“And how is my new crush? What is Coco up to?” she asks.
Chastising me about romance. But I don’t reveal that part. “She’s great. We got pedicures today.”
Bellamy’s face is the picture of glee. “I need all the details, stat,” she demands.
I fill her in on our regular nail salon visits. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I can score you an invitation sometime,” I tease.
She wags a finger at me. “Now that’s the kind of invite I would catfight for.”
I lean closer. “Bet you’d really like an invitation to her birthday party, then. She’s holding it at Stallions and Studs.”
Her eyes widen. “You better get me one. I mean it.”
I shrug, offhand. “I guess we’ll see if you deserve one.”
“I’ll be very, very good.” Then her expression turns serious. “I wanted to ask about those online comments after the piece. They were harsher than I expected. Is there anything I can do?”
“Besides what we’re already doing? This bet thing?”
“Yes.”
“I find blow jobs make almost anything better,” I deadpan.
“I’d be amenable to an IOU in the blow job ledger. Your cock is fantastic to suck.” She licks her lips but doesn’t lose track of the convo. “But seriously. Is there?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I have a meeting with one of my corporate partners this week. I’m sorting through some ideas,” I say. “And this bet thing will go a long way, I’m sure. Especially since I’ll win.”
“Not a chance, cowboy.” She drifts her gaze around the restaurant and settles on another couple, two guys at a neighboring table enrapt in conversation about the best new bands. “They met on Instagram. They both commented on a post about Taylor Swift, got to talking, then moved to the DMs. Now they can’t get enough of each other.”
I shake my head. “Concert. Soho. A divey club with a mosh pit. They were smushed up against each other, locked eyes, and went home together that night. Inseparable. They disagree on nearly everything when it comes to music, but they can’t stop talking about their dislikes.”
She finds another pair. They’re older with weathered faces, but they clink beer glasses, then drink. “They’re toasting to twenty years together. They met on Match, one of the first generation of online daters. They fell in love debating whether Ernest Hemingway is trash or treasure.”
I scoff. “Nope. It was book club at their friend Marge’s Greenwich Village apartment. They all read John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. They debated it for hours, and after everyone else left, they stayed, drinking beer instead of wine and dissecting the matters of faith in the story.”
“They could debate a story for ages,” she says, then lifts that pretty chin like she’s going in for the kill. “Because they both put ‘avid reader’ in their online bios, which is how the algorithms matched them.”
“Well played,” I say.
We proceed through the entire restaurant in this fashion, and by the time we polish off our meals, Bellamy sighs in frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head like she’s annoyed with herself. “I was supposed to get intel on you for your dating profile.”
I smile slyly. “And you did. I just shared all my likes with you.”
It takes a few seconds for her to grasp my meaning, and when she does, her chocolate irises twinkle with breathtaking delight. “You like discussing books, debating music, talking all night long, and . . . fucking.”
I wiggle my brows then pay the bill. “About that last one . . .”
I wrap her hair in my fist as her tits bounce gloriously.
She’s this close.
Her cheeks redden, and she claws at my chest, riding me hard and fast. Intense concentration etches her forehead as she swivels her hips, fucking my shaft with fierce determination, as if she’s using my dick for her pleasure and her pleasure only.
It’s so insanely sexy watching her chase her bliss.
“Yes, fucking yes,” I coax, urging her on as I grip her chestnut strands tighter with one hand, rubbing circles on her clit with my other.
“Don’t stop a thing,” she orders.
“I’d never.”
She goes wild on me, her thighs squeezing my legs, her pelvis grinding against mine.
I follow her every direction, moving my thumb a little faster, then faster still with each orbit I make.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moans, her noises making me hotter. A deep pull of pleasure curls around my spine, the signal that I’ll be losing it any second too.
Then she slides down onto my chest, her tits crushing against my pecs while her whole body shakes. Her cries rip through my bedroom as she shudders beautifully.
That’s all it takes for me to combust and join her. The world beyond these walls ceases to exist. Euphoria takes my body as its willing prisoner.
A few minutes later, after I’ve disposed of the condom, I’m still catching my breath, and so is Bellamy.
She hasn’t moved. She’s splayed on the bed, running her fingers through her hair.
I settle next to her, pressing my naked body against her warm skin. “So . . . was that not too bad?”
A sex-drenched smile paints her lips. “It was so not bad.”
“Good. Maybe our understanding can include another round in the morning.”
And somehow our understanding turns into a sleepover.
34
Two Kinds of People in The World
It’s company meeting time in the office five or so days later.
Coco settles into the comfy purple couch with a cup of tea. I flop down in a trendy bean bag chair.
Why have a worky-work office when you can have a party room?
That’s what Rory said when she helped decorate after the “lost days of Easton,” as she called those months following Anna’s death.
Now, I use this space in the brownstone office I rent in Gramercy Park as the brainstorming room for planning parties. The next one is bearing down on Carpe Diem next weekend.
I scan my tablet, and review some of the key details for the warehouse event, doing my best to avoid thoughts of the last time I visited the warehouse. Not because those thoughts are unpleasant—they’re too pleasant to linger on during a meeting.
“You should review some of these applications that came in over the weekend,” Coco says, swiping on her tablet.
“How are they looking? Do we have some top-notch choices for guests?” I hear myself and cringe. I’ve said the words many times, but this is the first time I’ve thought about how they may sound.
I set my iPad on the table and shoot Coco a level-with-me stare. “Am I elitist?”
Laughing, she reaches over to pat my knee. “Darling, of course you are. The very nature of these parties is elitist.”
But I’m reeling at the realization Bellamy might be right.
“Is that a problem, though?” I ask, bracing myself for Coco’s assessment.
She picks up her tea and takes a sip. “Is it a problem for you?”
Peering through the glass, I watch New Yorkers scurry by, phones pressed to ears, race-walking through the day. So many people—so little time to meet the love of your life. I provide this city and its inhabitants the chance to find their heart’s desire.