Who Doesn’t Like Schnauzers?

 

 

The next morning I wake, primed on burning down my apartment and the ringing cell which sits on my bedside dresser.

My dick hums in satisfaction, not bothered in the slightest. After receiving a hummer sent from the blow job gods, he would happily roast in hell. And that’s where I’ll end up after what happened last night.

Groaning, I reach for the spare pillow and crush it over my face. I wonder if anyone has managed to suffocate themselves to death. I’ll happily volunteer to try because it’ll erase the images of me eating Keira out before she came all over my face.

I thought we were done, but then she dropped to her knees, ripped off my pants, and sucked on my dick until I cried mercy and saw stars. For a virgin, she sure as shit knows her way around. But I don’t judge. Glass houses and all that jazz…

Once I stopped weeping for my mom to save me from the jaws of life, I zipped up my pants and took Keira home. She chatted in the car like five minutes prior, we weren’t all up in each other’s business. Maybe this casual sex thing can be done.

So why was that aching void still lingering around like a bad smell?

I came home, showered, and crawled into bed. And here I was planning on staying for a long time to come if not for the infernal ringing of my fucking phone, which is sounding once again.

Throwing the pillow against the wall, I sit upright, brushing the snarled hair from my face. Whoever this caller is, I’m going to find them, rip off their hands, and wear them as a hat. The moment I reach for my cell, it stops ringing. So fucking typical.

My screen is lit up with fifteen missed calls and a bunch of nonsensical texts from Dixon.

Wake the fuck up!

Are you wearing pants?

For the love of god, please put on pants.

This is the general gist of what kind of crazy talk I’m dealing with.

When the phone rings once again, I have the urge to throw it out the window, but don’t. “No, I’m not wearing pants, for your information. And if this is your attempt at phone sex, don’t give up your day job.”

“Shut the hell up and listen.” He’s so cranky in the morning.

“Hello to you, too.” I yawn, in desperate need of an Irish coffee, preferably just the Irish portion. “No, I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s why you’re calling at”—I look down at my imaginary watch—“stupid o’clock. And by the way, you do realize it’s Sunday morning, as in a day of rest, as in fuck the fuck off.”

“Hunter…”

He doesn’t get to finish whatever spiel I was in for as it appears everyone is on crazy pills because someone is at my door. “Oh, for the love of camel piss, who the hell is that?” I remove the phone from my ear to ensure I’m not hearing things.

When the bell sounds once again, this time however in a long, continuous drone, I kick off the blankets ready to murder whoever won’t remove their finger from my buzzer. “Dixon, if this is you at my door, I swear to god I’m going to burn you alive.”

“Would you stop talking already and put on pants…”

Mid-stride to my bedroom door, I realize I am butt naked, and had no qualms answering the door this way, considering whoever is at my door is not staying. But I suppose the big man is right. Wouldn’t want my ninety-five-year-old neighbor to keel over and call it a day if she’s the one at my door.

Hunting through my drawers, I slip into a pair of CK boxer briefs and that’s it. Charging through my apartment with Dixon still on the line, I bark, “Where’s the fire? I know you love me and miss me terribly, but these stalker phone calls couldn’t wait until after breakfast?”

“I’m calling to warn you that…”

“That you’re the world’s most annoying friend who has nothing better to do on a Sunday morning?” I offer as I stampede through my living room, three steps away from committing murder. “You better cherish that motherfucking finger, asshole, because I’m about to rip it off and shove it so far up your ass your—” The moment I yank open the door, my words die in a tangled heap and I forget how to speak.

If I knew sign language, I would be signing holy fucking shit a brick fuck me dead and call me Elvis because Mary is standing at my door. Not the Virgin Mary, as that’s a lot more plausible than Mary Mitts, but it’s her. She’s here, on my doorstep, with her finger pressed to my doorbell.

“I’m calling to warn you that Mary is on her way over,” Dixon concludes, his tone laced with complete hilarity.

“This is information that would have been helpful five seconds ago, genius,” I wheeze, thankful my speech has returned.

The doorbell dies in a strangled cough when Mary’s finger slips from the button. Her usual rosy complexion is suddenly set alight when she scans me from head to toe. Oh, for fuck’s sake, the indigestion returns. I rub a circle over my chest, and am surprised when Mary follows the movement, her glossy lips parted. Is she unwell?

