“You can set it on the table,” the voice from the street speaker calls out. I venture further into the huge, open space. A sleek, modern kitchen like those I’ve drooled over in home magazines appears to my left and in front of it a long oval walnut table is surrounded by clear acrylic chairs. To my right is a living room with cowhide and leather and a big, plush rug in deep red. Beyond the living room is a wall of mirrors and in front of it stands a . . . superhero.
I mean, it’s like walking into Bruce Wayne’s fuck pad or something and seeing him do a pre-rescue work out. The owner of the voice is doing biceps curls and wearing gym shorts that appear to be in danger of falling down his slim hips with every movement.
He has ridges and planes and jutting protuberances that I’ve not seen outside a movie theatre. And many of those muscles were fake CGI creations, I learned later. I almost shed a few tears hearing that sad news. He grunts and the shorts slide down a centimeter more. I can’t see his face clearly because the distance between me and the mirrors is too great in this cavernous room.
I jerk myself out of my tween fantasy and set the manila envelope on the table and pull out the contract. “I’ll need you to sign before I can go.”
Bruce drops his weight and palms a towel with almost the same motion. Superhero reflexes to go with the superhero body. Nice. Too bad he’s a criminal because I’m not delivering tourist trinkets at the prices Malcolm is paying me. As Bruce draws near, I fumble and nearly drop the ten-pages-thick contract that contains my nearly illegible signature. Bruce is none other than the guy from the Theater District.
“I’d like to think you regret saying no to me, but somehow I’m guessing this is a coincidence.” He raises an inquiring eyebrow. “But a good one.”
For a moment I forget why I’m here. My fantasies are going to be in high definition now. I don’t even bother to hide how my gaze eats him up. And by his smile it’s evident he’s enjoying being on display. He certainly doesn’t make an effort to hide his bare chest with the towel. No, he stands there, arms at his sides, hands relaxed, feet shoulder width apart. It’s an invitation, and I utilize it.
He’s cut, ripped, jacked to shit. Up close I can count the indented squares below his pectorals that look so much like polished marble. He’s got a sparse sprinkling of chest hair and a dark line that bisects his tight abs, disappearing into his low-slung shorts. I stare at the bottom of the line far too long and suck in the side of my lower lip to keep myself from drooling.
Wrapping around the sides of his abdomen and jutting out from his hips are those things that no girl knows the word for—only that they make her feel stupid and hot. They are handles, I guess, to hold on to while you’re riding him or giving him a blow job. Or maybe they’re made for licking. All I know is that they are a big turn-on and I feel like they’re beckoning me to touch them to see if they’re real. I wonder how he’d react if I bent over and just licked him like a lollipop.
He’s engaged in his own perusal, but I’m looking no different than I was the last time he saw me. My light brown hair is in a tight braid, although there are many strands that have escaped due to pulling my helmet off and on. I’m wearing my lycra crop pants and DriFit long sleeve t-shirt. I look like shit, but his gaze—when I finally meet it—is appreciative.
He rubs the towel through the dark rich pelt on his head and then slowly rubs it over his face then his chest and finally his abs. My eyes track every movement. His body looks like something that was computer generated. It is hard and powerful and he’s so close that I can smell him, a musky clean sweat that fires every neuron. Not every man in a suit looks this good when he strips off the wool and linen. This is the body of a fireman or athlete; not of a banker.
“You don’t have time for a walk in the park. You spend your Saturdays working. Do you do anything but deliver packages?” He finally moves, waking me out of the fantasy dream state where I’m measuring the hardness of his chest with my tongue.
“Not these days,” I admit. Mentions of my job bring my attention back like the hard return of a rubber band. It’s almost painful to leave fantasy-land. “Here, I need your signature, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I didn’t realize I ordered something to be delivered by Neil’s,” he says looking pointedly at the logo emblazoned on my shirt and ignoring the papers.
“It’s not from Neil’s,” I say and then stop because I remember exactly what I’m doing here. This Ian is my special project and since he’s working with Malcolm . . . I let that thought die along with all my lust. Bitter disappointment is a sour flavor.