“What the hell is this?” I ask, holding the glass closer to my nose than my mouth. It smells fruity, just like the first three drinks I’ve had already tonight.
“It’s a red drink,” my roommate, Misha, says as she giggles. “Now drink it. And then turn around and eye fuck Mr. Hottie who has been eye fucking you for like three minutes now.”
I peek over my shoulder and see him standing at a two person high top table. He’s alone, both chairs pushed in. His presence alone, even in a busy bar, makes me melt. The cut of his jaw, the dark stare of his eyes, it’s like he’s right next to me, already touching me.
I look at Misha. “He’s been looking at me?”
“Yeah,” Misha says. “I mean, wow. He wants it. Go give it up.”
“Stop that. We came here for drinks.”
“You’ve had three drinks. Now four. Now go get laid.”
I snort and take a sip of the red drink. Myfuckinggosh… it’s so good. It’s probably because of the ton of sugar used to mask the eight different liquors in it. Those are the deadliest drinks, aren’t they? The kind that taste so sweet and yummy, then destroy your mind.
But I need this. So bad.
“Go,” Misha says. “If you don’t, I’m going to go fuck him.”
“You have a boyfriend,” I say.
“I have a thing,” Misha says. She waves a hand. “But this is not about me. This is about you walking your ass over there to Mr. Hottie, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him into the bathroom. Then you can suck him and let him fuck your brains out.”
“In the bathroom?” I ask.
Misha rolls her eyes. Sometimes I think she regrets being my roommate. She’s wild, I’m not. She’s done a lot of crazy things in her life, I haven’t. My claim to fame is that I got up in the middle of the night and left home. I left my cozy upstate New York home and drove my piece of shit car into New York City. I sold the car and had barely enough to make a payment on an apartment. So I put an ad out for a roommate and ended up with Misha.
The dream was simple. Move to New York City, find an agent, and become a famous author. I’d have a small apartment rich with wood and books. I’d sip tea by a window and watch the city live below me. And I’d write all best-selling novels that made a difference in the world.
“Are you going or not?” Misha asks. “He looks ready to bolt.”
I look back a second time and he’s still staring. Not even attempting to be nonchalant. He doesn't wave. One hand rests on the table, near a drink of amber liquid. The other hand is at his side, balled into a fist. I see a watch poking out of his sleeve.
“I’m going,” I say.
“Good. I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning.”
I turn with my drink and Misha grabs my ass. I jump and scream. I hate when she does that. I swear, she either has a legit crush on me or she’s legit into women. Not that I’d care about the latter, but definitely the former.
I take a step and my mind begins calculating back to the last time I had sex.
Ohmygosh… that long ago?
It’s embarrassing to think about. And even then, what had happened really couldn’t be considered sex. But it was the closest thing I had.
I approach the suit and tie wearing hottie, red drink in my hand. I almost wish my shirt was two inches lower, to display my ample cleavage better. Misha tells me I have great boobs. Well, she says ‘great tits’ and then asks to touch them. She’s never touched them.
“Hey,” I say, already blushing, feeling like a fool for that opening line.
The guy stares at me even more now. His eyes scan my body like he’s some villain in a sci-fi movie trying to figure out if I’m an ally or enemy.
His jaw is smooth. Chiseled like stone. His hair is black and perfectly trimmed. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seem too sexy to be real. His lips are thin but totally kissable. I want to kiss this guy.
“You have one choice and you need to make it right now,” he says to me.
“You can turn around and go back to your friend,” he says. “Or you can follow me.”
“If I follow you?”
“I’m going to make you come with my tongue,” he says. “I’m going to make you scream my name. You’ll never forget me.”
I’m already wet. I can’t lie.
I nod. I just nod.
“Tell me,” he says with a growl.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll go with you. Just tell me your name.”
“Earn my fucking name,” he says as his lip curls.
My heart jumps. Half worried, half wanting more.
Okay, this guy’s an asshole. But he’s in a suit and tie. He’s looking for a quick fuck. He doesn’t want dinner or drinks or forced romance. He's just hoping for at least a blow job at the end of the night. Fair enough. I can handle that. I can skip all that other stuff. Especially if he’s going to go down on me.
How long has it been? Months…
I’m embarrassed again. I feel my face burning and to make it worse, the guy is staring at me and not saying anything. I’ve obviously done something wrong here and he’s going to walk away. Or he’s going to order me away.
I need to save face, right now. I need to reaffirm what I want.
The red drinks are cushioning my nerves and I'm feeling carefree and warm. And the damn thong that Misha insisted I wear is riding up against me.
I think about what Misha said to do. It kind of irks me to go into a bathroom with this guy, but it’s a high class bar and club. Misha only got in here because of someone that wanted to have sex with her. She ran a food truck and had plenty of steady customers who wanted her. She told me this guy was kind of cute and she flashed him once, which then resulted in more business and perks like this.
I definitely don’t belong in this place. I don’t belong on the receiving end of this sexy man's stare. But I’m here and I’m not going to fucking waste it.
I reach out and grab his blood red tie. I don’t even make it a step before his hand clenches over mine. His eyes widen and lip curls again.
“Let my fucking tie go,” he growls, leaning toward me. “Don’t fucking touch me unless I tell you to.”