Beautiful Player
Page 76
I shook my head. “Yes.”
“Are you always such a boob man?” she asked.
In what was clearly becoming a pattern, I ignored the implied question about other women, deciding I wasn’t going to address anything about that entire taboo conversation again . . . for now. Beside me, she grew still and I knew she felt the same unspoken question settle back between us: is this conversation over?
We were saved by the bell, or in this case the buzzing of my phone on the coffee table. A text from Max lit up my screen.
Headed to Maddie’s for some pints. Coming?
I showed the phone to Hanna, in part wanting her to see that it wasn’t a woman texting me on a Tuesday night, and in part to see if she’d be up for coming along. I raised my eyebrows in silent question.
“Who’s Maddie?”
“Maddie is a friend of Max’s, who owns and runs Maddie’s, a bar in Harlem. It’s usually pretty empty, and it has great beer. Max likes it for the horrible British pub food.”
“Who’s going?”
Shrugging, I said, “Max. Probably Sara.” I stopped, considering. It was Tuesday, so Sara and Chloe would probably be testing to see if I was with Kitty. It was all probably a quasi-causal ruse to check up on me. “I’m betting Chloe and Bennett are coming, too.”
Hanna tilted her head, studying me. “Do you guys go out to bars on weekdays a lot? Seems strange for all of these serious business career people.”
I sighed, standing and pulling her up with me. “I think they’re trying to track my sex life, to be honest.” If she knew Saturdays had been my nights with Kristy, then she may also know Tuesdays were usually reserved for Kitty. May as well be up front with her about how meddling my friends could be.
Her expression remained unreadable, and I couldn’t tell if she was irritated, jealous, nervous, or maybe even just listening neutrally. I wanted so much to know what was going on in her head, but I couldn’t possibly start the talk again and have her freak out. I was a man; a man perfectly capable of accepting sex from a woman even under the murkiest of emotional circumstances. Especially when that woman was Hanna.
I bent to pick up both beer bottles.
“Will it be weird if I’m there? Do they know about us?”
“Yes, they know. No, it won’t be weird.”
She looked skeptical, and I put my hands on her shoulder. “Here’s a rule: things are only weird if you let them be.”
As the bar was roughly fifteen blocks from my apartment building, we decided to walk. Late March in New York was either gray and cold, or blue and cold, and luckily the snow had finally disappeared and we were having a pretty decent spring.
Only a block from my apartment, Hanna reached for my hand.
I threaded my fingers with hers, and pressed our palms together. I’d somehow always expected love to be primarily a mental state, so I still felt unaccustomed to the physical manifestation of my feelings for her: the way my stomach would grow tight, my skin would start to feel hungry for her touch, the way my chest would press in, my heart pounding blood hard and fast through my arteries.
She squeezed my hand, asking, “Do you actually like doing sixty-nine? I mean, really.”
I blinked over to her, laughing and f**k, falling even harder for her. “Yeah. I love it.”
“But, and I know you’re going to hate what I’m about to say—”
“You’re going to ruin it for me, aren’t you?”
She looked up at me, tripping slightly on a crack in the sidewalk. “Is that even possible?”
I considered this. “Probably not.”
Opening her mouth, she started to speak and then closed it again. Finally, she blurted, “Your face is basically in someone’s ass.”
“No, it isn’t. Your face is on someone’s c**k or someone’s pu**y.”
She was already shaking her head. “No. Let’s say I’m on top of you, and—”
“I like this hypothetical.” I kept waiting for her to take charge and ride me. In fact, I wanted it so much that as soon as I pictured it, I had to take a moment to discreetly adjust myself in my jeans with my free hand.
Ignoring my hint, she continued, “So that means you’re under me. My legs are spread over your face, so my ass is . . . it’s like eyeball level.”
“Fine with me.”
“It’s my ass. By your eyes.”
I let go of her hand and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “This won’t surprise you, but I have zero aversion to asses. I think we should try it.”
