Authors: Sadie Stranges
I struggle to stay on my feet, and I’m utterly spent, completely exhausted, and fucked raw at the hands of a man who’s now holding me and stroking my hair while my breathing slows to a normal pace. I’m covered in sweat—only some of it mine—and full of a confusing mix of guilt and gratitude. Guilt because I fucked a man who wasn’t my husband, and gratitude because a man who wasn’t my husband fucked me. And he fucked me good.
I tell myself there will be time tomorrow to mull over these details. Right now, I need to sleep.
I
wake up naked
, half wrapped in a weightless white duvet, with sunlight on my face. Immediately I know that I’m not at home in my heavily blinded bedroom. I’m in a smaller room formed by two pristine white walls that meet two brick walls, and the bricks remind me I’m in Hunter’s loft. The bedroom is a cordoned-off corner of his gorgeous loft, and the white drywall stops a few feet short of the same beams that towered over us last night. The windows set into the bricks are the same too, and just like the window Hunter fucked me against, they have no curtains.
I survey the rest of the sparse bedroom. There’s not much to pick at—not much of anything at all, actually. It’s a man’s bedroom, but not in the sense of the dorm rooms that I occasionally woke up in during college. And not in the sense of Jason’s sophomore apartment. There are no half-finished bowls of crusty Ramen lying about, no dank piles of fungal laundry, no dog-eared issues of
Maxim
. Because those were never really men. No, this is a man’s bedroom in the sense of its sheer economy. Four walls and a bed that might be the only soft thing Hunter possesses. This is a place for sleeping. Sleeping and fucking. Lots of fucking, given how honed his skills were last night.
The floor is the same hardwood, and the white walls hold a few scattered black-and-white prints of female curves. In the corner is an old wooden door that’s open, revealing a white-tiled floor that I assume belongs to a no-nonsense bathroom. The bed itself is a masculine work of art—the mattress is low and recessed into a flat frame of deep, rich wood that wraps around it like a smooth verandah. It has none of the trappings of female influence. There are no scattered throw pillows, and the duvet doesn’t even have a cover on it. Good God, he doesn’t use a top sheet! I wonder how many other women’s fluids have found their way between those duvet fibers. I quickly scan it for stains, and I’m relieved to find no glaring evidence of his special abilities. I think back to the gushing I did last night, and I still can’t believe it. I expect to feel ragged and raw, like I’ve been tenderized by an abusive chef on a restaurant reality show, but I don’t. I feel weirdly good—more relaxed than I can remember feeling since I woke up sore and satisfied the morning after my first training session at Rev.
At
Simply Living
we once did a feature on a hypnotist who put people under to cure them of procrastination. He referred to his service as organizational hypnosis, and he said that spending an hour under hypnosis is like spending eight hours in deep REM sleep. Maybe that’s what Hunter did to me. Maybe that’s how I ended up here last night, and maybe that’s why I’m waking up, naked and relaxed, beside him in his sparse white artist’s abode.
I quietly unwrap my leg from Hunter’s duvet and sit on the edge of the bed. I have to pee, but there’s no robe or extra sheet to drape myself in. I tiptoe naked across the wooden floor to the bathroom, and like his bedroom, it’s stark white and void of unnecessary comforts. Just a toilet, a glass-walled shower, and a large claw-foot tub that have all been fastidiously scrubbed. There’s a sparse vanity with two sinks, and a large wooden-framed mirror looms over them. The only color in the room comes from the exposed copper pipes beneath the sinks.
I settle myself on the toilet and do my best to pee quietly, but last night’s drinks are desperate to rush out of me. The stream is so strong that I’m worried I’ll wake Hunter.
I creep back to bed and crawl under the duvet beside the one thing in this room I’ve been too afraid to look at. I glance over and assess him like he’s a piece of designer furniture in this strange, beautiful space. I’m a little disappointed to find that he still looks as perfect as he did last night when I was drunk and dying to rip his jeans off. He’s not snoring, and there’s no drool on his pillow. Good God, his mouth isn’t even open—I must have looked like a slumbering wildebeest next to him.
He’s sleeping on his side and facing me, and the sunlight streaming through the uncovered windows is illuminating the masculine lines of his exposed torso. I try to categorize his body according to the gym bro lingo I’ve picked up from training at Rev. I wouldn’t call him swole, and he’s probably not even all that jacked. In the parlance of women who guiltily comb through the pages of
Us Weekly
, he’d be considered buff. But then again, they think every actor with less than twenty percent bodyfat who jogs with his shirt off is buff, and Hunter’s way more muscular than some flimsy charmer like Matthew McConaughey. I decide that, while most non-lifters would think he’s jacked, he’s really just cut—extremely cut, to be fair. Even while he’s lying in his bed, I can see the deep striations along his obliques and the bricks of his abs. And those forearms—God, those tight-skinned, twitching forearms. I think back to last night when he had his rock-climber hands wrapped around my neck, and I’m suddenly hungry for more.
