The Offer (13 page)

But I don’t do
that. Instead I try the door handle.

It’s not
locked. It turns with easy and against my better judgement, I push
open the door slowly. The music is loud now, a light is on in the
kitchen but everything else is dark.

“Hello?” I
call out, stepping inside. I push the door closed to keep the music
out from the hall. I tiptoe forward now and place the kettle on the
kitchen counter.

It’s then that
the music quiets for a break beat and I hear something from his
bedroom, like a groan. Could my mom have been wrong and he didn’t
come home alone? Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m standing in the
near dark in my landlord’s apartment, completely trespassing while
he might be banging Justine in his room.

But I don’t
hear any female noises and I no longer hear his.

I slowly make
my way over to his bedroom, mindful of my footfalls, as the music
builds up again. His door is open half-way and the light is on. I
carefully peek inside.

My mouth drops
open.

Bram is lying
down on his bed and from my angle I can only see him from the chest
down. He’s lying on top of a silky white duvet cover, completely
naked. More than that, he has his dick in his hand and is slowly
sliding it up and down his shaft.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Oh my fucking
God.

I’m
stunned, frozen in place as I watch him pleasure himself. This may
make me a huge pervert, but to me there’s nothing sexier than
watching a guy get himself off. Maybe that doesn’t make me a huge
pervert but the fact that I’m sticking around to watch him do it,
secretly I must add, most definitely
does
.

And yet I
can’t help it. This is my first look at him completely naked and
he’s one tanned, muscular machine, his body taught and golden
against the white beneath him. His legs are long and toned, there’s
a defined six-pack on his abs that glisten with sweat, and his
chest is broad and hard with a bit of chest hair that only adds to
his pure, vibrant manliness.

Then there’s
his dick. I obviously had a hint of it before but now it was large
and in charge. His own hand looked like he could barely tame it. I
wasn’t sure anyone could.

But right now,
I’d be willing to give a shot.

I have a brief
fantasy about walking through the door. What would Bram say? I bet
he wouldn’t even stop. He would keep going, watching me the entire
time. Just before he’d come he’d ask me to get on my knees and
crawl to the edge of the bed. With one large, tense hand he’d wrap
my hair around his fingers and he’d tell me to slide my gorgeous
mouth over his length. He’d tell me, breathless and commanding, to
suck his cock.

In the fantasy
I do it. I lick him from balls to purple tip and watch his eyes
roll back in ecstasy. I’d do it and I’d love it.

But this isn’t
a fantasy. This is reality. I’m spying on Bram as he jerks off and
I’m fucking wet as hell, the throbbing building between my legs
along with the music. Jeez, I really need to get laid because this
is ridiculous. Those cobwebs need to be cleared ASAP.

I watch for a
few more moments, each one seeming to stretch into an abyss of
yearning. I’m practically salivating. I feel no shame in taking it
in, not in this moment. Maybe later it will dawn on me that I have
a secret, skeezy soul. But now, now I watch and I want. I want to
put my mouth where his hands are, feel him, squeeze him just so.
Then I’d climb on top and ride the shit out of him, ride him until
this need inside of me is gone.

I’ve got to
get out of here.

I slowly back
away until I can no longer see him but I do hear his groans
becoming louder. I know them so well because I’ve heard them often
but it’s an entirely different animal to hear them up close, to be
able to envision just what his hard body does when he’s that
wrapped up in lust.

I manage to
leave his apartment, quietly shutting the door behind me, before I
can hear him escalate. If he had come in front of me that would
have been way, way too much. I might have lost all control over
myself.

Once inside my
own place, I close the door to my room and try to go to bed. I
don’t even bother washing my face or anything. I just want to drift
away and start over. But I can’t. My heart rate is up and I feel
flushed from head to toe.

Just go back over
, I tell myself. It’s that dirty part of me, the one I’ve
tried to keep buried. The wild one. The one I know Bram wants to
see and wants to bring out of me. But that’s not me
anymore.

