Hot as Puck(38)
I scrub the grundle until it’s gleaming like the softly wrinkled skin of a freshly washed baby elephant, complete my manscaping so that the stick and pucks are presented to their best advantage, and dress in soft jeans and a softer flannel in order to be tactilely pleasing if Libby ends up undressed while I’m still clothed. It’s easier to resist the temptation to move too fast when wearing pants, and I don’t want to rush a minute with Libby tonight.
I want to take my time, savoring each step on the road to discovering everything that makes her curvy little body hum.
Half an hour later, I’m clean, coiffed, shaved, and ready to roll, but Libby still hasn’t responded to my text. I’m about to shoot her another message, when my phone rings.
A smile curving my lips, I answer with a husky, “Hello, sexy. Are you home and naked yet?”
I’m answered by a sniffing sound. “No, I’m not. I’m driving and trying not to cry. I totally screwed it up, Justin.”
“Screwed what up?”
“Everything. After last night and the other day in the park, I was feeling so confident in my not-repulsiveness that I decided to ask Roger what he was doing on Saturday. To see if he wanted to come to the game with me. You know, just as friends or whatever.”
“Okay,” I say, the revelation making me grumpy. I know I have no claim to Libby, but I’m not ready to share her. I want her pussy all to myself, at least for a few weeks, before I have to come to terms with the fact that she’s going to put her newfound sexy skills to use with another man. “Why is that so bad? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything because as soon as I knocked on the door to his office, I choked. He asked me what was up, and I said something about the toilet paper dispenser in the kindergarten bathroom being too high for the kids, and he told me to talk it over with the janitor.” Libby makes a groaning, growling sound. “The toilet paper dispenser, Justin! What the hell was I thinking? It’s like my brain picked the least sexy thing it could think of just to humiliate me. I swear, sometimes it feels like my brain is not playing on my team.”
“Brains are tricky like that.” I plop down on the couch, trying not to sound happy about Libby’s failure to secure a date with stupid Roger. “But that doesn’t sound so bad, Libs. So you struck out this time. You’ll do better next time.”
“No, I won’t,” she says, breath hitching. “Because after the brilliant toilet paper dispenser comment, I stood there in the doorway staring at him, trying to get my lips to form words about Saturday night. The silence stretched on for so long that Roger finally asked me if I was feeling okay with this “why are you being so crazy, you crazy person” expression on his face. So I mumbled something about it being a long day and made a run for it, but on the way past his secretary’s desk, I tripped on the carpet and fell flat on my face.”
“Ouch,” I say with a wince. “Are you okay?”
“No, I am not okay! I’m so embarrassed I’ll never be able to step foot in the office ever again.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. So you fell down. People trip on things, Libby. It’s part of life. I’m sure Roger has fallen down once or twice.”
“It’s not just the fall.” Her words are muffled by the sound of a door slamming in the background, making me think she must have made it home. “It’s the entire stupid interaction. Why did I have to go in there? Why did I have to get cocky and think I was ready to run before I’ve even learned to walk?”
“You know how to walk just fine,” I say, determined to make her feel better. “Stop beating yourself up, get inside, and run yourself a bath. I’ll come over in a little while, after you’ve had time to get nice and loose, and give you a massage. How does that sound? Just a massage, no pressure for anything else.”
She sniffs. “Why? Have you changed your mind about wanting to do filthy things to me?”
“No,” I scoff, “of course I haven’t, I—”
“I mean, if that’s what you’ve decided, it’s fine. I get it,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I should probably give up before I get started, right? I mean, what’s the point of learning to enjoy orgasms and dirty talk and sexting and all the rest of it with a friend if I’m never going to be able to transition into being with a real person?”
“Hey! I’m real.”
“I know you are, but you know what I mean.” She sighs, the sound so sad and defeated that I know I have no choice but to head over to her place and ambush her with feel-good sexy times. It is my duty as an American and a gentleman and the person who has been fantasizing about this completely and utterly desirable woman for the past forty-eight hours.