“Are you going to stand around like a primate? Invite her in,” a voice which sounds an awful lot like Dixon demands. That’s when I realize it is Dix and that I’m standing at my front door, in my underwear, with my cell pressed to my ear as I visually consume the hottest woman on earth.

I go against Dixon’s suggestion because I’ve seen Buffy, I know what happens when you invite the pretty ones into your home. “What are you doing?”

“Smooth, Hunt, real smooth.” Dixon’s running commentary can go eat a dick.

Licking her lips, she appears to remember that she’s here voluntarily and clears her throat once. “You invited me, remember? Or did you suffer short term memory loss overnight?”

Scratching my head, I wonder if maybe Keira’s pussy was a black hole and she sucked me straight into the twilight zone. “I do remember, but I also remember you telling me you’d rather poke a grizzly bear in the ass with a short stick than come anywhere near my home.”

Dixon exhales loudly.

“Well, I’m desperate,” she states, which opens up a whole different can of worms. She closes her eyes for a split second, realizing her poor choice of words.

Every part of my body inflates, so ready for the challenge. “Shortcake, I’m flattered…”

“Oh my god, just forget it.” She goes to turn, which is like a swift karate chop to my throat.

Both Dixon and I yell, “Stop!” at the same time. I should hang up, but he’s here for moral support, and god knows I need it, because I’m wading in shark-infested waters. I thank the angels above when she doesn’t punch me in the nuts and stays rooted to the spot.

Her emerald eyes hold me prisoner as she waits for me to make the first move. “Please, come in.” I stand back, sweeping my hand toward my home.

She narrows her eyes, waiting for a punchline, or catch, but none follow. I’m too tongue-tied to even remember my own name. After a slight pause, she nods and walks past me. The polite thing to do would be to move out of the doorway so she can enter, but polite and me have never really seen eye to eye.

She doesn’t allow my hulking frame to intimidate her and strolls past me, her arm brushing my bare chest. Sweet Jesus and all that’s holy. I have seen the light and her name is Mary Shortcake Mitts. From a single touch, my body goes into overdrive and my cock is poised and raring to go. She smells fucking delicious. My mouth actually waters and I quickly dab at my chin to ensure I’m not salivating.

She’s wearing skinny jeans, Chucks, and a baby pink knitted sweater which has her fiery red waves coming to life. Her ass is absolute perfection, bound compactly in the tight denim. When she turns back around from inspecting my living room, I flick my gaze upward, pretending I was not checking her out.

“Nice home.”

“Thanks.” I refrain from saying nice ass. See, I’m learning.

When she clears her throat again and tugs at the diamond stud in her ear, I realize she’s finding this as uncomfortable as I am. “I really could use your help, and as much as I hate admitting that, I need you. Your home,” she quickly corrects as I’m on the cusp of doing a victory dance around my coffee table.

“Sure, no problem. What do I have to do?” I ask, the phone hanging limply by my side. Dixon is probably stuffing his face full of popcorn, eagerly awaiting to see how this unfolds.

“Nothing really. Just allow me to take over your home and office for the next two months. You won’t even know I’m here.” She attempts to grin, but it fades as she swallows hard.

That’s very fucking unlikely, but I nod. “Okay, sounds easy enough.” She rubs her hands together as if she’s suddenly nervous that I agreed.

Cocking my head to the side, I notice she’s a lot more twitchy and fidgety than I’ve ever seen her. She’s usually as cool as a cucumber, but her flushed cheeks are rosier than usual. What is up with that?

“Awesome, so, um, did you want to get dressed or something while I get started?” She’s pinning me with those drop dead gorgeous eyes, but when she averts her attention downward and then back up again, I actually get winded.

Is she checking me out? No, that’s not possible. She’d rather dig out her eyeballs with an ice cream scoop than look at me of her own accord.

Running a hand back and forth over my scalp, mussing up my hair, I nod. Her interest floats to my arm, or more specifically, my bicep. I tilt my chin, peering up at my bowed arm, with my hand still resting atop my head.

When she becomes aware of me attempting to decode what the hell is the matter with her, she literally takes a step backward and fumbles with her backpack straps as she removes it from her shoulders. “I haven’t got all day. Go get dressed before I throw up my bagel.”

Ah, there she is. The Mary we all know and lov…okay, now this is just getting weird.

