The Love in Duet Collection, page 89
“Same.”
I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.
She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where she wants to be.
8
LOGAN
In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub, and adjust the temperature.
She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.
The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day, or a cheery blonde receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her head reading My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be up my ass.
I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”
“It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying like Determination,” she remarks as she tests the spray of water.
“I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”
“Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed. We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.
There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.
Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.
Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.
Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.
That’s a new kind of pleasure.
The before, the during, and the after.
It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.
A wish for more.
A wish, too, to understand Bryn.
To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She hums on a long exhale. “That feels good.”
“You feel good,” I say as I wash her arms, her belly, her breasts. “And so do your breasts. Why did you think I wouldn’t like them?”
She shrugs. “Because most guys think they like fake breasts, then they touch them and realize it’s just the idea of them they like.”
I slide my hands over them as the water pounds down on us, screwing up my face like I’m considering, evaluating. “Let’s see . . .” I glance down at my dick, half soft but perking up as I touch her. “Seems I like both the idea and the reality.”
She laughs, but then her humor fades. “Are you going to ask why I have them?”
“Do you want me to?”
She nods.
“Why do you have them?” I ask as she takes the gel and washes the rest of her body.
“Because I was tiny as a teenager. My breasts were tiny. Like, nearly flat in high school. And I was fine with that. I had brains, confidence, and a mouth.”
I run a finger across her bottom lip. “You’re very mouthy.”
She nibbles on my finger, playfully biting it. “I am. But by the time I was twenty-five, I decided I wouldn’t mind if they were a cup size bigger. So, as a birthday present, I bought myself some Bs. I figured there was no reason not to give myself a little boost when I could.”
“So, you did it for you.”
“I did it for me.”
“Seems like a damn good reason,” I say.
The nervousness flickers again in her irises. “You really don’t mind how they feel?”
I scoff. “I’m all good with everything,” I say, looping a hand around her waist as the hot water beats down. I don’t want to let her go. And I don’t want this to be a one-night-only thing. “So good that I’d like to see you again.”
She shimmies her shoulders. “Because of my girls?” she asks coyly.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. Because I like talking to you and I like fucking you. Want to do this a second time?”
She nods, ropes her arms around my neck, and kisses me in the shower. “I would love to see you again.”
A little later, after we order and devour cold sesame noodles and chicken lo mein while sitting cross-legged on the couch, a large black tabby strides out of the bedroom.
I do a double-take. “You have a cat?”
“I do?”
“I don’t know, Bryn. Do you?”
“I had no idea. Is there a cat here?”
The black cat lifts his chin, sniffs the air, and saunters over to us. He stands on his back legs, setting his paws on Bryn’s knees. “Meow?”
I hold up an I’ve got this hand. “My cat translator is telling me he’s asking for a bite.”
“Did you wake up to ask for food, Bruce, you handsome devil?” She reaches out and strokes his head. He presses against her, and as he does, the light plays across his fur, revealing that he’s almost . . . striped.
“Your cat has cool markings. It’s almost like he’s got stripes, but only in certain light.”
“I considered calling him Jailbird, since he looks like he’s wearing a prison jumpsuit,” she says. “Plus, he’s kind of on house arrest here if you think about it.”
“I suppose all cats are on house arrest, then. Life is like a jail for cats,” I say, hanging my head in mock sadness.
She pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. His jailer is good to him. He gets three squares a day, plus an hour out of solitary for exercise. And here, I have cat exercise toys.”
“You are an excellent cat warden. But he’s not named Jailbird?”
“I called him that at first, but then one day I was listening to Bruce Springsteen—”
“I thought you only liked pop?”
“Hush. Bruce is like pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t like pizza?”
“No. I can’t say I have.”
“Should I have named him Pizza, then?”
I laugh. “Not a bad name for a cat. Or Pepperoni. Anyway, how did Jailbird become Bruce?”
“So, I was listening to ‘I’m on Fire,’ and the cat actually sat on my chest. It was the first time he was borderline affectionate with me. I briefly wondered if he was trying to suffocate me, but then I thought maybe he just liked Bruce. So, I tested out the name—I called him Bruce, and he gave the faintest lift of his chin.”
“Ah, a clear sign.”
“Exactly. So I named him Bruce.”
“My incarcerated cat is named Queen Of Tofu.”
She shoots me an appreciative look. “Excellent name. You must send me a photo.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” I say, thinking of her Instagram account.
We return to our late-night meal as Bruce flops at Bryn’s feet, rolling to his side and showing off his dark-striped belly.
