Oh.
“Um . . .”
“Oh my god. You don’t know his name?”
Now it was me who laughed. “It just never came up in conversation.”
“Michael,” she leaned in and whisper-hissed at me. “Is he living some secret life? Does he live a double life? Oh my god, is he married? Michael, what if he’s married?”
“He’s not married,” I said, though we both knew I had no clue if that were true or not.
“What if he has kids?”
“Can you please stop?” I put my fork down. “I don’t know anything about his personal life. So if he’s cheating, then that’s on him. Not me.”
She sighed. “Just . . . just be careful.”
“Always am.”
She took a bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully. “So I take it he’s good then. In bed, I mean. This is your third—”
“Susannah!” I could feel my cheeks heat and I let out a flustered breath. “But if you must know . . . he’s better than good.”
She laughed and thankfully let the conversation about my sex life go. Though when we were done and going home, she squeezed my arm and gave me a serious look. “Be careful. And for the love of God, Michael. At least get a first name.”
I rolled my eyes and put her in the cab before walking half a block home.
I was happy not knowing his name. It didn’t add to the mystery or play out like a movie in my head. Simply put, the less I knew, the less complicated it was. Our arrangement was purely sex. And what awesome sex it was.
I didn’t need to know his name.
But there was a niggling part of me that wondered . . . like a pulled thread that could unravel the whole thing. Would knowing his name make it personal on some level? Or did it make no difference at all?
Goddammit.
Now I was thinking about it.
And the truth was, he knew where I lived. It wouldn’t be too hard for him to find out my name . . . What if he knew my name already?
Okay, so what if he did?
I wasn’t hiding anything. It wasn’t like he could use our arrangement against me.
But maybe he wasn’t so lucky. Maybe he wasn’t out at work or at home. His friends at the bar certainly knew he was into guys, and they clearly had no issue with it. But maybe he wasn’t in a position to be outed in some aspect of his life. Not everyone had the privilege of zero ramifications of their personal and professional lives colliding.
No. I wouldn’t ask him his name.
I’d just have to make up a name for him instead.
I could just go with the obvious like Mr Ed for his horse dick. Or I could call him Friday at Nine. Or maybe The Clash for his T-shirt, or Ticklish, or Sexy as Hell, or Cutest Laugh.
Or maybe I could call him Late.
Because nine o’clock on Friday night came and went with no sign of him.
Five past nine, still no sign. Ten past nine and I decided to put my robe on because I felt foolish for wanting to be naked when I opened the door.
Like he’d asked me to be.
Fifteen past and I considered going out but quickly shot that down because I couldn’t be arsed getting dressed. I poured myself a drink and resigned myself to not having three orgasms wrung out of me. I might just have to settle for some porn and a wank.
By twenty past nine, I’d had a second vodka and was trying not to be pissed off. Disappointed, yes. But anger was a futile emotion, or so I told myself. Why get angry and expend all that energy and emotional output when you could just not care? It was easier not to care.
I was glad I never knew his name.
But then at 9:26, my intercom buzzed.
I checked the security camera. It was him, and after very briefly entertaining the idea of pretending not to be home, I buzzed him through.
I waited by the door and pulled my robe around me tight. He knocked once and I opened the door. He was wearing tight jeans, a shirt with The Killers on it, and an apologetic smile. “You’re late,” I said flatly.
He looked me up and down before meeting my eyes. “And you’re not naked.”
“I was. At nine.”
He smiled but it was tight and forced. “Sorry. I got . . . caught up.”
Upon closer inspection, he looked tired and a little down. Which, for some strange reason, made me feel bad. I stood aside. “Come in.” I closed the door behind him and followed him toward the kitchen counter, to where the bottle of vodka sat with my drink and one empty glass. “Drink?”
He hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”
I poured him a healthy nip and handed it over. “For you.”
He managed a more genuine smile. “Thanks. And I am sorry I’m late. It’s um, it’s been a long week and I lost track of time.”
“It’s okay,” I said, sipping my vodka. “I’m not really mad.”
“I would have shot you a text or something,” he said, looking out the wall of glass to the harbour. “But I don’t have your number.”
Oh shit.
“Do you want my number?”
“Well, it would have saved you putting on your robe.”
I snorted. “Right.”
“And then you still would have answered the door naked.”
I laughed. “True.”
God, were we going to exchange numbers?
“You can have my number on one condition,” I said.
“And what’s that?”
“That we text only. Unless it’s an emergency or whatever.”
“An emergency like what?” He smiled behind his drink. “Like you not being naked when you answer the door?”
“I’m beginning to think the robe is an issue for you?”
He looked me up and down again. “I mean, it’s very nice. Versace, right?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.” But getting back to the number exchange . . . I picked up my phone. “What’s your number?”
He smiled as he ran it off to me, and I entered it in and shot him a quick text. Nice shirt.
His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket. He smiled when he read the message. He replied. You’re still wearing the robe.
I chuckled. “Just so you know, I’m saving your name in my phone as SAF.”
“Saf? What does that mean?”
“Sexy as fuck.”
He sipped his vodka, smiling. “I’m saving yours as Still Wearing the Fucking Robe.”
Chuckling, I pulled the waist belt, letting the silk robe fall open. I was very naked underneath.
He let out a breath and swallowed the last of his drink. “You’re really fucking hot.”
I smiled and took his empty glass. He still looked like he’d had the week from hell and I wanted to fix that. “Go and sit on the sofa. I’m going to grab the condoms and lube. Then I’m going to sink down on your monster cock and ride you till you come.”
His nostrils flared and his breath hitched. But he began to thumb through his phone. “Gimme one sec. Just gonna change your name to Bossy.”
I took his phone and put it screen-down on the counter, leaned in real close. “Get your arse on the couch. When I come back out, you better be naked.”
He chewed on his bottom lip and groaned out a breath. “I like it when you’re bossy.” Then with one finger, he opened my robe some more and looked at me like I was something to eat. “I like it when you let me do what I want with your body too. I can’t decide which one I like more.”