What I once thought, or hoped was desire, I now know was repulsion because Mary will always look at me like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in peak shape, run five miles a day, and am not a bad looking dude, I just don’t get her whistle wet.

Not interested in being a sideshow freak any longer, I leave her to comb through her things and ransack my home while I shower and sing “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera to my reflection.

I close my bedroom, pressing the phone to my ear. “Well, I would say she’s not a morning person, but that was her being friendly.”

“You really are an idiot,” Dixon says with a laugh. “What was with all the long pauses?”

He heard, or rather didn’t hear it too? Interesting.

Opening my drawers, I pull out a clean t-shirt and some socks. “I don’t know. She was looking at me funny.”

“Were you standing at full salute?”

I pause from rummaging through my underwear drawer. “I should be offended, but I’m not. And the answer to your question is no. I don’t think,” I add as a sidenote.

“Regardless, this is your opportunity to show her what a great guy you are.”

“You realize you’re talking to me and not Finch, right?” I close the drawer and search for a pair of jeans.

“Hunt…just talk to her.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I ask in all seriousness, because if there is a handbook, I need to do some serious cramming.

“I don’t fucking know. Ask her about her course. Or if she likes Schnauzers or not.”

I scrunch up my face. “She likes Schnauzers?”

Dixon groans. “I don’t know. The question was rhetorical.”

“Oh right. Shit. I need you to feed me lines through an earpiece. I’m going to crumble.” Rubbing the perspiration beads from my brow, I know this is a taste of what’s to come.

“You’ll be fine. You’re already a changed man.” When I wait for him to elaborate, he explains like I’m Tweedledee. “You didn’t sleep with Keira.”

And he’s Tweedledum. “Well…” I rub the back of my neck.

“For fuck’s sake. You’re going to give me an ulcer.”

I bite back my smirk. “I didn’t fuck her.”

“Oh, thank the lord.”

“…with my cock,” I reveal before he gets too excited and nominates me for a Nobel Peace Prize. “I’m a giver, Dixon. You know this.”

“No, you’re an asshole. How did this happen?”

“Don’t tell me it’s been that long you need me to draw you a diagram,” I reply, thoroughly amused.

“I don’t know why I bother.” He sighs.

Needing to cut this conversation short because Mary is just outside my door, I enlighten him. “I tried to fight her off, I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Then she made reference to her pussy and me eating it out with a spoon, and then one thing led to another and I was bending her over my desk. She wanted me to fuck her, but she’s a virgin, a fucking virgin, and I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard. So I blew her, she blew me. All in all, a pretty low key Saturday night.” Only then do I take a breath.

“She’s a virgin?” Dixon questions suspiciously. “But yet she was fine with you feasting on her kitty like a fucking key lime pie before she dropped to her knees and sucked you off like it was no biggie?”

“Language,” I playfully scold. “But yes, that’s about it in a nutshell. Speaking of nuts…holy shit.”

Dixon isn’t interested is me relaying a step by step account of my sexscapades. “Dude, something isn’t right. Remember what happened when someone was bent over my desk?” I can hear him reaching for a sick bag from over here.

“Yeah, she double clicked her own mouse. So what?”

“I just don’t like this.”

Rolling my eyes, I make my way into my en-suite. “I made it perfectly clear I wasn’t interested in an office romance. And neither is she.”

“That logic is one of a dumbass, especially if she really is a virgin.”

“Now you’re doubting her virginity. You have serious trust issues. Go hug a teddy bear.”

“It’s your funeral,” Dixon says, the fight fading for now.

Stripping down to my birthday suit, I smirk. “You’ll have to speak up, I’m naked.”

“And on that note, I have to go find my fiancée to burn that image from my mind. Don’t forget your pants.” The line goes dead.

Tossing my cell onto the basin, I turn on the shower and wait for it to warm up. Dixon has no idea what he’s talking about. Yes, Keira surprised me last night with her unexpected sexual aggression, but everything is kosher. There wasn’t an ounce of embarrassment in the air once the deed was done, and she didn’t even drop a ‘see you at work on Monday.’

As I step into my glass shower and stand under the spray, I begin to wonder if maybe there is a problem with this picture. Was I not memorable enough for her?

Groaning, I reach for the shampoo and quash such soppy bullshit from my mind. This is just Dixon’s touchy feely crap messing with my head, that’s all. We had casual sex—well, oral sex. Just because she’s not banging down my door and getting a tattoo to commemorate our union doesn’t mean something is askew. Whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll deal.

