In Love with Lewis Prescott, page 28
She says it in such a matter-of-fact way, I believe her. I stand up and smooth down the front of my flowy white blouse, which I’m wearing with a slate gray pencil skirt and black heels. I push up the sleeves, annoyed that I didn’t think to change out of my work clothes before I stormed out of the apartment in a rage.
“You look amazing as always,” Harper says, as if reading my mind.
I run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t feel very amazing at the moment.”
She pins me with you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me eyes. “Naomi, you’re tall with long arms and legs, perky tits, and a bubble butt. You’re probably the best-looking woman that’s ever walked into this dive.”
“Next to you.” Even though I appreciate Harper building me up, she’s a stunner. She’s got an adorable girl-next-door face, and the petite and busty figure I’ve envied since we hit puberty together. We both share the same background—Filipino and Caucasian—as well as the same dark hair, dark eyes, and tan skin.
She winks at me. “Now go get your flirt on with Mr. Broad Muscly Back over there. He’s been eyeing you since we sat down.”
I turn on my heels and pause for a beat, taking extra care to make sure I don’t fall.
“Wow,” I mutter to myself.
Just the sight of this dude from behind is impressive. His crisp dove-gray dress shirt is an inadequate cover for the toned muscle underneath. Sculpted shoulders and thick arms highlight his broad frame perfectly. The back of his head is covered in cropped light brown hair. Judging by the slicked-back style he sports on top, he’s got one of those trendy skin-fade haircuts that European soccer players and male models favor.
I lick my lips. I don’t even need to see his face. There’s no doubt it is just as attractive as the rest of him. No way would I ever approach a guy this hot if I were sober. He is unquestionably out of my league.
I take a breath, and the moment of insecurity passes. This is just for fun—a simple distraction.
“Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
Liquid courage takes hold, and I stomp up to him, leaning my hand on the bar top. “Hey!”
Judging by the way his shoulders jump to his ears, I’m way too loud. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. Uh-oh. I’ve hit the giggly marker of drunk.
He turns to face me. “Hey, yourself,” he chuckles.
I dry swallow the air in my throat. Just as I suspected: when this guy smiles, he is off-the-charts hot.
Gold-brown eyes, thick pouty lips, and a jawline so sharp you could cut diamonds on it. I pause at his nose. The crooked bump along the ridge tells me he must have broken it at some point. But instead of making his face look imperfect, he looks rugged. And yummy. Like a sexy caveman who broke his nose fighting off a saber-toothed tiger.
“You’re hot.” I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth. Not only does the alcohol have me operating at a deafening volume, it also seems to have misplaced my filter.
He bursts out laughing once more. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
He rubs the scruff on his now flushed cheek. The facial hair he sports is thick but trim. Not a beard, but more than a five o’clock shadow.
“Sorry.” I hiccup. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“You don’t say?” He flashes that winning smile once more. My knees are actually weak.
“But you must hear that all the time, looking the way you do.”
He doesn’t answer right away. In the moment of silence that follows, I study him. Something about this guy is familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“I don’t actually.” His eyes fall to the bar top, like he’s embarrassed about something.
“Well, I’m telling you. You’re mega, crazy, superhot.”
His expression slides to amusement. Inside I feel a ping of pride at getting this guy to laugh and smile.
A fresh bout of dizziness hits me. This time it’s more intense, though. I swallow.
The handsome stranger’s eyebrows knit. “Are you okay?”
I nod, even though I’m not. I grip the bar top for stability.
Gently, he steadies me with a hand on my arm. “You sure?”
The look of concern in his eyes has me feeling something familiar again. Just then a tiny bell goes off in my head. I’ve seen him before, but without facial hair. I just can’t remember where or when...
I start to wobble, but this guy’s got me upright with just his hand. He’s still on the bar stool, but he’s leaning on it now instead of sitting. The almost-standing position he’s assumed makes it look like he’s keeping guard for me. If I weren’t fighting to stay up, I’d swoon.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s been...kind of a rough night.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Sincerity radiates in his eyes and his gentle tone. Even though he’s probably just being polite, it sounds like he means it.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. “Maybe over a glass of water?”
“Water? How smooth.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “On any other night I’d offer to buy you a proper drink, but it seems like you’ve already had a few.”
“And on any other night I’d admire you from across the bar instead of marching right up to you and calling you hot. I have two Amaretto sours and two bourbons to thank for that. Because I’m in fuck-it mode. And you are number one on my fuck-it list.”
The things my liquor-laden brain comes up with. Christ.
“What’s fuck-it mode? And a fuck-it list?”
“‘Fuck-it mode’ is me downing more alcohol in forty-five minutes than I have in the past four months combined because I found out my boyfriend cheated on me tonight. I broke up with him, of course. And now I’m chatting you up. Because fuck it. See? Fuck-it list.”
“I’m still not sure I understand what a fuck-it list is, but I’m sorry you went through that. Your ex is a prick for sure. I’m kind of glad to hear that happened, though.”
“Sorry, what?” I hiccup.
“I’m glad because if he hadn’t screwed things up with you, I wouldn’t be chatting with the most beautiful, hilarious woman I’ve met in a long time.”
There’s the slightest gleam in his eye when he speaks.
“Whoa,” I say through a hot exhale. “You are smooth...”
“Simon,” he says with a boyish half smile.