Still, I slip
a hand between my legs and feel how soaked I am. It just takes a
few strokes of my clit to get me off and I throw the pillow over my
face to keep my own moans from escaping out into the air.

Somewhere
behind his music, behind the wall, I think I hear Bram crying out,
too, finally coming. I imagine him coming hard, his toes curling
up, his head thrown back, his ass muscles clenching. It’s enough to
have me coming again, this one sneaking up on me in surprise.

I may have not
acted out my fantasy but whatever the hell just happened was one of
the hottest things to happen to me in a long time.

I know I fall
asleep with a stupid grin on my face.

When I
wake up, I’m feeling strangely refreshed, something I haven’t felt
in a while. Maybe it was good that I hadn’t brought Justine
ba
ck to the apartment
after Aida was over. It hadn’t been my plan to shag her anyway. I
mean the whole date was made on behalf of our parents. I’m not sure
why my father thought anything would come from it and I’m not
really sure why I went along with it but old habits die
hard.

Oh yeah, it
was because Justine was gorgeous. She was also one of those types
that put up a battle in the “I don’t like you” department, just
like Nicola. It got me going every single time. But while Justine
smelled like roses and indifference, I can tell I’m slowly getting
through Nicola’s defenses.

At least I
hope I am. I’ve never been so unsure with a woman and while I’m
finding it mildly frustrating, it’s at least keeping me on my toes.
I feel like every day is a new challenge and I haven’t felt that
way since I left New York. Shit, I haven’t felt this way in a very
long time.

Adding to the
perplexities that living next door to Nicola brings, when I finally
get out of bed and make my way into the kitchen, I’m shocked to see
the kettle on the counter. I had given it to her mother last night
to make some tea. Now she was quite the MILF, but then I guess her
daughter is too. I’m not surprised that Nicola brought it back – I
figured she would – but I am puzzled as to how she got into my
place without me knowing it.

And why?

I make my way
over to the door and see that’s its unlocked. I have a habit of
doing that sometimes, probably because when I first bought the
building I was the only tenant in this place for months.

So last night
– or this morning – she would have had to come inside and put it on
the counter. Was it possible that I didn’t hear her, that she
didn’t wake me up?

Or was it
that…

Well, after I
dropped off Justine at her place and got nary even a peck on the
cheek, I took my sexual frustrations home and had a bit of a
wank-fest, as you do. I had the music pretty loud, everything that
reminded me of my Scottish youth: Portishead, Garbage, Massive
Attack, Faithless, Tricky, you know, just to really get in
there.

But the minute
I was stroking it, Justine became a distant memory. Her face would
go out of focus every time I tried to imagine her and in her place
was Nicola. It didn’t matter how many other people I tried –
Brooklyn Decker, Kate Beckinsdale, that saucy, bitchy redhead that
shot Jon Snow on Game of Thrones – Nicola’s face replaced them
all.

And why not.
It’s a beautiful face. She has the most gorgeous cheeks and a full
upper lip that you just wanted to take between your teeth or have
her slide along the ridge of your cock. The freckles just add to
the appeal. There’s something so wholesome about her yet she always
has this wicked gleam in her sloe-eyes that hints at something wild
underneath. I know she puts up a bashful and prudish front, but
it’s just a front. I know it is. I know how mums get, how wrapped
up they can be with their child about being selfless and devoted
that they forget they’re still a sexual creature with multiple
needs.

I want to let
the sexual creature free. Out of its cage. I want Nicola to have
the fun she hasn’t had in a long time.

But my usual
tactics don’t work with her. I’m not sure what will. And to be
honest, I’m not sure if even hitting on her is the right thing, let
alone fucking her. The absolute last thing I need is to be
entangled up with a single mum, no matter how enticing she is, no
matter how precious her child is.

I just can’t
go down that path.

I know how
that ends.

More and more
though, it’s becoming something I have little control over. And
that, that is what scares me. Fear has no place in my life, not
anymore.