Washing the shampoo from my hair, I condition and then reach for the soap. My body is already heightened thanks to Mary being feet away, so when I wash over my semi, there’s no guessing what happens next.

The girl who has been my go to for months is in the next room. That thought has my cock straining and I grunt at the force. This would be the time I rub one out, but I suddenly feel like a vile pervert for even considering it.

My dick twitches, a silent demand I stop procrastinating and get the job done, but I just…can’t. It feels wrong for some reason and I don’t know why. There is no doubt I’m turned on by her, so why can’t I get this show on the road?

Slamming my fist to the wall, I lean my forehead to the tile, allowing the water to cascade down the back of my neck. I’m frustrated, not just sexually, but inside as well. I’ve had no qualms jerking off to her before, so why the sudden change of heart?

The stupid whimsical center in question does some sort of flip flop in my chest. I put an end to such nonsense by thumping over it once, kickstarting some sense into it. This hard on isn’t going anywhere, so I switch the faucet to cold and think about The Golden Girls.

Five minutes later, and suffering a mild case of hypothermia, I dry off and dress. I don’t bother with tying back my hair, but instead run my fingers through it. Splashing on some cologne, I’m ready to face the storm.

Mary has been left unsupervised for far too long and I won’t lie, I’m a little scared, as I have no idea what I’m walking into. My bare feet pad across the carpet as I amble down the hallway and take a right to enter the living room.

When I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks, because what I’m greeted with requires my undivided attention. Mary is stooped over, measuring tape in hand, as she looks from left to right, as if attempting to calculate the measurement in her head. What is heart stopping, however, is the fact she’s bent over, ass in the air.

I can’t help myself and lean against the doorjamb, admiring the view. Her apricot-shaped behind is just too much. I’ve always been an ass man, but this takes my obsession to a whole different level. Arms and ankles crossed, I angle my head to the side, needing to view this marvel from every viewpoint there is.

Her long hair is flipped forward, all wild and ruffled, just how I’m feeling right now. If this is what I’m in for, for the next two months, I just may die one happy man. She mumbles something under her breath. It sure sounds a lot like she’s giving someone an earful, but there is no one in the room other than me.

Maybe she’s gathering ammo, because god knows the next two months are going to be interesting. No time like the present, I suppose. “You really should bend your knees. Unless it’s your intention to look like Quasimodo.”

She springs upward like a pogo stick on the juice. Turning over her shoulder, she glares at me, while I don’t bother moving from my perch. I’m most comfortable seeing her jacked off. “It’s my intention to get in and out as soon as possible. Where’s your bedroom?”

If only those words were spoken in an entirely different manner, but never mind, it’s still an open door. “If this is your plan to seduce me, let me tell you…it’s working. I don’t need hearts and roses. Good ol’ fashioned dirty talk works wonders.” She rolls those beautiful eyes and turns around.

With hands on hips, she scans me from head to toe. She’s probably thankful I’m clothed. She lingers on my hair, which has me wondering if maybe a bird has perched in it from the time I left the bathroom. It needs a cut. I self-consciously run my fingers through it and wonder what’s come over her when her cheeks turn a brighter pink. Maybe she smoked some crack before coming here. It would explain her erratic behavior.

“Follow me,” I say, pushing off the doorway.

Her soft footsteps behind me reveal she’s following, so I lead the way, not making a big deal over the fact Mary is stepping foot inside my bedroom of her own volition. If I knew she’d want to scope out my whole apartment, I’d have tidied up a bit, but too late now. She can see this untamed beast in his natural habitat.

I enter my room, the cologne still lingering in the air. At least it smells good, because it sure as shit looks like a bomb has exploded inside. I’m not neat by nature. Clean yes, thanks to Yoko, my cleaner, but I just don’t have time to iron and roll my socks into bunny ears.

I step off to the side, allowing Mary to pass me and do her thing. What I hear however, is the unmistakable sound of a rubber glove snapping into place. She smirks when I resemble Scooby-Doo. “If this is a prostate exam…don’t be afraid to use two fingers.” Mary coughs back a laugh, but soon recovers.

She studies the room, slipping on the other blue latex glove. When her gaze lands on my king size bed, she curls her lip in aversion. “Mind if I take a look around?” I’m surprised she asked.