“Naomi.”
He gives the spot on my arm where he’s holding me a gentle squeeze. I pat him just above his knee and promptly salivate. My oh my, that is one firm quad.
“It’s nice to meet you, Simon.” I let my hand rest on his thigh, fully expecting him to politely mention that I could take my hands off him at any point.
But he doesn’t. Instead his smile softens; he keeps his eyes locked on mine. That gleam in his stare sharpens, and my stomach takes a tumble. In my head, I run through everything that tells me this impromptu flirt session has gone from playful to something more.
We’re openly touching.
Our faces are mere inches apart.
He’s looking at me like he’s starving and I’m the snack he’s hungry for.
It all gives me confidence to see if I can take this exchange to the next level.
“Sorry for disrupting your quiet night,” I say. “Judging by the way you’re holding me and letting me touch you, though, you’re into this.”
“You’re the kind of disruption I’m happy to have. But you’re drunk.”
I’m certain my cheeks and neck are as red as the letters on the exit sign above the back door. “Oh...yeah. I—I’m sorry, I...”
He pins me with those soothing gold-brown eyes. They haven’t lost one ounce of intensity, despite him putting the brakes on our exchange.
“I’m definitely into this—into you. But you need to be sober for this to go anywhere. How about we exchange numbers and tomorrow you can text me where you’d like me to take you for a drink?”
His sweet offer delivered with that killer grin takes the edge off my momentary embarrassment. He whips out his phone, I give him my number, and he calls me. I make a mental note to save his number when I fetch my purse.
My eyes fall to the floor. “Sorry for my, uh...drunkenness.”
He lets out the sexiest growl of a chuckle. “Don’t fret about it. We’ve all been there.”
Don’t fret about it.
Those four words hit like a Mack truck to my brain. It’s a phrase I remember from many, many years ago.
In a split second, I’m transported to my college dorm room. I’m alone in bed on a night when my roommate is out, my laptop propped on my pillow, my hand down the front of my pajama shorts. On my screen plays a naughty video of a gorgeous college-aged man on his knees in front of his girlfriend’s bed.
The lucky lady is lying on her back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed, her naked body open to him. The webcam recording their every move is positioned in such a way that you can’t see her face.
But you sure as hell can see his. He scoots closer to her legs, rests his hands gently on the tops of her thighs, then twists his head to the camera. His mouth stretches into a smirk that somehow looks more kind than smug. He winks. Then he turns back to her open legs, lowers his face, and goes to town. Her moaning, panting, and screaming are all that can be heard for the next few minutes.
Only this isn’t just some random college couple filming their bedroom escapades for thrills.
This is the most popular cam guy online at the time, someone who millions of college girls like me watched, fantasized about, and pleasured themselves to because most of the videos he streamed were of him orally pleasing whatever lady he was seeing at the time—always with her enthusiastic consent.
He was the guy we all wished our college boyfriends were more like. He was the guy our boyfriends crudely dubbed as the “pussy whisperer” because of how easily and often he could bring his partner to climax.
Those four words became his trademark. He’d make a woman screech to high heaven in record time, and she’d always giggle an apology for being loud or making a mess on his face. Every single time he’d say, “Don’t fret about it,” like an unofficial catchphrase.
That popular cam guy? Simon Rutler—the same Simon standing in front of me, holding my arm, tensing under my palm, about to flirt my skirt off.
My heart thunders, transporting me back to the present. I blink through the dim lighting of the bar. This is the cam guy I pleasured myself to countless times during college. And I just made an absolute fool of myself in front of him.
“Oh my...shit.”
I just drunkenly threw myself at the pussy whisperer.
I stare at him, my jaw hanging in the air, as if I just watched the Loch Ness monster trot through the bar.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My lips purse as I almost call him the nickname, but I catch myself. I remember reading on some blog way back in the day that he hates that nickname. Saying it right now would undoubtedly piss him off, which would make this mortifying moment even worse.
Just then my stomach seizes. Of embarrassment? No, wait. That’s the bourbon.
I grip the metal bar just below the bar top as my stomach lurches once more.
“Sorry, I’m...gonna be...”
I don’t get to the word “sick” because hot bile shoots up my throat and out of my mouth, landing on his shoes. There’s no time for apologies, though. I need to make it to the nearest toilet before I turn this entire bar into a biohazard by upchucking the contents of my stomach. I press a hand to my chest, as if that’s going to somehow keep me from vomiting everywhere.
I burst through the door, ignoring Simon calling behind me as I dart to the nearest toilet and spew into the grimy bowl. My eyes burn with tears as I gag and purge. Seconds later, the putrid smell of hard alcohol mixed with the gyro I had for dinner hits my nostrils. I jolt back, crashing into a pair of legs.
“Naomi?” I register Harper’s voice from above. “Holy crap...are you...are you okay?”
There’s not a word that exists in the English language that fully captures this feeling of next-level humiliation. Of unknowingly hitting on my college fantasy while intoxicated, then vomiting on him.
Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I heave a breath. “Nope. I’m definitely not okay.”
Don’t miss The Close-Up by Sarah Smith, available wherever books are sold.
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Copyright © 2022 by Sarah Smith
ISBN-13: 9780369720245
In Love with Lewis Prescott
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Smith
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Sarah Smith, In Love with Lewis Prescott
