
Generally, I’m not shy when it comes to getting naked in front of another person. I have an ass and tits and usually that’s what men like to see in their heterosexual partnerships, but I didn’t expect to be stripping in front of a swimsuit model.
Perfect Guy takes over, as if sensing my uncertainty. His long fingers deftly trace the line of my abdomen where my shirt
ends, alighting my skin with tingles. He peels my shirt up and off, then drops it to the floor near his nightstand.
His eyes are drawn immediately to my cleavage, pressed together by the best bra I own, all black lace and crisscrossing straps.
I went to that pub for one reason and one reason only, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to put my best foot forward with
my expensive matching lingerie set.
“May I?” he asks, his hands hovering close to my breasts.
In response I take his hands and press them against my skin. He sucks in a shallow breath as his thumbs stroke over my nipples,
watching them harden beneath the fabric of my bra.
Gripping his hip with one hand, I reach for the outline of his cock with my other, pausing mere inches away. I look up at
him and parrot, “May I?”
He chuckles, the notes low and masculine. Then, just like I did, he takes my hand in his, then presses it firmly against his
cock. It flexes beneath my touch, boasting a considerable length and girth . . . why am I not surprised Perfect Guy would
have the perfect package?
After spending several tantalizing moments of exploring each other’s bodies through our clothes, I push us to the next phase
in our adventure. Leaning back, I unbutton my pants and lift my hips to tug them down over my ass. He takes it from there,
pulling them down past my feet and tossing them to the floor.
His hands skim down my belly to the line of my panties, his fingers tracing the elastic on my waist, then around my thighs,
and I find myself holding my breath as he draws nearer my centre, then avoids it entirely to move lower down my legs.
As much as I’d like to take things slowly with him, the longer I’m here, the greater the risk of something going wrong.
I sit up quickly and push him back with a firm hand on his impressive abdominal muscles. Then, with a flash of a coy smile,
I slide off the bed and kneel between his feet. I run my hands from his thighs, over his cock, and up to his abs, then back
down, relishing how his body shivers in response to my touch.
Then, I unbutton his trousers and pull his zipper down. Unlike Perfect Guy, who was slow and gentle with me, I waste no time
in removing his pants. Instead, I shuck them down to his hips, just low enough to reveal his tight black briefs. His cock
strains against the thin, silky fabric, and a delightful wet spot reveals just how eager he is to be with me. I play at his
waistband, letting my fingers slide between his skin and the fabric, before pulling it down inch by delightful inch, until
his impressive cock springs free. It’s a shame I’ll only ever be with him this once. Better make the best of it, and quickly,
too, before something happens and—
“I’m home!” A feminine voice echoes through his house as the front door slams shut.
I gape up at Perfect Guy, who looks down at me with wide eyes.
The overly clean house. The feminine touches to the decor. The fucking lipstick on his wineglass.
“You’re married!” I sputter. Of course he is. How could he not be? Before he has time to respond, I aggressively pull his
pants on and tug his zipper back up. Perfect Guy screams in pain as he grabs his crotch and stumbles backward. He backs into
his nightstand, knocking the wineglass over, which shatters on the floor.
Footsteps clomp up the stairs. Shit, I’m going to be caught in nothing but my bra and panties with a dude who’s cheating on his wife.
Yep, sounds about right. I stand quickly and twist around, searching for my pants.
Where the fuck are my pants? I duck down and find them kicked halfway beneath the bed.
I slip one foot in and start hopping on the other foot as I try
to balance and pull them on.
The bedroom door swings open so hard that it hits the opposite wall with a loud bang. A short woman with shoulder-length brown
hair rushes in and slides to a stop, frozen in place as she takes in the scene before her.
Perfect Guy is too busy screaming and clutching his genitals to do or say anything, and I’m still hopping on one foot trying
to pull on my pants, when I step on a piece of glass.
“Mother fu—” I cry, before tripping on my pant leg and falling toward the woman, smacking my head right into her face.
“Jesus Chr—” The woman stumbles and the two of us collapse onto the floor in a tangled heap.
I roll off her and sit up, reaching for my foot, which has a sizable shard of glass sticking out the bottom of it and a thin
trail of blood. The woman beside me sits up, too, and she pulls her hands away from her face to find blood coating them. Oh my god, is her nose crooked now? I wrecked her home and broke her nose all in one fell swoop.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I cry out, bringing my hands toward her before pulling them away, and then reaching for her again,
uncertain of what I should be doing. “He didn’t tell me he was married! I never would have come here if—”
The woman clutches her face. “Married? I’m his sister!”
My heart stutters. His . . . sister? I look from the woman sitting on the floor with her broken, bloody nose, to Perfect Guy leaning against his nightstand whimpering
in pain.
“Olsen, are you okay?” The woman asks. She tries to stand but wobbles and falls against the wall.
Oh yeah, his name’s Olsen. I was close.
“Sit down,” I tell the woman. “Just in case you pass out. And there’s broken glass all over the floor.”
With shaking fingers, I pull the shard of glass in my foot free. Blood puddles on the floor. I’ll probably need stitches,
but it’s not so bad as to cause me any real harm—unlike Olsen and his poor sister.
I limp toward Olsen, careful to avoid the glass. “What happened?”
“The zipper, it . . .” He moves his hand so I can look.
“Oh my god.” Bile rises in my throat. “Your dick is caught in the zipper.”
Olsen’s face turns a shade of greenish grey. I reach for his shoulders and guide him toward the bed, forcing him to sit. He
cries out as he leans back, trying not to stretch or move the tender flesh caught in the metal teeth of his pants.
I look over at the woman, sitting on the floor and covering her nose with blood streaming from her face down her arm, then
to Olsen, whimpering as he cups his sensitive genitals, and then down at myself, still in my bra and panties with one foot
in my pants, the other leaving bloody footprints with every step I take.
Yep, this seems about right.
“Well,” I sigh, “we should probably go to the hospital.”
Ten minutes later I’ve managed to help Olsen and his sister down the stairs and into her car, which is parked out front. I
take the front seat and drive as carefully as I can, thankful that it was my left foot that was sliced open so that we can
all avoid waiting for an ambulance. Olsen lies across the back seat, clutching a bag of frozen peas to his junk and moaning
with every bump in the road. His sister is next to me with a bloodied washcloth pressed against her face, her eyes set sternly
forward on the road ahead. We sit in silence for the entire twenty-minute drive to the hospital.
Hello awkward, my old friend.