I was definitely drunk last night, but not drunk enough to forget. Flashes of his performance race through my mind, and I start getting wet as I remember the way he gripped my hips and manipulated my body and had his way with me. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m reaching for his cock under the duvet. My hand finds its target, and I stroke his soft manhood like it’s a sleeping puppy. He’s still asleep, but with each gentle stroke of my fingers, I feel his cock grow and stiffen, sliding along his thigh as it awakens to my touch. It’s incredibly hot to know that I have this power over him.
In a series of swift pulses, his cock rises off of his thigh and stands erect. I peel back the duvet to admire my handiwork, and I can’t resist the urge to put it in my mouth. I remember waking David up with blowjobs back when he was more receptive, and it seemed like a proposition that no man would ever complain about. But just as I’m hovering over him, wetting my lips, he shifts his hips and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks groggily.
“I’m waking you up,” I say. He doesn’t reciprocate my smile. He just looks at me like he’s confused about who I am and what I’m doing in his bed. Shit, was he more drunk than me last night? Did I take advantage of him?
“Not a fan of a little morning head?” I ask. I don’t want to let on how much his sudden hint of rejection hurts.
“Shit, Faith, of course,” he says.
Hold on. Was he struggling to remember who I am? At least he got my name right.
“Of course I love morning head,” he continues. “I’d never turn that down—especially from you.”
Thank God. His smile is back.
“It’s just that—what time is it?” He twists to check his phone on the floor beside the bed. “Shit, Faith. I have a shoot to get to. I’ll have to take a rain check.”
He hops out of bed, his cock still hard and beckoning me, and takes two steps to the bathroom before stopping in his tracks and looking down at his erection. “I guess I won’t be pissing just yet,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say. I try not to look dejected as I crawl shamefully back under the duvet, but he can see right through it. He heads back to the bed and reaches for his iPhone, which he swipes and fidgets with and then places on the mattress in front of me. It’s open to his “add a contact” page.
“Your number,” he says, pointing at it. “And make sure it’s your real one.” He smiles again. “I’ll be cashing in that credit very soon.”
My heart purrs. For a minute there, I thought I was a mistake. Not because he has a spouse away on business, but because I wasn’t worth fucking again. And I want this man to want me. I need to fuck him again. If not right now, then soon.
I thumb-type my number into his phone while he makes his way to the bathroom, and then I crawl out from under his duvet to find my pile of club clothes near the door to his loft. Feeling bold, I pad across the hardwood floor with nothing covering me, but I eye the bare windows suspiciously to make sure no one can see me. I tell myself it shouldn’t matter, seeing as I wasn’t so shy last night when he was fucking me against the glass, but I can’t help feeling exposed in the harsh morning light.
As I slip into my wrinkled jeans and camisole, I have a dark thought: maybe this was never more than a one-time thing to him. He didn’t offer me his number—he asked for mine, which means he’s in control of whether he ever has to speak to me again. And maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s all about the conquest. God, he’s surrounded by gorgeous fitness models all day—he must fuck every single one of them! No one is that good at fucking without tallying up some serious numbers. I suddenly feel stupid for all the time I’ve spent in front of the mirror in my walk-in closet, admiring the results of the work I’ve put in. Next to the random model Hunter will probably be fucking against the same window tonight, I’m just a plain civilian—certainly not worth a second run.
I’m so down on myself that I’m ready to leave without saying goodbye when Hunter struts out of the bedroom toward me. He’s donned a pair of white boxer briefs that hug his manhood in a way that makes me jealous of them, and I can’t look away. I feel like a vulnerable little bunny being stalked by a fox.
As I stand and stare at the tear-drop muscles above his knees that twitch with each step, a tiny spark in me ignites. I start hoping that he’s changed his mind about his supposed shoot, and he’s about to fuck me silly again before I get away. But my hopes are doubly dashed when he plants a kiss on my cheek and says, “I’ll call you.”
“Okay,” I say, and I turn to leave before he sees how upset I am.
I feel his strong hands on my shoulders, and he spins me back toward him and kisses my definitely bad-tasting mouth.
Fuck, he already brushed his teeth!
I’m pissed off and embarrassed by his minty advantage, but I’m over it the second he grabs my ass and sucks on my bottom lip. Maybe he really is late for a shoot, and maybe I’ll be hearing from him again after all.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me gently out the door, and I find myself alone and confused in a place I’ve waited a long time to explore. I should be feeling guilty and ashamed of what I’ve done. But I’m really just worried that I won’t get another taste.
