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Friday Night Partying
Daphneand I share an Uber home because our condos are only minutes apart. I note the time as she hugs my neck. Seven o’clock.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she says into my hair, and then slips out of the car. After shutting the door, she presses her hand against the window and her full lips draw into a supportive pout.
She knows how hard it will be for me.
My phone buzzes with a text when the Uber driver pulls off, and I fish it out of my purse. Stephen.
Where are you bitches tonight? My blind date was a nightmare. I need a drink.
I release a sympathetic groan and punch out a reply. Looks like all our nights were a bust:
Sorry, hun. We’re headed back home already. Read into that what you will. Chat tomorrow?
Yikes. Is Mercury in Retrograde or something? WTH. K…chat tomorrow. Maybe we can brunch.
I wait for him to remember.
Shit. Forgot about the Jake thing in the morning. Sure you still want to do this? You don’t owe him anything.
My thumbs hover over the letters to type a reply, but my brain is mush. I don’t know if I still want to do this, but I know I will. For a couple reasons. I wait so long that another of his texts come through:
Just think about it. If you go through with it, hit me up after. We can get lunch since you’ll already be out. If you still have an appetite. And PS—I just Googled it, and Mercury is definitely in retrograde. Keep that in mind. ;)
Figures. Not that I really buy into all that. My fingers decide to work again:
Will do. Love you.
Love you.
The elevator shootsme up to my twentieth-floor condo and as I lean against the back wall, my mind wanders to another time I was in an elevator. After drinks.
But with Jake Mitchell…
The elevator jumps as it stops, jostling us against the back wall. In our drunken haze, his lips fused to my neck, his erection pressing against me, it barely registers. After about five good minutes of kissing and grinding and moaning, something needles the back of my mind. Something isn’t quite right.
“Jake,” I rasp.
He moans his reply. A response to what he thinks is me crying out his name, full of lust and desire. An eruption of prayer to the sex gods.
“Jake,” I say again, pulling back.
He comes to.
My lips quirk, and I run my tongue over my bottom lip. He tastes sweet with a bite. Jack and Coke. “I think we’re stuck.” Wouldn’t this be our luck?
He whips his head around to look at the elevator doors. They’re struggling to open. When his gaze makes its way back to me, part of his fake beard has peeled away again from his jawline. He smiles that killer smile that makes my knees weak. “I guess we’re fucking in an elevator, then.” He punctuates it with thrusting his dick against the apex of my thighs.
I gasp.
We’re doing it in an elevator, then.
The elevator glidesto a gentle stop and a woman with her Greyhound barge in without allowing me out first. Fighting off her dog’s nose from burying into my crotch, I eye her as she settles into place and I manage to get out. As the doors slide closed, I immediately notice the floor number and grunt with frustration. Sexual, and otherwise.
I got off a floor too soon.
Damn you, Jake.
