Wallbanger Read online

  Fucking Jeffrey. Fucking Barefoot Contessa. Fucking lonely takeout.

  When it was late enough that I could justify going to bed and putting this terrible day behind me, I dragged my sad-sack self back to my bedroom. I went to get my pjs, and realized I hadn’t done any laundry. Dammit. I dug around in my jammies drawer, looking for something, anything. I had plenty of sexy little numbers, from back in the day when O and I were on the same page.

  I grumbled and fumed and finally pulled out a pink baby doll nightie. It was frilly and sweet, and while I used to love to sleep in beautiful lingerie, I currently hated it. It was a physical reminder of my missing O. Although, it had been a while since I’d attempted to contact her. Maybe tonight would be the night. I was certainly tense. No one could use the release more than me.

  I shooshed Clive out and closed the door. No one needed to see this.

  I turned on some INXS, since tonight I needed all the help I could get. Michael Hutchence always got me close. I climbed into bed, arranged the pillows behind me, and slipped between the sheets. In the tiny nightie, my bare legs slid along the cool cotton. There’s nothing like the feeling of freshly shaved legs on high-thread-count sheets. Maybe this was a good idea after all. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing. The last few times I’d attempted to find the O, I was so thoroughly frustrated that by the end I was near tears.

  Tonight I began with the usual fantasy roundup. I started with a little Catalano, allowing my hands to slip under the bottom of my nightie and come up to my breasts. As I thought of Jordan Catalano/Jared Leto kissing Angela Chase in the basement of the school, I imagined it was me. I felt his kisses thick and heavy on my lips, and it became his hands sliding up my skin toward my nipples. As my/Jordan’s fingers began to massage, I felt that familiar tug low in my tummy, getting warm all over.

  With my eyes still closed, the image changed to Jason Bourne/Matt Damon attacking my skin. With the two of us on the run from the government, only our physical connection kept us alive. My/Jason’s fingers trailed lightly down my belly, sliding inside my matching panties. I could feel it working. My touch was waking something, stirring something inside. I gasped when I felt how ready I was for Jason, and for Jordan.

  Jesus. The thought of the two of them together, working to bring back the O made me actually twitch. I moaned and went for the big guns.

  I went Clooney. Flashes of Clooney came to me as my fingers teased and twirled, twisted and taunted. Danny Ocean…George from Facts Of Life…

  And then, I went for it.

  Dr. Ross. Third season of ER, after the Caesar haircut had been rectified. Mmmm…I moaned and groaned. It was working. I was actually getting really turned on. For the first time in months, my brain and the rest of me seemed to be in tune. I rolled onto my side, hand between my legs as I saw Dr. Ross kneeling before me. He licked his lips and asked me when was the last time anyone had made me scream.

  You have no idea. Make me scream, Dr. Ross.

  Behind tightly closed eyes, I saw him lean toward me, his mouth getting closer and closer. He gently pressed my knees farther apart, placing kisses on the inside of each thigh. I could actually feel his breath on my legs, which made me shiver.

  His mouth opened, and that perfect Clooney tongue flickered out to taste me.

  Thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  No. No. No!

  “Simon…mmm —” giggle.

  I couldn’t believe it. Even Dr. Ross looked confused.

  “So —” giggle “— fucking —” giggle “— good…hahahaha!”

  I groaned as I felt Dr. Ross leaving me. I was wet, I was frustrated, and now Clooney thought someone was laughing at him. He began to back away…

  No, don’t leave me, Dr Ross. Not you!

  “That’s it! That’s it! Oh…oh…hahahahaha!”

  The walls began to shake, and the bed-thumping began.

  That’s it. Giggle this, bitch…

  I scrambled to my feet, the Catalano and the Bourne and the ever-loving Clooney fading away in wisps of testosterone-laden smoke. I threw back the covers, whipped open the door, and stalked out of my bedroom. Clive held out a paw and started to reproach me for shutting him out, but when he saw my face, he wisely let me pass.

