Malcolm
I don't even know her name, but I want to know so much more. Why was she nervous when she first sat down? Her shoulder trembled against mine as that dick of a bartender threw his cheesy lines her way.
For a moment, she seemed meek as a church mouse, but then something changed. She’s different—a contradiction. When she looks directly at me, there's strength and determination behind her beautiful light-blue eyes. I'm fascinated by the color. If the world were to be divided into three eye colors, blue, brown, and green, we'd have the same. Yet they aren't. Hers are much different, lighter. They're a soft pastel like the hue of the horizon just before the sun rises.
As we settle in the booth, I wonder who in their right mind would stand this lady up. Her friend is an asshole, even if she is a woman. Obviously, this beautiful lady isn't accustomed to being out and about by herself.
What does that mean?
I've scanned her petite frame more than once. She isn't wearing a wedding ring. Maybe she's just out of a relationship. Maybe she's not used to going to bars alone.
I chastise myself. I'm supposed to be on a blind date—the first date I've had since I moved here to start my new life. I'm supposed to be leaving the pickup-artist side of me in Florida.
This is crazy. I can't understand why this blue-eyed brunette has me so enthralled. I didn't even want to go on the blind date. I'm not looking for a one-night stand or a relationship. I'm at this bar because my old teammate made it sound like I was doing his girlfriend a favor. Her friend needs to be eased back into the world of dating.
I laugh at the thought of me easing someone into dating. The old Malcolm, the one Brian knew, was all about getting laid and moving on. Maybe that's what Brian wanted me to do, pop the woman's dating cherry.
That isn't who I am anymore. That Malcolm hung up his skates and retired. I left him in Florida.
It's all too easy to score in the sunshine state. Women walk around half-naked everywhere you go. It isn't just the beaches. It's the grocery stores and the movie theaters. I don't know how clothing stores don't go out of business down there.
And the women who throw themselves at hockey players—at all pro athletes—are obnoxious and plentiful. If I were a gentleman, I could say I never took advantage, but after a game when the adrenaline is pumping, the best-known cure for blowing off steam is thrusting in and out of a warm, willing pussy—full-body aerobics with benefits.
Those days are over. I'm no longer Pep—I'm Malcolm Peppernick. I'm not a player—in any sense of the word. I'm responsible. This new city and new career are supposed to cement that.
Her phone pings.
As she looks at it, I think about my old nickname, Pep. It came as a result of my energy on the ice and because it’s short for my last name. All it took was for a few broadcasters to use it and boom, it stuck. That is how it started, but with time it meant more. According to rumors, my pep was for more than hockey. They said I had pep in the sack too. Well, not always a bed. A bar bathroom. The hallway outside the locker room. The truth is that women like to talk as much as men. Those bimbos following the team had their own belts filled with notches. If one woman said I gave her two orgasms, the next one said I gave her three.
At the time, my concentration wasn’t on counting their climaxes. It was more on my own gratification. As long as the rumors flew, there were plenty of opportunities and willing participants to satisfy my own needs. I may have used a few of those women, but it was a two-way street, and besides, they weren't complaining.
All of that is history.
That part of me is gone. Over the years, I left hockey behind. I had a good career, but it takes its toll on the body. I wanted something more. I went back to school and have dedicated myself to a rewarding career, one that is not conducive to a playboy lifestyle. I rethought my priorities and am happy about it. Right now, a woman or even contentment isn't on my list of goals. Getting my new career up and running is.
Nevertheless, as much as I want to fight it, I can't deny my attraction for this beautiful woman. What I can deny is wanting to use her. Maybe it's because in the very short time since we've met, I can tell that she's totally different than the hockey groupies who used to throw themselves at me.
There's something about her. As she frowns at the screen of her phone, I want to know more. I want to know her as I've never wanted to know anyone before.
What makes this blue-eyed beauty tick?
Watching her pink lower lip disappear behind her white teeth, I wonder what she's thinking. At the same time, I miss how close we were at the bar. I miss the sensation of her shoulder against mine.
When she looks back up, she says, “Thank you, but you didn't need to buy my drink.”
I just smile. It's not her sweet voice that makes me happy, though the sound of it is like a melody. It's the way she appears to have relaxed. We're too far apart to touch, but by the calm liquid in her glass, I can tell her trembling from before has stopped.
“You can get the next round,” I offer.
Her long lashes flutter over her eyes as pink fills her cheeks. “I-I probably should go. This was supposed to be...well, my friend just texted again. Her boyfriend has a work emergency. She can’t make it, so the blind date is off. I guess my night is a bust.”