I contemplate
going over to her place and asking her when she dropped off the
kettle. I know that within seconds I’ll be able to tell whether she
caught me in the act or not. I wouldn’t even be embarrassed about
it. I actually wish she did watch me sampling my own goods. Maybe
the sight of me naked would be enough to get her to look at me a
little differently. I mean, I know I’m good-looking, I know I have
what it takes to lure any woman into bed and I know what it takes
to get them off again and again and again. But I think her disgust
for me might run a bit deeper than her hormones.

I decide to
bypass the whole kettle situation and bring it up later. Even
though I woke up refreshed, my head feels cloudy now so I drive up
to Golden Gate Park and go for one of my Saturday runs before
stopping at the boxing gym. Pounding those bags isn’t as satisfying
as pounding a woman, preferably Nicola, preferably from behind,
preferably while pulling her hair. But it will do.

When I get
back to my building though, all cleaned up and spiffy, I knock on
her door only to find that awkward bird of a woman, Lisa, there
instead.

“She’s already
left for work,” she says, eyeing me like I’m about to bust down the
door and steal her virtue. Makes me wonder what Nicola has told
her.

“Long shift?”
I ask, checking my watch for the time. It’s only about three in the
afternoon.

She nods, her
expression un-changing.

“Well, I guess
I’ll catch her later.”

The door shuts
in my face. So polite.

But I don’t
plan on letting later happen on this turf. I want to see Nicola in
action. At about seven I get a cab and head to The Burgundy Lion. I
haven’t been there since she started working and it’s high time I
paid it a visit. Back in New York, I was always frequenting the
hoighty-toighty nightclubs and martini bars but secretly my
favorite kind of place was a dive bar. There’s something so freeing
about those places, the freedom to be yourself, to let loose, to
express desires, to lurk in the dark. Everyone is equal in the
shadows with a cheap drink in hand. Now, the Lion wasn’t a dive bar
at all, but it could feel that way on the weekends when everyone
seemed to congregate there under the sole purpose of being pissed
off their rockers.

When I step
inside, I’m assaulted by the smell of beer and overpriced cologne.
Though it’s relatively early, the place is almost packed with most
of the gleaming teak booths crammed with people. There’s a sense of
urgency here, as if you don’t get here on time, the chances of
getting laid go down with the rest of your beer.

And there, in
all the chaos, I see Nicola behind the bar. Her back is to me but
her hair is pulled back, exposing the perfect bare skin of her neck
and her upper back as it dips into a loose-cut tank top. She moves
with efficiency, whatever she’s doing, while a bunch of guys lean
across the bar, bills wavering in their hands. They watch her every
move, just as I am.

Something
inside me burns hot as coals and I swallow down a surprising burst
of jealousy. I can’t remember the last time I got jealous but it’s
as if it suddenly dawns on me that I may not be the only one who
wants to get in her pants. And of course I know I’m not, but it
seemed that until she took the job here, she was relatively safe
from roaming eyes.

I’m completely
delusional, but I still stride over to the bar and stick myself
right beside the guys, my hands stretched along the edge of the bar
top.

The guy next
to me, some punk with gelled blond hair that would give Zach Morris
a run for his money, gives me the fuck off look but I don’t pay him
any attention. My eyes are trained on her. They might think I’m
here to get a drink but that’s not the case at all.

When she turns
around, she plunks four bottles of beer down on the counter and
smiles at the guys while she tells them the total. I want to be
jealous over that smile alone, even if it’s just for show. Then as
they pay, her eyes flit to me, a good bartender, always looking for
that next customer and when she sees me, she does a double take.
She’s jarred.

This could be
good.

“Bram,” she
says and then her smile goes wider than the world and I don’t feel
jealous anymore. I feel fucking elated. Because that was no “give
me a good tip, you wankers” smile, that was an “I’m really glad to
see you smile.”

Please Lord,
let it have been that kind of smile.

“Hey,” I say,
suddenly feeling rather speechless. I clear my throat. “Thought I’d
come see you in action.”