I
’m
at Starbucks waiting for my Americano on my way to work, and all I can think about is sucking the barista’s cock. This is a pretty unsettling urge for at least a couple of reasons. First and most obviously, I’m married—to a man who’ll be back from San Francisco tonight. Second, he’s a fucking
barista
, albeit an atypically masculine one. Usually, part of the charm of waiting for your drink is getting to fake-flirt with the sassy gay gender studies major who’s making it for you. It’s a harmless way to have someone other than a fellow woman tell you they like your bag or that your shoes are cute. But there’s nothing harmless about the new guy in the green apron—or his jawline. He’s the precise opposite of the quintessential Starbucks employee. His apron hugs his pecs, and buff arms reach out of the too-short sleeves of his black polo. He doesn’t say much—not like the chatty baristas who buzz around him, stealing the same glances of his body that I’ve been savoring every time he bends down to retrieve the whipped-cream canister from the bar fridge. He’s the strong, silent type, and I feel a carnal tingle when he looks up from the milk he’s frothing and smiles with his piercing blue eyes.
“You the triple Americano?” he says.
“Yup. I’ve got a little bit of a caffeine issue.” Damn it. I hope that wasn’t a lame thing to say.
Thankfully, he laughs. “You and me both,” he says. “I’m usually in bed right now. The late shift’s more my style.”
“That explains why I haven’t seen you before.”
He smiles again, this time like I’ve said something that intrigued him. Shit, did I just show him my hand?
“I took a shift,” he says. “But I’m glad I did. The morning crowd is much more attractive.”
Good God, was that directed at me? Is he flirting? It’s not the usual “Where did you get those darling earrings?” or “I love your sweater” that the typical baristas throw around to make the day of every professional woman who can afford a five-dollar cup of coffee. No, this is a straight-up “You’re attractive and I want to fuck you” level of flirting that I’m not equipped to handle. He was even looking right at me when he said it.
His blue eyes burn a hole in me, and then he goes back to frothing the milk in the metal canister he’s holding. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than my editor uniform of stretchy jeans and a striped top. I wish he could see who I really am—how my new body looks in a pair of tight yoga shorts and a sports bra. Or maybe one of my lacy new Fräulein sets.
I cool my heels by reminding myself that he’s wearing a fucking apron and he’s probably making eight bucks an hour. And yet he still has the balls to flirt like that. His confidence is so hot that it makes me tingle. It also makes me wonder if whatever he’s packing beneath that apron makes up for his paltry paycheck. I add an event to my mental calendar: come back during his later shift wearing something a little tighter.
I’m still gaping at him when he calls my beverage and places the cup on the counter.
“You might want to keep the sleeve,” he says with a grin. “It’s a collector’s item.”
I spin the cup in my hand to inspect the cardboard sleeve, and my mouth pops open when I see his name and phone number scrawled in black grease pen beside the check boxes for customized coffee orders.
Holy shit, I just pulled a number! My transition to frat boy must be nearly complete. “You should text me sometime,” he says, and he goes back to preparing drinks and tidying the bar before I have time to accept or reject his suggestion.
“Thanks,” I say with what I hope is a flirty smile. “I’ll see you around.”
#
By the time I get to work, I’m overheated with fantasies of what could happen between me and the tiny-sleeved barista if and when I text him. It occurs to me that even if I were to send a text, I wouldn’t know what to say. Why does the ball have to be in my court? Back when I was on the market, a guy asked a girl for her number, and then he’d have to hem and haw for agony-filled hours about whether to call and what to say. People didn’t just casually text strangers—they had to put themselves out there and risk being hopelessly awkward.
I’m in full-on panic mode when Nicole walks into my office with a troubled look on her face.
Yes! Nicole will know exactly what to type—she could even do it for me.
I’m about to ask her when I catch my mistake and halt—if I ask for her help, she’ll know I’m cheating on David. Or at least considering it. She’s a friend, but she’s also a legendary gossiper—it’s basically her job description. I could maybe pretend it’s research for an article on the technological intricacies of modern dating, but do I really want to go through with this and fuck a barista? It almost scares me that I’ve been so wrapped up in how to hook up with him that I haven’t stopped to think about whether I should.
Of course I shouldn’t. But given the very real possibility that I’ll never see or fuck Hunter again, I really, really want to.
Thankfully, Nicole has more pressing matters on her mind.
“So I have kind of a fucked up question for you,” she says.
“Okay. Shoot,” I say.
“How would you define a douchebag?” she says.
“What?” Nicole’s the most random person I know, but this one catches me off guard, and I can’t help laughing.
She slumps down into the chair in front of my desk and sighs like a second-rate extra on
Saved by the Bell
.
“I mean, what characteristics would you say apply to douchebags?” she says.
Her concern over such a silly question is endearing, but this kind of earnestness can only mean one thing.