When we’re done eating, Bryn’s eyes light up. “I almost forgot something.”
My brow knits. “Fortune cookies?”
She laughs, shaking her head as she points to my phone. “We need to leave a review for the driver. From the Lyft.”
I smile, loving that she’s a woman of her word. That she remembered a promise she made to a Lyft driver.
I click on the app. “Want to do the honors?”
“I do.” She gives him five stars, then talks as she types. “Friendly, considerate, and sure knows his restaurant recs.”
Then she hits submit, and my chest warms. It’s the little things that matter.
And I like this little thing.
I like this woman too.
But it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so after I clean up, I tell her I have to go. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We’ll do this again?”
“Definitely.”
I haul her in for a hot, hard kiss. “There is so much more to do,” I say in a low, dirty growl.
“Can’t wait to find out what that might be.”
I cup her cheeks, smooth out her hair. “I had a great time with you.”
“I had doubles,” she says, a little cheeky.
I laugh. “Yes, but I also meant before and after those doubles.”
She smacks her forehead playfully. “Oh, yeah. The other stuff. Talking and eating and things like that. That was pretty good too, Logan.”
“It was better than good,” I say, then give her one more kiss—a soft one this time—before I leave.
On the way home, I’m still savoring the aftereffects of a great night.
Taking out my phone, I google “when to text a woman you want to see again,” then click the top link.
I smile to myself that the top hit is an article on The Dating Pool. Ironic, but no surprise, really. It’s a great site with smart advice.
I read it, digging the last line. But if you like a woman, text her after you’ve seen her.
As the car cruises up Park Avenue, I do just that.
Logan: Have I mentioned I had an amazing time tonight? Well, it bears repeating. Also, would you like to have dinner with me on Friday night?
Her reply is swift.
Bryn: I’d love to. Also, I love sushi. :)
Logan: Then I will take you out for sushi.
Bryn: Sushi and dessert?
Logan: If by dessert you mean more of what we had tonight, then yes, yes, yes.
Bryn: Then my answer is yes, yes, yes.
I lean my head back, replaying the evening the whole way home, then while riding the elevator, then when I’m inside my place too.
Queen Of Tofu greets me, rubbing her fluffy body against my leg.
“Hey, pretty lady.” I scoop her up, stroking her head between the ears. “Did you have a good evening, my queen?”
When she stares back at me with a satisfied grin, I interpret that as yes. What’s the fun of pets if you can’t anthropomorphize them?
I slide into my Queen Of Tofu impersonation. “Why, yes, Logan. Tell me every dirty detail. And don’t spare my ears.”
“If you insist,” I answer.
I proceed to tell her all about my night. She’s my cat, my priest, my confidante.
And as I end my confession, I whisper one last secret to her. “And I can’t wait for it to happen again.”
9
QUEEN OF TOFU
Queen Of Tofu strutted to the door, grateful her person was home at last, since his return signified two important things.
One, food. Preferably tuna, because no cat wanted the same damn kibble every single day and night.
And two, amusement.
He was always so chatty, and his voice entertained her. Such a funny voice, almost like he was trying to be sexy to female humans or something. All that gravel and roughness. Maybe it worked on two-legged ladies, but it was hard to say, since Queen Of Tofu hadn’t seen any of those around these parts in a long time.
Perhaps he was losing his touch?
Did he need lessons in seduction?
She could help with that to some degree. As a cat, she was naturally seductive, with a stunning coat she kept in tip-top shape and a tail that was the envy of all the city.
When he opened the door, she glided her silky body against his legs. Perhaps some of her sultriness would rub off on him and he might learn a thing or two.
If he didn’t, he was still a lucky human to be on the receiving end of her full-body grind, as she liked to refer to it. It was generous—she even wove between his legs to get all sides. And it was efficient—it meant both “Good to see you” and “Feed me right the hell now.”
His big hands came down around her midsection, and he picked her up. That had to be a good sign that food was coming.
“Did you have a good evening, my queen?”
She pushed her head against his hand, kicking her purr box into high gear.
As he spoke, he carried her to the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
Eureka!
A can of tuna.
He brought his finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”
He set her down on the tiled floor, and she danced the dinner dance. Or really, the late-night snack dance, since it was after midnight, but she was nocturnal, so she wasn’t sleepy.
He cracked open the can, and the smell, dear God, the smell. It was so delightful. The best perfume ever.
“You want to know the special occasion? Fine. I’ll tell you. Especially since Amelia isn’t here and we can talk openly.”
Tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna.
Queen Of Tofu sashayed back and forth, flicking her tail against the cupboards in excitement. He could talk, he could sing, he could do anything if only she could have tuna filling her belly.
“I had a great night. This woman, she is . . .” The man stopped speaking and sort of drifted off, some kind of moony look in his eyes.
The cat flicked her ear. She’d seen that look before. He got it when he read books that kept him awake well past midnight, ones he’d recite parts of aloud to her, disturbing her rest with tales of good men chasing bad men across cities she’d never heard of.
Or when he cued up music he seemed to like, picking her up and singing to her like she was his furry dance partner.
He did that with the little person who lived here too. The small girl who smelled like apples and happened to have excellent taste, since she liked to photograph cats. There was no better use of a camera and no better model than Queen Of Tofu.
Honestly, all photos ought to be photos of cats. Not everyone had access to her fluffy majesty, though, so Queen Of Tofu allowed that they didn’t all need to be of her.
Finally, the man set down the tuna, and Queen Of Tofu nearly cried with happiness.
She dug into the feast as the man leaned against the counter, talking, talking, talking. “She’s funny and bright. And she’s this alluring mix of sexy and sensual, but when we made it to the bedroom, metaphorically speaking since it was the couch, she didn’t want to take charge at all.”
His voice seemed to rumble, like a truck coming to a slow stop.
Queen Of Tofu devoured another bite of the fish, eyes on her dish, not her person. She always listened when he spoke, just more attentively with a full belly.
“And that’s such a turn-on. But that’s not why I want to see her again. It was only one date, but she’s the first one since Stacey who I’ve had this connection with. It’s not even just the physical. It’s everything.” When his voice went soft again, the cat glanced up and saw him tap his temple. “It’s here too. And what is hotter than that? Right, Queen OT?”
She stared at him without blinking, then took the last bite. But was it truly the last bite? Maybe if she licked the plate, there would be more.
“So, I’ll see her on Friday.” The man stopped talking, picked up the plate, and set it in the sink.
Sadness. No more tuna had magically appeared.
But her person picked her up again, stroking her back. “Trust me, I would see her tomorrow night if I didn’t have this deal to finalize. But I have a crazy week. Did I tell you what happened at work?”
She licked her paw. Score! There was a piece of tuna stuck there. Lucky night.
“The sale closes in the morning. A kick-ass new media property that I’m buying. It’s a gold mine, and it’s going to be terrific for our portfolio.”
She glanced up at him, her head tilted. He sounded enchanted.
“Great content, great numbers, a terrific growth trajectory. Plus, this site encouraged me to text Bryn tonight. Well, an article on it did, in a roundabout way. I knew I liked that site,” he said, petting her ears in a way that pleased her. “That’s why I’m buying it tomorrow.”
He sat on the bed, rubbing her belly and talking more about things that meant very little to her, since they didn’t involve worship of seafood or the chance to show off her lovely fur.
But the tone of his voice was pleasing—as if he’d captured a tasty salmon and was playing with it—and she hoped he’d have a good week with his fish.
He was a good human, and he deserved a salmon. Better yet, a whole sushi dinner.
That way, he could bring some home for the cat.
But she suspected he would, and that was why she obliged him, stretching into her most seductive pose, like a feline odalisque, black-and-white fur sleek and fluffier than either a down comforter or a pancake.
Well, he did need to improve his game, it seemed.
She could only help.
He sensed immediately what she was offering, grabbing the black thing he carried with him all the time and snapping a photo.
“Perfect, Queen LT. I’m going to send her some pics in the morning.”
10
BRYN
As I scan emails while I down my coffee at the kitchen counter the next morning, my phone assaults me with a terrifying image.
“Ugh!” I shout, tossing it on the floor like it’s a diseased creature. Bruce twitches his tail, looking up from the spot he’s commandeered, a slice of morning light perfect for a catnap.
The black tabby casts a disdainful glance at the device.
“Trust me. It deserves all the side-eyes. Dick pics should be outlawed. Who is this offender?”
A furry brow arches, as if Bruce knows the answer. I snap my fingers. “You’re right! It has to be Mr. Measure.” I went out with the guy exactly once. “He was dying to show it to me on our first date,” I explain to the cat. “And he wanted to know if it measured up to other dicks.”
The cat flips to his other side, he’s so offended by such antics. Of course he is. The feline has standards. “I feel the same, Bruce. I definitely feel the same. I never even saw his penis until now. Didn’t want to. Shocker, I know.”