Sweeping my hand outward, I bow gallantly. As she walks to the far wall and unsnaps her measuring tape, I can’t help but ask, “What are the gloves for?”

She scoffs. “Are you serious? I don’t know what I’ll find in here and where it’s been.” On cue, she lifts a red lacy thong from the corner of my room with the end of her tape. She flings it at me, disgusted.

I dodge the flying projectile, wondering who they belong to. “Hey, don’t judge. I look good in red.”

“Whatever happens in your private life is none of my business. If you choose to date insecure airheads with daddy issues, then kudos to you.”

I fake horror. “I’ll have you know, I don’t date. Get your facts right.” She ignores my quip and instead goes to work measuring my room.

I stand out of the way, not wanting to bother a genius at work, because that’s what she is. I’m utterly entranced by her attention to detail and how she uses her small hands as a viewfinder. I don’t know what she’s seeing through her linked fingers, but when she stands in the middle of the room, spinning from left to right, it’s like she’s looking into the future.

Sighing in thought, she walks over to my window and splits the curtains in half. The bright sunlight streams in. While I’m convinced I’m melting, Mary kicks off her sneakers and jumps onto my bed. Now I’m certain she smoked crack.

“Do you want to have a pillow fight?” I ask, hooking my thumb toward the door. “If you do, there’s a hot blonde just down the hall…” Images of Mary and my neighbor dancing around in their underwear flood my brain. Mary thrusts out her palm, warning me to stop.

“I’ll admit, you’ve surprised me.”

“Oh, I know. I’m just full of surprises.” I polish my fingernails on my t-shirt.

“You’re full of something,” she mumbles. “I wasn’t expecting well, this.” Sweeping her hand toward my room, she nods, impressed.

“What were you expecting? Lava lamps, foosball, and pictures of naked ladies taped to the walls?” When she doesn’t reply, I can’t help but laugh.

“This entire space has so much potential. The artwork in your living room, local artist?”

She’s referring to the two charcoal sketches I bought from a gallery downtown. “Yes, they caught my eye the moment I walked past the window. I backtracked because I needed them hanging on my walls.” The first is of a woman, back turned as she sits in a chair, tying up her hair. A burst of light comes in from the top corner, bringing the sketch to life. “The slope of the woman’s neck and the definition to her slender arms has mesmerized me for countless hours. I’ve sat in my La-Z-Boy, staring at the image, wondering just who this woman was. There is an underlying sadness to her which is absurd, considering I can only see her back, but I get the sense she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. No matter how shitty my day, I always look at that picture and realize everyone has their own crosses to bear.” Mary’s mouth parts as she listens intently. “And the second one is pretty self-explanatory. The all-seeing eye. I like to call her Mom.”

The mood instantly lightens and Mary laughs. “They are both really beautiful. I think they complement this place and I would love to continue the theme throughout your home.”

Tapping my chin, I pose, “You’re not going to turn my apartment into some weirdo abstract art cavern, are you, where my kitchen stools will be bicycle seats and I’ll have to use a kitty litter tray to go to the bathroom?”

Mary, still standing in the middle of my bed, keeps a straight face as she explains, “No, I’m going to give your home a touch of class, and the first thing that needs to go is this disease-infested bed.” She turns over her shoulder to look at the cavities in the slatted wooden headboard to cement her point. “I don’t even want to know how they got there.”

No, she doesn’t. It involved a Russian beauty, a pair of handcuffs, and a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. “Okay, point taken. So you’ll use this room?”

She bites her lip while looking around the space. “Yes. I can smell the puta ingrained in the walls.”

“You’re multi-lingual? Is there anything you can’t do?” I tease, while she smirks.

“You have no idea.”

Touché.

She examines all corners of the room, her gaze fleeting back over to an old fashioned wooden chest you’d expect to see on the set of Vikings. “That, however, can stay. What’s in the box?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I reply, loving this cat and mouse game we’re playing.

Talking to Mary is easy. There are no pretences because we’re both straight shooters. This is the first conversation I’ve had with a woman where I know no matter what I say, or no matter how hard I turn on the charm, it won’t make a lick of difference because Mary is different. She sees through all my one liners because she’s got a comeback for every one. And if that doesn’t make me harder than a ten-foot snowman’s cock, then slap a red nose on me and call me Bozo the Clown.

