Trust me—I know the type well.
Right now is when I should announce myself. Yet I don’t. Instead, I cover the screen of my phone to shield its glare and watch for what she’s going to do next. Maybe yell at him. Cry. Or even break up with him. She’s a woman on a mission, and I feel an odd kinship with her because I’ve been there before.
As if releasing her rage, she rips his shirt apart, and I panic as the buttons jump across the carpeted floor and land very close to my table. The couple doesn’t even seem to notice, though, because the woman is already running her palms up his smooth, muscled skin. When she bends, I think for a moment she might bite him or pinch him, and then tell him to go to hell, but instead she starts licking him.
Wait!
She was mad at him.
Wasn’t she?
Had I gotten her body language all wrong?
From my downtown view, I can tell she’s working his one nipple hard. His hands claw at the door behind him as if he needs the support, but his satisfied groans tell me he likes what’s going on. When Megan moves to the other side of his chest, my gaze lands on a tattoo of a scrolling letter B right over his heart, and I think Megan must be B.
Brittney?
Breanna?
Bailey?
Bethany, I bet. She looks like one.
Megan with a B traces the scrolling letter. For some reason, I can’t call her Bethany. To me she’s Megan. I’ll stick with that. “I’m sorry, Cam. I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
“Just shut up,” he hisses, and I wish I could see his face so I could tell if he’s angry or if he likes to be rough.
My thoughts are soon left in the dust because red soles are all I can see when she drops to her knees. Shocked, I have to use my hand to cover my gasp. This is not what I expected. Either way, it’s too late for me to say a word.
Slowly, she unzips the fine fabric of his trousers, and I want to die.
I can’t watch this.
Yet, I do.
The pink lights flicker over and around me, and if either of them looks toward the corner, they might catch a glimpse of my extremely bold, large silver zipper. Remind me why I suggested this change to the designer? Inching my way farther back, I make sure to blend in with my all-black attire.
“I want you,” she moans with a harsh breath.
“You don’t get to have me,” he sneers at her.
“How about this, then?” she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.
From the groan he makes, it sounds like he’s battling himself. “You don’t want to do this,” he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.
She ignores his response and yanks his pants and boxers past his knees. No pants required for this act. And then without any more preamble, she takes him in her mouth and sheaths him with her lips. I can’t see his cock, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Really, I’m not a pervert. I’m not even the least bit kinky. In fact, I’m the opposite of kinky. I jill off with my fingers. I like sex missionary style, on a bed, at night, in the dark. And I’m not very good at blow jobs. I usually gag.
There’s a dull thud against the door, and I imagine it is Cam tipping his head in pleasure despite the fact that he’s mad at Megan with a B.
Why is he mad?
What did she do?
Who is she?
A random pickup?
His girlfriend?
His fiancée?
His wife?
I’m going with girlfriend. I feel like the intimacy she used to trace the letter on his chest meant something. Not fiancée or wife—I don’t see rings—but I guess if they are in a fight they might have taken them off. What did she do to upset him? Spend too much money? Get tipsy at lunch? Refuse to spread her legs when he wanted her to?
The act continues. Her long, dark hair bobs. His shirttails practically cover her head. And then his tie whispers across the hint of skin I can see between the folds of fabric, and I start to feel a little overheated. None of that seems to bother her, though, as she works him with both her hands and her mouth.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
My eyes feel dry. I blink them a few times. Damn contacts. The movement of my head causes the gemstone around my neck to fall and hit the side of the floor.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Like a clock, it moves until I grab it.
Suddenly, B stops what she’s doing and looks up at Cam.
Did she hear it?
I stop breathing.
“You like it when I do this. Admit it,” she purrs.
Phew. She didn’t hear anything.
Angry or not, I know I don’t imagine the sound of laughter he makes or the hand he puts on B’s hair as he pushes her head down. “In the condition I’m in tonight, sweetheart, any whore will do.”