Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, as I toss my keys into the brass bowl on my hallway table. Avril and I managed to ignore everyone else at the table and spent the entire evening talking.
“You promised me an orgasm, not a Dr Pepper.”
“Jesus Christ, you Americans have disgusting taste in drinks. You won’t find Dr Pepper in this apartment.” I lead her through to the living room. I don’t know why, but I feel kind of nervous. I don’t usually bring women to my place. There are far too many nice hotels in Manhattan. I like my space and my privacy. Somehow, letting someone scuff my black walnut floors feels more intimate than fucking them.
But Avril specifically asked me to bring her back to my place. And for whatever reason, I didn’t want to say no, no matter the damage to my floors.
“Drinks?” She laughs. “You sound so British. And if you don’t like it, I’m sure you can find your way back to London or Edinburgh or wherever you come from.”
I chuckle. She doesn’t give me an inch. Not even half an inch.
She folds her arms and glances around my space. “And anyway, does everyone in England only drink the finest mountain water from Tibet? I’m sure you guys have Dr Pepper.”
“I only drink the tears of virgins,” I say and keep walking to the kitchen. We’re going to need water tonight, and although my housekeeper will have put a fresh carafe by my bed, it’s not enough for two.
“Sounds about right. I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a virgin and you’re not going to make me cry, so you’ll have to turn on a faucet if you want to hydrate.”
I chuckle and push through the door to the kitchen. The place where I feel most comfortable.
“Oh, this is fancy,” she says, as she follows me through. I like to cook, and the kitchen isn’t what Manhattan real estate agents call a “chef’s kitchen”, it’s a proper chef’s kitchen. Stainless-steel worktops, industrial ovens, two six-burner induction hobs. “Did a chef live here? It looks like a hotel kitchen.”
“A bet the kitchen at Hotel on Ninth Street isn’t as nice as this one.”
She frowns. “Hey, ours is pretty nice. It hasn’t been in long.”
I laugh. How can she take offense at me insulting her hotel’s kitchen when she’s been dishing out blows like she has? So much about her is unexpected. I definitely want to fuck Avril, but I want to talk, to know her a little better too. I’m not ready for everything to turn physical yet.
Which is unusual for me at this point in the evening. But then, nothing about tonight has been usual.
“You want an omelet?” I ask her, as I pull out a water bottle from the drinks fridge. I’m not sure why I’m offering to cook for her, but cooking is where I feel most comfortable. Most like myself.
She doesn’t answer, and when I turn around, she’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I came here expecting sex and you want an omelet?” she asks.
The corners of my lips twitch, but I stop myself from smiling. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. I am, but only because she’s so…brutal. And funny.
“Are you in a rush?” I ask. “If you need to be somewhere, I can call you a cab, but in my experience, the longer the buildup, the better the payoff. I’m not a guy who’s all about sprinting to the finish. I like to take my time and enjoy the journey.” I step towards her, so we’re face to face. She lifts her chin, waiting for my kiss.
And I reach behind her and pull out two omelet pans and slide them onto the hob.
She sighs. “Isn’t the journey toward sex kissing on the mouth or a flirtatious touch or something? In my experience, it doesn’t usually involve a frying pan.”
Fuck this woman is a lot. Not too much, but she’s a lot. “Maybe we can try that later. I’m going to make myself an omelet.”
She folds her arms and leans against the counter. I try to ignore her as I pull the eggs and cheese from the fridge and the salt, pepper, and olive oil from their resting places.
“You’re really going to make yourself an omelet, aren’t you?” she asks.
“I really am,” I say, handing her the spatula. “Take that. Wrap your fist around it nice and tight.” I hold her gaze.
“This is what gets you hot? A woman with a spatula? This is so typically my luck,” she says. “I don’t know why it happens to me over and over. I think I’m going to get one thing with a guy, and I end up with exactly the opposite of what I’ve been promised. Guys are always pretending to be something they’re not. What is that? If you have a micro-penis or are terrible in bed, why bother coming on like a big-dicked lothario? Just to woo a woman. Women will put up with a lot for a guy who knows how to treat her. But I didn’t ask to be wooed. I didn’t come here for supper. I came for sex. I’m getting the exact opposite of what I wanted. And you know what? If I’d just wanted to have dinner with a man, he’d most likely stop at Joe and the Juice, pick up two Iced Oat Spring Flings and then ask to go back to my apartment for a blow job. This city is exhausting.”