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The next ten minutes are a struggle; Aidan’s so distracting that I can’t even make small talk. Every time our eyes meet I start to undress him mentally, and wondering how he must look naked and up close. I went looking for him online after I got home last night and, oh my, no wonder he was crowned the king of romance covers. His body screams sex, and the filthy crazy kind of sex at that, not the ‘turn off the lights and cover me with the sheets’ kind.
By the time the waiter comes with the food and a bottle of red wine, I’m actually surprised I haven’t started drooling. I’m trying to hide how hard my heart is racing, but if I don’t regain my composure he’s going to notice soon.
"Thank you," I tell the waiter as he finishes pouring the wine into both of our glasses and then I breath in deeply. I take a sip of the wine and, changing gears, I get ready for business; maybe that’ll help take my mind out of the gutter. "So, Aidan, any ideas for what our project should be about?"
"I thought you were the one with the bright ideas," he teases me, his smart eyes making me feel as if there’s a dagger in my heart.
"You’re right," I say without thinking, "and I actually have already started to think about a possible story. I just wanted to know if you have any ideas of your own."
"Oh, I have a lot of ideas, and I think they’d all work very well between the covers of a romance novel… or between any kind of covers," he says with that deep, seductive voice of his, and I lick my lips as I feel a growing wetness between my thighs. I’m doing my best to act professional here, but it’s getting harder by the minute.
"You know, I’ve been thinking about changing my writing style. I think my books are sexy, but there’s something m
issing … I’m thinking we should focus on what women love the most," I tell him, trying to ignore the innuendo in his words.
"And what is that?" he asks me with a grin, one eyebrow slightly arched.
"Big cocks, what else," I say in a single breath, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Sure, look, I know that big cocks aren’t really the most important things in the world, but they sure add a kind of joie de vivre to everything, right? Besides, it’s a novel we’re talking about; at least with a book everyone’s allowed to fantasize, no holds barred. That annoying cliché, when writers say that they don’t it for the money but because they must… well, it’s kinda true, you know? Shaping my thoughts and fantasies into words and getting them down on paper, it’s a special kind of release. And when people read my work, which means they’re really peering into the depths of my mind, and love it, well, that’s just the icing on the cake. The money really is the last thing I worry about. Except when I don’t have any coming in, of course, which is why I’m sitting across from Aidan in the first place; I guess there’s a silver lining to my situation.
"Big cocks," he repeats, his eyes never leaving mine. Jesus, if he doesn’t look away from me soon enough I’m going to be so wet my fluids are going to drip down my legs and start pooling on the floor. That process has already started, you know? "Is that what most women want?" He speaks calmly, but I can’t tell if he’s truly asking me a question or if he’s just playing with me. "Or is that what you want?"
"Maybe," I respond, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse speeding up in my temples. "But more important than that, I like a man who knows how to fuck. It’s not all about the size." I’m trying to tease him, but I think I’m just digging a deeper hole for myself. I might be the writer in here, but in the state I’m in right now I doubt I can match him in a battle of wits.
"Would you like to see some good fucking then?" he asks me, leaning in toward me. His eyes are narrowed, and I can see a hunger dancing there. Before I can stop myself from doing it, I nod and smile.
"Write what you know, that’s the number one rule for a writer," I say, breathing so hard it’s a wonder I got the words out.
"Then let’s make sure you keep improving as a writer," he goes up to his feet, pushing the chair back, and offers me his hand. "Follow me, and I’ll show you some good fucking. The kind you’ll never forget."
Sorry, Cheryl, I really tried to act professionally.
But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Abby
We grab a cab out of Del Posto’s, and we’re at the entrance of Aidan's apartment building in a matter of minutes. Well, it probably took a little longer than that, but time flies when you’re having fun.
"I hope you didn’t say all that just to get me alone," I tease him as we step out of the cab. I’m pretty sure that he really meant every word of what he said, and that he intends to fuck me in a way I’ll never forget, but I just can’t help myself and stop teasing him.
"You’ll be the judge of that soon enough," he merely says without even turning to look at me. We go straight for the elevator and, as the doors close, I start feeling so nervous that I have to grit my teeth in order to stop them from chattering. Calm down, Abby, you got this.
I’m looking at Aidan from the corner of my eyes, anxious to have him jump on me right here. But he just waits patiently as the elevator makes the climb upward, and he’s so relaxed that it just makes me more anxious about what’s going to happen. Really, how can he be so calm?
"You’d a think a romance writer wouldn’t get so nervous," he says in a mocking tone without turning to me.
"Who says I’m nervous?" I shoot back, but my words sound as fake as plastic. Crap.
"Nobody. It’s plain as day," he shrugs as the doors finally slide open. Thank God. "Come," he says, taking his key out of his front pocket and sliding it inside the keyhole of one of the doors in the hallway. He steps to the side, waving me inside with a grin, and I walk inside his apartment.
I stop in the doorway, taken aback at what I see. I expected something… more normal. His apartment isn’t exactly big, but that’s not what has me this surprised anyway. Every piece of furniture looks high end and made of hardwood, a throwback to more cultured eras; the walls are lined with bookcases, and the books in there don’t look like they’re there just for show. From Stephen King and Bukowski to Eddie Cleveland, it seems that Aidan reads a lot—probably a lot more than I do. On the wall there’s a huge painting of small girls in Victorian dresses, and I somehow recall it from my times in college, a piece painted by some Spanish guy, Velazquez or something, from long ago.
I was expecting something minimalist, not this. A coffee table with fitness and car magazines piled up, and unwashed dishes in the sink. Maybe a few empty bottles of beer too. I mean, isn’t that how most single guys live? But Aidan’s place… Christ, it looks like a writer’s home. I can even imagine Hemingway, in all his ruggedness, setting up shop here.
"Surprised?" he asks me, closing the door behind us. I take two steps toward one of the bookcases, running my fingers over the neatly stacked books.
"I didn’t know you liked books," I say, immediately feeling dumb at my own words.
"Yeah, I know how to read," he snorts, "and I also know how to write."