She purses her lips in defiance and I know what she’s about to do even before she jumps off the edge of my bed and makes a beeline for the chest. Just as she’s two feet away, I frankly state, “I’m glad you’re wearing gloves, ’cause I’m not going to lie, it’s porn. And a lot of it.”

She freezes mid-step, her face pulling into an adorable scowl. “What is it with men and porn?”

“Do you really need me to explain?”

I’m expecting her to kick me in the nuts and tell me to go to hell, but I should know by now that Mary Mitts will always keep me guessing. “Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do.” My eyes bulge from my head when she continues her trek to my porn hub and places her perfect ass onto the chest. She crosses her legs and folds her arms ’cause it’s apparently story time with Big Ted.

I don’t even know how to give a 101 on porn because quite frankly, I think I’ll offend her. Rubbing the back of my neck, I try and think back to the speech my dad gave me when I was ten. “Son, it’s perfectly normal to masturbate. It’s all part of growing up.” God bless the son of a gun. When I told him my hand was practically glued to my dick ’cause I broke into his porn stash when I was eight, he handed over the reins to my mom, while he invested in a better lock.

Mary’s dimpled smile exposes her utter delight at seeing me squirm. “Ah, c’mon now, cat got your tongue?”

She’s baiting me and it’s totally working. Wetting my lips, I hope I can get through this without showing her exactly the reason why we need porn. I start with the basics. “It all comes down to evolution. Our brains”—I knock on my skull—“we’re hard-wired to be walking wood. We’re very visual individuals and respond to images, especially of the naked kind, much more quickly than women do. Evolution proves that a dude’s sole purpose is to copulate and spread his little guys whenever, wherever he can.

“When the opportunity knocks, we are more than happy to lay down our arms and fuck.” Her cheeks blister a bright red, but there’s no going back now. “Porn is like being in a candy store and the flavors are; the not so innocent cheerleader jelly beans, the desperate housewife gummy bears, and the naughty, naughty schoolteacher lollipops. It wets whatever appetite, fantasy we have and it’s like ice-cream—we eat it up ’cause it’s there and we can.”

Mary’s chest begins to rise and fall, which is so not helping the inevitable predicament, which will happen in approximately two minutes. I saunter toward her, needing to witness her rosy flesh up close. “Isn’t it cheating if they’re married? Or in a relationship? Or what if they’re just some porn fiend who likes whacking off ten times a day? Doesn’t having so much variety at their disposable only feed the addiction?”

I need a moment to catch my breath cause the word ‘whacking off’ has never sounded so innocently filthy. Focusing on her question and not the persistent pirouetting in my pants, I shake my head. “Studies on lab rats show that a male rat will only be into the same female for so long.”

Mary scoffs, her arms constricting around her. “Gee, not so different to the entire male species then.”

I arch a brow as I sense an undertone of hurt. Whoever hurt this goddess will pay dearly with his knotted balls dangling from a powerline. “No matter what Mrs. Rat does to entice him, the male just doesn’t want to play. However”—I raise my pointer when Mary is no doubt about to tell me to blow this speech up my ass—“when a new female is introduced, the male rat can’t help himself and he’s all over Mrs. Rat like a fat kid eating free cake.”

“Is that true?” she questions with a grin.

“Absolutely.” Taking a step closer so my knees almost touch hers, I relish in her accelerated breath.

She weighs over what I just said and I can suddenly see the struggle behind her delicate eyes. “But what if porn gives Mr. Rat an itch Mrs. Rat can’t scratch and he goes out and cheats with a field mouse who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose?”

I burst into laughter because that visual was quite colorful indeed. “That’s nothing to do with porn, that’s got to do with the person, or in this instance, Mr. Rat and his lack of balls and morals. He can’t blame porn for being the reason he cheated. He’s the reason. Jenna Jameson the Mouse didn’t tell him to stick his dick in some five-dollar hooker. He did.”

Mary nods slowly, gnawing on her bottom lip. The sight hurts. I suddenly want to wrap my arms around her and protect her from all the rat bastards out there.

“So you see…” I place my hands in my pockets before I do something stupid. “Porn isn’t cheating. If anything, it gives us ideas to perform on our lucky spouses. If you have one, that is.”

When her eyes flick up to meet mine, I almost hit the deck. “And if you don’t?”

