Entertainment columnist Yves Santiago unapologetically lives her life as carelessly as a man. Her day job keeps her flush in men, with few regrets and even fewer mistakes. By night, she details her exploits on her anonymous sex blog, Lust Diaries.
Yves leads a happy, delightfully filthy life. Until she meets nonfiction editor Elijah Weinstein.
When I said “take me home,” it seemed obvious to me that I meant his home—his bed. I groaned with disappointment when he pulled up in front of my place.
“Seriously?” I muttered under my breath, reaching for the door handle. I couldn’t believe this was happening again. Yet another night of almost kissing on my stoop followed by restless tossing and turning and eventual masturbation. How fucking disappointing.
“Is it okay if I leave my truck here? I don’t want to get a ticket,” he asked.
My mouth refused to make words as I processed his question. He was staying? My mind quickly ran through all the filthy activities we could engage in once we crossed my threshold. “I think it’s safe to park here until tomorrow around nine. That’s when the street sweepers come through.”
“Okay.” He killed the engine, jumped out, and walked around the front end to open my door.
“You’re coming up,” I said while stepping onto the curb.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes! It’s more than okay!” I raced to the door, fumbled with my keys until I found the right one, and hustled him inside before he could change his mind.
I might have stumbled up more than half the stairs. I have no regrets.
“You want something to drink?” I asked once we finally made it to my kitchen. “Water? Juice? Beer?”
“I’ll take a beer,” he said and bent down to scoop up Maniac. The cat nuzzled into Elijah and purred. Why did my cat love all humans more than she loved me? But I have to say…her affection for him made me smile. I couldn’t put much credence in that though. She’d done the same thing with Julian last night. “I didn’t take you for a cat lady.”
“What the fuck? You’re the second person in as many days to say that. Is there some cat-lady prerequisite I’m missing?”
He smiled. “No…you just seem too carefree and impetuous to have a living being to care for.”
“Heh…well, I’m not that good at it.”
He held Maniac up in the palm of his hand and inspected her. “She’s a little skinny, but it looks like you’re doing all right.” She mewed and he curled her against his chest again.
“Yeah, well, she ran into my apartment when I moved in and I didn’t have the heart to put her out. Sometimes I think I keep her around because it’s nice to have something to come home to, you know?”
Where the hell did that come from? Was I trying to sound lonely and pathetic?
Embarrassed, I turned away from his confused expression and grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge. “Thanks for coming out with me,” I said as I opened his.
He smiled and took the open bottle from me. “No problem. You seem like you needed to have some fun.”
“I did.” I leaned against the doorjamb and opened my beer. “I’m sorry that I’m so drunk. I don’t know what happened.”
“The citywide special tends to do that to a person.” He sipped his beer and gestured down the hallway. “Let’s go sit down.”
I followed him down the short hallway into my living room and turned on the lamp.
Elijah set Maniac down, ushered me over to my couch and sat down next to me. “I hope you don’t get this drunk when you’re out alone. Anything could happen to you,” he said as he removed my wedge heels and began to massage my feet. A smart remark about being a grown-ass woman died on my tongue and was replaced by a completely involuntary, guttural moan.
“Good?” he asked when it was clear he knew the answer.
“Fuck, yes. How’d you know I needed that?”
“Are you kidding? You stumbled up those stairs like a newborn baby calf.”
I laughed with him, lazily twirling my hair around my finger.
“I don’t know why women torture themselves wearing shoes like that. They look great, and when you walk it makes every muscle in your legs tense and quiver deliciously. The visual is definitely appreciated, but the torture of it seems so unnecessary. I can think of much better ways to torture you.”
He smirked. “Yes. Really.”
I moaned again as he massaged the arch of my foot. He was hitting all the right spots and looked more than a little pleased with himself for it. In that moment, I realized that there was no awkwardness between us. Being with Elijah was easy. I didn’t think about it at all. I just enjoyed my time with him. I had to be careful not to get used to this.
“So let’s talk about your aversion to casual sex,” I began.
“Ohh-kay,” he stammered. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, how strict is this rule?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what is your definition of sex? Is it the Bill Clinton definition or the Mormon definition?”
“Well, first off, it’s not a rule. It’s just what I think is best for me right now. And as far as strictness
“Damn,” I cursed under my breath. “I really wanted to fuck you tonight.”
He laughed. “Was that your mission?”
“Yes. And I fear I’ve failed miserably before I even left the base. But…can I ask you something?”
“Ask me anything,” he said invitingly.
I paused for a long moment trying to gather my thoughts. The fact that my brain was swimming in bourbon and cheap beer didn’t help things. “How or why did you decide to become celibate?”
He smiled. “I never said I was celibate.”
“Well, you kind of are celibate if you aren’t having casual sex.”
“No. It just means I want to have sex with people I trust. People I feel safe with and who feel safe with me. I haven’t found someone that I feel safe with in a long while.”