“Are you always such a boob man?” she asked.
In what was clearly becoming a pattern, I ignored the implied question about other women, deciding I wasn’t going to address anything about that entire taboo conversation again . . . for now. Beside me, she grew still and I knew she felt the same unspoken question settle back between us: is this conversation over?
We were saved by the bell, or in this case the buzzing of my phone on the coffee table. A text from Max lit up my screen.
Headed to Maddie’s for some pints. Coming?
I showed the phone to Hanna, in part wanting her to see that it wasn’t a woman texting me on a Tuesday night, and in part to see if she’d be up for coming along. I raised my eyebrows in silent question.
“Who’s Maddie?”
“Maddie is a friend of Max’s, who owns and runs Maddie’s, a bar in Harlem. It’s usually pretty empty, and it has great beer. Max likes it for the horrible British pub food.”
“Who’s going?”
Shrugging, I said, “Max. Probably Sara.” I stopped, considering. It was Tuesday, so Sara and Chloe would probably be testing to see if I was with Kitty. It was all probably a quasi-causal ruse to check up on me. “I’m betting Chloe and Bennett are coming, too.”
Hanna tilted her head, studying me. “Do you guys go out to bars on weekdays a lot? Seems strange for all of these serious business career people.”
I sighed, standing and pulling her up with me. “I think they’re trying to track my sex life, to be honest.” If she knew Saturdays had been my nights with Kristy, then she may also know Tuesdays were usually reserved for Kitty. May as well be up front with her about how meddling my friends could be.
Her expression remained unreadable, and I couldn’t tell if she was irritated, jealous, nervous, or maybe even just listening neutrally. I wanted so much to know what was going on in her head, but I couldn’t possibly start the talk again and have her freak out. I was a man; a man perfectly capable of accepting sex from a woman even under the murkiest of emotional circumstances. Especially when that woman was Hanna.
I bent to pick up both beer bottles.
“Will it be weird if I’m there? Do they know about us?”
“Yes, they know. No, it won’t be weird.”
She looked skeptical, and I put my hands on her shoulder. “Here’s a rule: things are only weird if you let them be.”
As the bar was roughly fifteen blocks from my apartment building, we decided to walk. Late March in New York was either gray and cold, or blue and cold, and luckily the snow had finally disappeared and we were having a pretty decent spring.
Only a block from my apartment, Hanna reached for my hand.
I threaded my fingers with hers, and pressed our palms together. I’d somehow always expected love to be primarily a mental state, so I still felt unaccustomed to the physical manifestation of my feelings for her: the way my stomach would grow tight, my skin would start to feel hungry for her touch, the way my chest would press in, my heart pounding blood hard and fast through my arteries.
She squeezed my hand, asking, “Do you actually like doing sixty-nine? I mean, really.”
I blinked over to her, laughing and f**k, falling even harder for her. “Yeah. I love it.”
“But, and I know you’re going to hate what I’m about to say—”
“You’re going to ruin it for me, aren’t you?”
She looked up at me, tripping slightly on a crack in the sidewalk. “Is that even possible?”
I considered this. “Probably not.”
Opening her mouth, she started to speak and then closed it again. Finally, she blurted, “Your face is basically in someone’s ass.”
“No, it isn’t. Your face is on someone’s c**k or someone’s pu**y.”
She was already shaking her head. “No. Let’s say I’m on top of you, and—”
“I like this hypothetical.” I kept waiting for her to take charge and ride me. In fact, I wanted it so much that as soon as I pictured it, I had to take a moment to discreetly adjust myself in my jeans with my free hand.
Ignoring my hint, she continued, “So that means you’re under me. My legs are spread over your face, so my ass is . . . it’s like eyeball level.”
“Fine with me.”
“It’s my ass. By your eyes.”
I let go of her hand and reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “This won’t surprise you, but I have zero aversion to asses. I think we should try it.”