I lean closer. “On the contrary, you, beautiful lady, owe me a drink. You can't leave with a debt unpaid.”
Her smile grows. “Then I better pay up.”
“Do you always fulfill all your obligations?”
She nods, making her dark hair move and flow in long waves over her shoulders. “Always.”
“Tell me something about you,” I pry, wanting to know it all.
“Tonight was supposed to be my reintroduction into learning how to have fun. I guess it fizzled.”
I reach out. As the tips of my fingers contact the warmth of her arm, I pause. Our connection sizzles and crackles. It’s so strong I can practically hear it over the din of the bar. When I look up, I wonder if she's feeling the same thing. Her eyes are wide, but just as quickly the long lashes veil her true thoughts.
Whether she sensed it or not, I’m pleased that she doesn't pull away.
“I don't know about you, but neither fizzle nor bust is a word I'd use to describe my night.” I continue, “Like I said, I was dreading this evening. That isn't a pickup line. I was supposed to meet a friend here, a person I knew a long time ago, a person who knew me a long time ago. I recently moved to town and other than work, I've been kind of a hermit. My friend and I were close once, but until recently I hadn't seen him in years. I've changed a lot since then.” I shrug. “I'm not sure if he understands that about me...he wanted me to meet someone nice who he knows.” I cringe. “You know how blind dates can be?”
She shakes her head.
“You don't?”
“No.” The word comes out more as a sigh. “I've never officially been on one.”
“Consider yourself lucky. They never pan out. When someone is described as nice, that’s code for uglier than shit. I’m a little afraid to look around in case there’s a nice woman looking for me.”
Her laughter fills the booth as she shrugs. “Tonight was supposed to be my first.” Her eyes spring open wide as she clarifies, “My first blind date. But, well, my friend warned me that the guy has issues.”
“Ew.” My nose scrunches. “That's even worse. You didn't get the nice guy speech?”
“I think she was taking it easy on me. You know, easing me in slowly.”
I scoot closer and nudge my shoulder against hers. “Go ahead. Spill. What is the guy's problem?”
Her head moves rapidly back and forth. “I-I haven't had enough wine for that.”
It's all the encouragement I need. My hand flies into the air catching the waitress's attention. “Two more drinks and...” I look my companion's way. “...menus?”
There's but a second of hesitation. “Yes,” she says, “but I'm buying my own meal.”
“You heard the lady,” I say to the waitress. “Menus and she's buying.”
“I-I...”
I've officially fallen for her little stutter. If I have her pegged correctly, it comes right before a burst of confidence.
“Sure,” she proclaims. “Why the hell not?”
Bingo!
“I plan to learn the issues with the guy you were supposed to meet before the night is through.”
“I plan to learn your name.”
I lean back. How do I not know her name and yet the conversation has been anything but uncomfortable? It's been fun and relaxed.
I extend my hand and she takes it. “Malcolm Peppernick, and you?”
“Mandy,” she says with a grin. “Mandy Wells.”
Her hand lingers in mine. It’s just like before: when helping her from her chair, I touched her arm and there was a pull—a magnetic force drawing me closer to her.
Still holding her hand, my gaze goes to her lips. They're pink and plump. The shimmer is light and not obnoxious. It's like the hint of perfume that lingers around Mandy: sweet while not overpowering but still incredibly intoxicating.
My willpower is waning by the second as I move even closer. I want to taste her lips and probe her warm mouth. I want to capture the lingering sips of wine and drink them down.
Instead of pulling away, she allows her gaze to follow suit, dropping to my lips, intent on watching their next move.
It's when her tongue darts to the surface that I know I can’t let this pass. I lean toward her. “Mandy, I want to kiss you.”
She doesn't say yes, and she doesn't say no.
Another inch and our lips unite. I capture hers, tasting her shiny gloss as we kiss. It's the first kiss I've experienced in months, and I'm instantly a man deprived, wanting more—no, needing more.
Like lightning to a dry grassy field, as our breath mingles, a fire ignites, rushing through me straight from my lips to my dick. It too has been on hiatus. No longer. Like Frankenstein’s lifeless body, Mandy’s bolt of lightning zaps my cock back to life. First with a twitch, but as our kiss lingers, it is growing by the second.
This beautiful lady is the power and energy I hadn't realized I was missing.
The restaurant disappears as we move closer, the front of her dress brushing against my chest. I reach for her arms, turning her until both of her perfect tits are smashed against me, until nothing but our clothes separates us.