“Oh my God. You’re dating a douche, aren’t you?” I say.
“Shut up,” she says.
“Does he put gel in his hair?”
“I’m serious, Faith.”
“Does he wear two different-colored tank tops, one over the other?”
“Stop it.”
“Or is it usually just sleeveless tees with basketball shorts?”
“I mean it.” She’s giggling now, but I’m ready to raise my hands in case she lashes out and decks me.
“When he goes indoors, does he take his sunglasses off his face and wear them on the back of his neck, or does he move them two inches up to his forehead?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Does he say
Yo
or
Sup?
when he answers his phone?”
Nicole pauses. “Okay, he might do that.”
“Does he have a chinstrap beard? And a special trimmer for it?”
“Enough. Really.”
“How much does he spend on supplements? And does his car have those neon lights under it that illuminate the pavement?”
She glares at me, but I can’t stop. This is too much fun.
“Describe the back pockets of the jeans he wears on dates. Do they have embroidered doves on them?”
“No!”
“
But
.” I’m not letting that one go. Fifty bucks says there’s something ridiculous embroidered on his back pockets.
“But—” She hangs her head. “But they have shiny white crosses stitched on them.”
“Oh God.” I suddenly feel bad for ripping into her. But isn’t this what frat boys do?
“They’re so ugly!” she says.
Nicole’s embarrassment is adorable. She’s dated her share of specimens—the hipster apiarist who kept bees on the roof of his apartment building and brought Mason jars of mead to parties, the aspiring DJ who foisted his mixtape on everyone he met, the wannabe thug with the misspelled neck tattoo and the scary pit bull that shat in her purse—so if he’s a nice guy, this douchebag might actually be a step up. But she still deserves better. She’s not the classic beauty queen, but her thick-rimmed glasses, quirky fashion sense, and infectious laugh make her cute in a nerdy, Janeane Garofalo kind of way. Plus she’s petite and busty—she just needs to figure out how to show off her body. She was probably a dork in high school, which means she’s forever trying to date guys who were popular back then. And unfortunately, the traits that make a teenage boy popular usually make him an insufferable jerk once he reaches adulthood.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “The problem is that he’s got these abs, and he’s always lifting up his stupid, blingy Affliction T-shirts and showing them off. It’s like, how do you not just lick them?”
I think back to my night with Hunter, and I feel my face flushing.
“So it’s short term, then,” I say.
“Oh, definitely,” she says. “He’s fun for now, but a guy isn’t boyfriend material if you can’t be seen with him in public. Why can’t I just find a good guy with decent taste like you did?”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” I say. I’m not about to get into the loneliness and the sexual malaise that’s infected my marriage. Because if I think too much about it, I know the conclusion I’ll come to: that David really
is
a good guy, and I’m a dirty whore for fucking a photographer I met at a club.
“Hold the phone. What the hell is this?” she says. Nicole grabs my nearly empty Americano cup off of my desk and inspects it. “Whose phone number is this, you sly bitch?”
“No one’s,” I say.
“Bullshit,” she says. “I want deets on this.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” I say.
“Nothing?” she says. “I just spilled the beans about the douchebag whose abs I’m licking, and you won’t explain the origin of a number on your Starbucks sleeve? That’s crap, and you know it.”
“Honestly, it’s just some barista who made my Americano this morning,” I say. “He told me to text him.”
“Oh my God! Is it the one with the Channing Tatum jaw and the short little sleeves with the Popeye arms?”
I suppress a smile. “It is, actually.”
“You skanky slut! Tell me everything,” she says.
“It really is nothing,” I say. “He made my drink, he smiled at me a little, and then he told me to text him. It’s flattering, but that’s it. End of story.”
“Or the beginning of a story,” she says. “What happens now?”
I snatch the cup back from her. “What happens now is that I finish my coffee while preparing for our pitch meeting in ten minutes, and then this cup goes into the recycling bin.”
I’m hoping that telling her will help me convince myself.
“Fine,” she says. “You think David would flip if he found out?”
“I’m sure he gets plenty of phone numbers written on his cups in San Francisco,” I say. And as soon as the words leave my mouth, my palms get sweaty. What if he really is hooking up out there? What if he’s just as bad as me?
Nicole leaves my office to prep for our meeting, and I feel sad that I can’t share any of my troubles with her. If she can confess to dating a douche and then share a laugh about it, why can’t I tell her about the hot photographer I fucked? A piece of juicy gossip like that would really make her day.
I’m no closer to solving my text-flirtation troubles, but hearing Nicole’s saga makes me a little less excited about hooking up with a college student in an apron. What I really want is to see Hunter again. I stare at my phone on my desk and picture it vibrating with a text from him.
Then again, it’s probably for the best. Because David will be home tonight, and I need to figure out how I can hide what I’ve become.