Again, I was distracted from my work.
This pattern was already old, despite its newness. It pissed me off. I hadn’t wanted Nate to invade my space, and that included my office space. He didn’t belong there, lingering in my head, feathering through my thoughts, causing me to mix up the Pershing file with the Parson file and twice to put the wrong color-coding on Hudson’s calendar.
And still, I longed for Nate to call.
I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to say new things to him. I wanted to be a different person than the person that I was, and maybe then I’d find a compromise between us.
After a couple of silent days had passed, I wondered if I should call or text him myself. I’d told him I wasn’t the relationship type, yes, but did that mean we were over? There wasn’t any closure, but if I called him, would that give him the wrong idea? Would he think I wanted something more? That I was giving in?
That I secretly hoped he’d give me exactly what I said I hadn’t wanted?
No, not that. I got claustrophobia every time I let my imagination run as far as labeling our relationship.
But I did hope that every time the phone rang, he was calling to say he needed another meeting with Hudson or that he just wanted to talk to me.
While running errands after work on Tuesday evening, just as I was deciding that I might be able to envision a Saturday without his perfect body, a text came in from him. I took a deep breath, trying to convince myself I wasn’t as excited as I was.
There was an image attached, a picture of a sporty red car in some sort of ad campaign that Nate must’ve been working on. It was late, and apparently he was still in the office. This color reminds me of your lips around my cock, the text read.
I giggled, right there in the produce section of the Harold’s Supermart.
He did have an eye for color, art dealer that he’d once been. I was pretty sure the shade I’d worn to the fake wedding after sucking him off had even been called Racecar Red.
Now that he’d reached out, I couldn’t remember one good reason why I hadn’t tried to talk to him earlier in the week. I wanted to respond.
Thinking quickly, I walked over to the produce section and picked up a nicely shaped cucumber, snapped a picture, and sent it back. And this reminds me of your long, thick cock.
His next message came back immediately. Put it in your mouth and take a picture so I can remember.
I paused, considering.
Hell, I was going to buy it anyway.
I looked around to make sure no one was watching, but did I really care if they were?
No, it was Greenwich Village. Sexting in produce was par for the course. I stuck the cucumber in my mouth, snapped a pic, and sent it.
The next message that came to me was a bunch of happy face emoji’s.
That was all I heard from him until that Thursday. It was particularly annoying, seeing as I’d thought about him plenty. Thought about him at lunch especially, when I wondered if he ever took breaks. His building was nearby. Would it really be so bad to share a meal in the middle of the day? There were other things we could accomplish in forty minutes or less. Personally, I could probably have five orgasms in that time. But I wasn’t going to be the one to extend the invitation.
So I never bothered posing the lunch question. But then that afternoon when I dug in my purse to find my compact and refresh myself, I noticed that my phone was blinking with a notification. When I checked it (all the while muttering to myself not to expect what I wanted) I found another message from him.
There was another image, a picture of his office, I supposed, and it was minimally decorated, much like his house, with big windows that overlooked the city.
I wish I could duct tape you naked to that window. It would sure make these meetings fly by faster.
It might be a bit distracting for your clients, I typed back. Then I pointedly threw my phone back in my purse since I didn’t keep it out during work hours as a rule. A rule I considered breaking for the next three full hours. It was a genuine miracle I managed to do anything else, considering how preoccupied I was with his possible response.
When I (finally) checked it again after work, there were two texts from him. Yes, but it would be much more distracting for me. And that’s really what matters.
The next had come in twenty minutes later. I can’t stop thinking about you.
My heart jumped in my chest and I remembered what it felt like suddenly the first time I’d gone to Coney Island, the first time I rode the Ferris wheel up to the tippy top, and the way it had felt to come back down, like my heart was still in the sky, even though my body was tumbling toward the ground.
That’s what it felt like when I thought about Nate. Like I was swearing and tumbling all at once. Like I was flying and falling. It was the float and the tug, the search for equilibrium. All I could think about was how eventually the ride had ended. How I didn’t even like amusement parks as an adult.
So I didn’t text him back.
“Your skin is so soft,” a sultry alto said.
“Right there, yeah, right there.”
Grunts and sighs interwove with gasps and moans, all of it underscored with the quick-paced breaths of desire.
These were the familiar sounds of a make-out session.
I was at the center of this one. I’d long lost my dress and was naked in the middle of the plush rug on the floor of some bigwig’s penthouse overlooking a snow-capped Central Park.
It was glorious. Complete divinity. My raison de vivre.
I was dizzy in leisured lust, high on endorphins and sweat. Everywhere I put my hand, there was a body to touch and feel and fondle and kiss. My blood hummed with sensation and my belly knotted in a warm bow.
Behind me, Chuck Richard rubbed his cock between the cheeks of my ass. He was teasing, taking his time, but eventually, he would make himself come this way.
While he thrust up and down, his legs entwined with mine, he stroked my arms with long, feathery movements. It felt so good to be stroked and caressed. Occasionally, he would move his hand in front to palm my breast, play with my nipple, squeeze the ample flesh.
But my tits had others attending to them. A beautiful middle-aged woman I’d just met had made them her treasures. She was Persian and her short black hair had a streak of gray that had to be natural but was so perfectly set that it looked like it had been dyed. She was bare from the waist up and came at me from the other direction, her mouth meeting mine upside down, kissing me while her hands played with my breasts, and my hands played with hers.
I was fascinated with her more than almost everyone else in our group. With her teardrop breasts and dark peaks. With her soft lips and the sensuous slide of her tongue. Imagining what we looked like while we petted and kissed, imagining that Nate would be hard and in awe if he were there watching.
Nate.