Bombshell. Jody Gehrman
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a kiss, cupped my breasts with desperate need, fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe?
Way too long.
I lean against the glass. The cold melts through the fabric of my panties and feels delicious against my hot clit. I long to reach down and finger myself, but I hold back. Not yet. I want to make this last.
Another movement on the balcony catches my eye. A woman swings open the French doors and steps out onto the terrace, a couple of highball glasses in her hands. I can see her in some detail as she steps into the spill of gold light; she’s wearing a blue dress and sparkly jewelry, a going-out ensemble. Maybe they just got back from a nightclub. Maybe they’ve been dancing, hips pressed together, sweat glazing their limbs. They look young, yuppie-ish, respectable.
I recoil, hiding behind my curtains, blushing furiously. The craziness of what I’m doing strikes me with fresh intensity. I’m Ruby Sugars—I don’t strip for strangers, expose myself in the dead of night! Still I linger, too turned on to sleep, too curious to walk away.
The man tosses his cigarette, takes both glasses from the woman and sets them down. I expect him to lead her inside, but instead he moves behind her and pins her hips against the wrought iron railing. He looks like he’s whispering something in her ear. They’ve stepped out of the shadows, and I can see them clearly—so clearly that I know the exact moment when her gaze turns to my window. Her dark red hair gleams in the light shining from their windows as he runs his fingers through it. Then his hands reach around and cup her breasts. I watch in mute fascination as she arches her back against him, eyes closing in pleasure. I can see his hands encircling her small waist, pulling her to him. His lips wander over the pale curve of her neck, planting a trail of kisses. One hand nudges the bodice of her dress to the side, frees her breast, exposing her body to the cool night air. I can imagine the fog-kissed breeze caressing her bare skin, the shivery pleasure of it. The contrast between his hot mouth on the sensitive skin behind her ear and the cold night air whispering over her flesh.
All the while, she stares right at my window.
Carefully, my breathing ragged, I pull the curtain open again. They’re both staring at me as I slowly undo the top of my corset, letting my full breasts spill out. My nipples pull into tight, hard peaks. I tilt forward until they’re touching the glass; the cold ripples through me, an electric thrill.
The redhead shakes back her hair and arches her back, leaning over, pressing her ass against him. He lifts up her dress and in a moment he’s inside her, making no attempt to hide his thrusting hips as he grips her even tighter. She opens her mouth. I can just make out her moan of pleasure. Without thinking, my hand snakes down into my panties. I’m so wet. My fingers slide easily in and out of my pussy. When I finally touch my clit it’s so swollen and ready, just a few strokes makes me come. I call out, surprised at the sound I make; it starts as a low animal growl and quickly turns into a keening yelp of surprise.
The woman on the balcony throws back her head with a grimace of pleasure. The man yanks at her hair and thrusts deep into her one last time.
Behind me, Nero meows, pulling me from my trance. The man takes his date by the hand and leads her back inside. They close the French doors behind them. Just like that, it’s over. I let out a breathy sigh, my emotions pinging between pleasure and mortification.
I yank the curtains closed and turn to face my cat, who is once again ensconced in the middle of my bed, gnawing on my silk throw pillow. He gives me a superior, all-knowing look that actually makes me blush. My legs feel a little shaky; I slip off my pumps before stumbling across the room toward bed.
“Shut up,” I warn Nero as I peel off the vampy lingerie and pull my pj’s back on. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know your neighbors.”
Chapter Four
Fantasy Man
Sunday morning I walk the seven blocks from my North Beach apartment to my favorite café. Brunch at Café Bovolo is a weekly ritual Wanda and I started over four years ago when I moved to San Francisco. She’s lived in the city longer than me. She dropped out of UC Santa Cruz spring semester our freshman year and never went back. Her parents bought her this awesome place in the Marina District, the lucky wench. I came here fresh out of college and moved in with Wanda for a couple months before we both realized we couldn’t stand living together. She’s a slob and I’m an unrepentant neat freak; even her excellent cleaning lady couldn’t bridge the gap between us.
When I arrive, Wanda’s already there at our favorite table. She looks gorgeous as usual. She’s thrown a turquoise cashmere wrap over a sea green silk camisole; endless strands of brightly colored beads sparkle at her throat. A jaunty suede hat completes the look. I’m surprised she’s here before me. Usually she sweeps in ten minutes late, after I’ve ordered for both of us and sucked down most of my latte.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she says the second I sit down, “but I found your dream man.”
“Not before coffee,” I warn her, signaling the waiter.
She lets out a little squeal. “I’m serious! He’s so perfect you’re going to wet yourself!”
A sour-faced woman with two little kids seated at the next table flashes us a look of distaste, but Wanda doesn’t notice.
“Tell me this isn’t the ‘project’ you mentioned for your—?”
“Fantasy matchmaking! Yes! And this guy has the biggest hard-on for dark-haired voluptuous sex kittens, Ruby. He’s the man for you! At least for one night.”
I clutch my forehead. “Okay, that’s way too much perkiness this early in the morning. Can we bring it down a couple notches until I catch up on the coffee?”
The waiter mercifully comes over to take my order, and soon we’re surrounded by delicious breakfast foods as well as fortifying caffeine. Wanda can’t stop talking about this guy. In the midst of her excited babble I piece together the following:
1. He’s from out of town, visiting for a couple weeks.
2. She met him at a party in Sausalito (i.e., super swanky).
3. He’s obsessed with 1950s pinup girls.
“You know I hate blind dates,” I remind her.
She holds up one finger. “No, no, no, this isn’t a blind date.”
“It sure sounds like one.”
“It’s a fantasy date.” When my expression doesn’t change, she presses on. “See, on a blind date you’re looking for something permanent. It’s like an audition for domestic life. You spend the first ten minutes obsessing over how his initials will look on the monogrammed towels, or how his nose will look on your baby’s face. This is totally different.”
“Because it’s just a hookup?” I ask, spearing a home fry.
“Because you already know the most important thing about each other: you share the same fantasy.” She takes a sip of cappuccino and licks the foam from her lips. “It’s the ideal setup for one night of no-strings-attached, totally uninhibited, completely fucking mind-blowing anonymous sex.”
The woman cutting up her toddler’s pancakes at the next table pauses to shoot us another scowl.
“That lady said a bad word, Mommy.” One of her rug rats, the one with jam smeared across his forehead, stares at us with wide-eyed awe.
“Yes, she did,” his mother agrees, her jaw tight.
Wanda smiles sweetly, then turns her attention back to me.
I lean toward her, lowering my voice self-consciously. “The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy. How much do even you know about him? I could end up dismembered.”
“I can’t reveal my sources,” she says. “I’m not even going to tell you his name—hence the