I have been a fucking saint hitherto, but a man has his limits and Shortcake has just proved she’s my limit—my hard limit. Bending ever so slowly, I come to a stop when we’re face to face. Her sweet breath fans my cheeks and I’m hit with that mouth-watering strawberry and cream fragrance. This is wrong, but I can’t let her think I’ve gone soft, I’m quite the opposite in fact. “Then good luck to the woman we find and fuck senseless until she forgets her own name.”

An actual whimper slips past Mary’s lips, but I don’t mistake this for more than it is. Just ’cause we’re talking about sex in a roundabout way doesn’t mean she’ll lower her guard and let me throw her over the chest and eat her out until next week.

Jesus Christ, the image is too much.

This is the time I call it a night, but fuck me sideways, I don’t think I’ll survive this look she’s giving me. I can’t determine whether she wants to tell me to fuck off…or fuck me. Either option suits me just fine, ’cause whatever Mary wants to give, I’ll take…on my knees.

Unable to stop myself, I give in to temptation and brush a stray curl from her cheek. A strand of hair should not get me hard, but it does. Her creamy flesh beneath my finger shoots a current of a gazillion volts straight through me.

I need to talk because the need to kiss her, oh my fucking god, yes KISS her, is real. “So moral of the story is a dude’s porn stash…is basically the equivalent to your vibrator.”

Something is happening and I have no idea what. Mary’s eyes drop to my lips before she uneasily licks hers. Her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and heavy breathing all point to one thing—but that’s not possible. This woman hates me, all delicious, lithe five-foot-four of her wants me dead.

So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the brakes because I don’t kiss—ever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?

I’m fucking rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I don’t touch her, I’m going to explode.

Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the contact, and when she parts those lips, I’m as good as gone. “Hunter, wh-what are you doing?”

My name has never sounded sweeter. “Shortcake, I don’t know…you tell me.” The ball is in her court. I’m liquefying and my brain turned to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so I’m in no state to be the one calling the shots.

“I…I…” she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.

“You what?” I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear, before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign she’s about to either surrender, or flee.

“I…oh god,” she whimpers, biting her lip when I work my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.

“You have three seconds…three seconds to stop me before I part those fucking lips with my tongue, and I won’t be gentle about it.”

Holy fucking shit. When I hear the distinctive sound of her rubbing her legs together, a tell-tale that she’s as worked up as I am, I can deal with the consequences later. And besides, her three seconds are up. I dive forward, so ready to be a eunuch by morning, but all I connect with is air.

“I have to go. I’m sorry.” Mary ducks under my arm and makes a mad dash for the door. I sway unsteadily because she not only threw me off center physically, every part of my body is kicking and screaming, throwing a full-blown tantrum. “Don’t go. I’m the one who’s sorry. I just got caught up in…” In your eyes, your smell, the need to throw you over my shoulder caveman style and fuck you eternally, I silently add. “In Mr. and Mrs. Rat’s happily ever after,” I settle on.

But she doesn’t stop. She’s a blur as she runs down the hallway and straight into the…

“That’s the kitchen!” I shout out, hot on her tail.

“Fuck!” she curses, running back out and taking a left toward the living room and front door.

“Shortcake, please stop.”

“Hunter, no, just leave me alone.” She bumps into the corner of the couch and yelps, but continues hobbling toward the door.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone,” I plead, afraid she’ll take out her eye otherwise. “Just stop running and let me drive you home.” Just when I think she’s seen reason ’cause she’s stopped and turned around, I realize she’s grabbing her bag and hitting the road faster than a marshmallow roasts in hell.

I know if I corner her, she’s likely to rip off my head and use it as a bowling ball, so I stop chasing her, even though every part of me is screaming that I move. “Please talk to me.”

She yanks open the door, her hand braced on the handle. Her shoulders rise and fall steadily, her breaths leaving her in winded pants. “Okay fine, I’ll talk to you…” With back turned, she wraps up something that could have flourished into something epic. “This was a big mistake. I’ll see you in three months.” She slams the door shut while I groan, fisting at my hair and leaving my hands atop my head as I stare at the door.

Three months is Dixon and Madison’s wedding. She’s made clear she has no intention in seeing me before then. How could this happen? So fucking stupid to make a move. Story of my life. Sighing, I make my way to the kitchen, needing to drown my sorrow in scotch.

D2 decides now is a good time to remind me…I should have just asked her if she fucking likes schnauzers.