“Safe,” I echoed thoughtfully. Why would he use that word? “Did someone…did someone hurt you?” I asked, my voice soft and careful. In my experience most men didn’t like to talk about their feelings. They especially didn’t like it when women went digging around in them.
“Once,” he answered. Short and succinct. It was clear he wouldn’t discuss it further.
Liquor tends to erase proper boundaries, so I dug around a bit more anyway. “And she’s the reason why you don’t have casual sex anymore?”
“That and other reasons.”
“So you’re saving yourself for marriage?”
He chuckled and gave me a sideways glance. “No, Yves. I’m not waiting for my bride.”
“So you’re saying that if the right girl came along, you would give it up?”
“For the right woman? Yes.”
“Well, I hope that the right woman is me.”
Elijah chuckled again and moved on to the next foot, rubbing the pad of his thumb into the arch, coaxing out that moan. He smiled, licking the corner of his mouth mischievously. “I like that.”
“When you moan like that, it sounds like I’m making love to you.”
I frowned. “I don’t make love. You can fuck me, screw me, or even lay me, but you can’t make love to me.”
Elijah looked genuinely distressed. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to feel that way again.”
“And what way is that?”
“Hopeless, helpless, vulnerable.”
“That’s what making love feels like to you?” he asked.
I nodded, slightly distracted by the weight of his green-eyed gaze. He was studying me. I felt like a bug trapped under a glass.
“Well,” he kissed the instep of my foot. The press of those full lips on that thin neglected skin made places further north ache for the same treatment. “What if I want to make love to you?”
“I won’t be made love to,” I repeated.
“We’ll see,” he said with a smile.
“Really? If you’re feeling so confident, why don’t you try it right now?”
The bourbon made me bold. All that talk of his abstinence had only served as foreplay to my drunken brain. I swung my leg over him and straddled his lap. His hands clamped around my waist to push me away, but it was a minute too late. My mouth was already on his and oh…it was as magical as I’d dreamed. That obscenely sexy pout with its too-full lips was made for my kiss. I traced my tongue along the seam of his lips and coaxed it to open for me. He gave a soft moan and I took advantage of it—covered his mouth with mine and slid my tongue inside. Dios….Never should’ve done that. That sound, the taste of him—malty with beer and bourbon—the rough, tender flesh of his tongue surrendering to mine. His big hands tightened, fingertips pressing deep into my hips.
“Yves,” he breathed over my lips, tongue lapping out for another taste.
If I was questioning if I was “that woman” before, I wasn’t now. He wanted me just as much—if not more—than I wanted him. I could feel that want growing against my parted thighs. With fingers spread wide, I pushed my hands into his thick, silky hair, grabbed it in fistfuls and drew him deeper into the kiss. One of his hands slid up to the middle of my back, drawing me closer. This time I was the one who gave the drunken moan.
“Yves,” he said again.
“You’re not respecting my boundaries.” The hand on my back splayed, cradled me. The other drifted lower to cup my ass. Clearly he wasn’t as concerned about his boundaries as he wanted me to believe.
“Just tell me no and I’ll stop.”
He growled in response and kissed me again. The hand in the middle of my back pushed into my hair. He grabbed a handful and yanked, separating our mouths. I gasped as his mouth found purchase on my neck, sucking and then nipping lightly. My pussy clenched every time I felt the edge of his teeth on my skin. He tipped me back a little further and the room spun.
“Whoa…” I slurred, holding him tighter.
He pulled away and took a good, long look at me.
“You’re drunk,” he said evenly. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“Don’t worry about it. I totally want this. You don’t have to be a gentleman. In fact, the less of a gentleman you are, the better it’ll be.”
Something about that statement rubbed him wrong, because he stood up abruptly and set me on my feet. I swayed drunkenly and looked up at him.
“I’m gonna go.”
“Don’t,” I said and sank to my knees.
Elijah froze. My hands were on his thighs and they felt as solid as stone under my palms. I looked up into his eyes. Apprehension conflicted with the clearly evident desire there. I reached for the waistband of his jeans, curled my fingers over the thick leather belt. His hands grasped mine, stilling them.
“Don’t,” I said again. But even to my own ears it sounded like begging. A strange feeling welled in me. Maybe it was because I was already on my knees or maybe it was the bourbon, but when I looked up at him, his hair falling over his forehead to hide his eyes, his mouth slack and wanting, I felt…worshipful.
“Get up,” he said his voice tremulous.
Getting up was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to unbuckle his belt. Get him out of his jeans and into my mouth. The whole scene unfolded in my mind like it had already happened— his fist wound in my hair, forcing my open mouth onto his cock. Me gagging to accommodate him, tears blurring my vision. But the moment my hand closed over the buckle he hauled me to my feet.
“You’re drunk, Yves. Go to bed. I’ll call to you in the morning.”