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Several moments pass and the look Brontë gives me tells me she’s about to give up when contestant number three steps up to the plate.
The small talk is nice, seems genuine.
“Derek, here on business from Chicago.”
“Oh, I’m from Chicago too. Small world. Brontë, here on business as well.”
I wait patiently for the inevitable invite up to his room or innuendo, but it doesn’t come. They genuinely seem to be having a pleasant conversation. Brontë’s sweet laugh echoes around me and I feel my stomach sour when I realize what I’ve done. I just told her to openly hit on random men while I sit back and watch. My stomach curdles at the way their conversation is flowing. I shake the thoughts of jealousy from my head, reminding myself that my only interest in her is physical and nothing more so who cares if she flirts with some other guy.
“So, would it be possible to get your number? I’d love to take you out when we’re back in Chicago.”
I can’t stomach it a second longer. I spin around and walk up next to Brontë, reaching down to place my hand on the warm skin of her exposed thigh. She looks up at me, startled, and I lean down without hesitation, placing my lips against hers.
The kiss is soft and wet. I grip her inner thigh as I hook my other hand behind her neck and slip my tongue past her lips to tangle with hers. I break the kiss just as quickly, leaving her eyes heavy and confused.
“Sorry I kept you waiting, sweetheart.” I look up at the young blond man sitting at the bar who is just as confused as Brontë.
“Uh, sorry I didn’t mean?—”
I just stare at him till he stumbles off his stool in his rush to leave.
“Why’d you run him off? He actually seemed really nice.”
“Did he? Because I heard him ask for your number within what?” I look down at my watch. “Four minutes of meeting you?”
“So? He didn’t ask me to go to his room.”
“Yes, well, a man will sit with you here for hours, making small talk, getting to know you before he asks for your number and either he leaves, you leave, or the bar closes. Neither of you made a comment about needing to leave and the bar isn’t closing. He knows if he can get your number within one drink, he can leave and go to the next bar where he’ll find another woman to seduce and get her number or take her back to his room.”
I see disgust fall across her face. “Seriously? Guys do that?”
“All the time, sweetheart.”
“Do you do that?”
“I did when I was that age, yes.” I reach down and push her hair off her shoulder as I lean against the bar. Her knees are touching my legs. It feels intimate. “You have to make them work for it, Brontë. I know you’re not looking for a hookup and a man who wants more than that, a man who is interested in learning more about you will put in that work.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Don’t settle for a compliment or a free drink. Those things are nice, but anyone can offer that. A boy will offer you those things if he wants to fuck you; a man who’s interested will show you why he’s different, why he deserves you.”
I pull the stool next to her closer and sit down. Her legs fall between mine.
“A man will put in the effort to make you feel like you’re the only woman in the room. Like he can’t take his eyes off you.” She’s leaning forward off her stool toward me. Her hand reaches out to casually rest on my thigh and I’m not even sure she recognizes that she’s doing it.
“He’ll put in the effort to woo you. To make you feel safe, like you can be vulnerable even though you just met him. Has a man ever made you feel desired, Brontë?”
She nods her head yes. “Yes. I mean, those three guys just did. They clearly saw me and wanted me.”
I shake my head. “Not like that. I know you could get ten guys’ numbers in ten minutes if you wanted to; you’re beautiful and alluring. But those guys just want to fuck.”
Her eyes darken as she drags them up my body and it’s incredibly erotic. “But what if I want that too? What if I want a man who will fuck me?” She’s trying to be bold, but she practically whispers the words like she’s shy.
“A man will fuck you, honey. He’ll satisfy every desire you have. He’ll also hold your hand and make love to you. But those boys? They just want to fuck you with the focus of getting off, not fulfilling your needs.” I lean forward, bringing us closer. “Have you ever been with a man like that, Brontë? A man who wants to please you?”
She curls her fingertips into my suit pants, lightly gripping the material. Her cheeks redden as she shakes her head. “No,” she says softly.
“Don’t be embarrassed, that’s not your fault. But don’t settle for the bare minimum from men, Brontë. You’re much too special for that. A real man will pay attention to what turns you on, to how your body responds to his touch.”