  I stomped to my front door, my heels pounding into the hardwood floor. I was beyond angry. I was livid. I’d been so close. I opened my front door with the strength of a thousand angry Os, denied release for centuries. I began to pound on his door. I pounded hard and long, like Clooney had been about to pound into me. I banged again and again, never relenting, never letting up. I could hear feet slapping toward the door, but still I didn’t let up. The frustration of the day and the week and the months without an O unleashed itself in a tirade the likes of which no one had ever seen.

  I heard locks rattling and chains coming undone, but still onward I banged. I began to yell. “Open this door, you asshole, or I will come through the wall!”

  “Take it easy. Quit that banging,” I heard Simon say.

  Then the door swung open, and I stared. There he was. Simon.

  Silhouetted by soft light from behind, Simon stood with one hand grasping the door and the other hand holding a white sheet around his hips. I looked him over from top to bottom, my hand still hanging the air, clenched into a fist. It was pulsing, I’d been banging so hard.

  He had jet black hair that stood straight up, likely from the Giggler’s hands buried in it as he plowed into her. His eyes were piercing blue, and cheekbones just as strong as the jaw. Completing the package? Kiss-swollen lips, and what looked like about three days of scruff.

  Jesus, there was scruff. How had I missed that this morning?

  I gazed down his long, lean body. He was tan, but not a premeditated tan—outdoorsy tan, weathered tan, manly tan. His chest rose and fell as he panted, his skin coated in a thin sheen of sex sweat. As my eyes traveled down further I saw a smattering of dark hair low on his torso, which led below the sheet. Below the six pack. Below that V that some men have, and which on him didn’t look weird or BowFlexed.

  He was stunning. Of course he was stunning. And why did there have to be scruff?

  I inadvertently gasped as my gaze dropped lower than I had intended. But my eyes were drawn, as if by a magnet, lower and lower. Beneath the sheet—which was already lower on his hips than should be legal—

  He

  Was

  Still

  Hard.

  Chapter Five

  “OH, GOD.”

  Thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump thump.

  I was traveling up the bed with the strength of his thrusts. He drove into me with unflinching force, giving me exactly what I could take, then pushing me just past that edge. He stared down at me, hard, flashing a knowing smirk. I closed my eyes, letting myself feel how deeply I was being affected. And by deep, I mean deep…

  He grasped my hands and brought them above my head to the headboard.

  “You’re gonna wanna hold on tight for this,” he whispered and threw one of my legs up over his shoulder as he altered the rhythm of his hips.

  “Simon!” I shrieked, feeling my body begin to spasm. His eyes, those damnable blue eyes, bore into mine as I shook around him.

  “Mmm, Simon!” I screamed again. And promptly woke up—with my arms over my head, hands tightly grasping the headboard.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and forced my fingers to uncurl. When I looked again I could see dents in my hands from gripping so tightly.

  I struggled to sit up. I was covered in sweat and panting. I was actually panting. I found the sheets in a ball at the foot of the bed with Clive buried underneath, just his nose peeking out.

  “Oh, Clive, are you hiding?”

  “Meow,” came the angry reply, and a tiny face followed the kitty nose.

  “You can come out, silly. Mommy’s done screaming. I think.” I chuckl
ed, running a hand through my damp hair.

  I had charmingly sweated through my pjs, so I got up to stand over the A/C vent, cooling off and beginning to calm down. “That was close, huh, O?” I grimaced, pressing my legs together and feeling a not-unpleasant ache between my thighs.

  Ever since the night Simon and I “met” in the hallway, I couldn’t stop dreaming about him. I didn’t want to, really didn’t want to, but my unconscious mind had taken over and was having her way with him. Nocturnally. My body and brain were separate on this one: Brain knew better, Lower Caroline was not so sure…

  Clive pushed past me and ran into the kitchen to do his little dance next to his bowl.

  “Yah yah yah, settle down,” I croaked as he threaded himself in and out of my ankles. I dumped a scoop of kibble in his bowl and hit the coffee. I settled against the counter and tried to collect myself. I was still breathing a little hard.

  That dream had been…well, it had been intense. I thought again of his body perched over mine, a bead of sweat rolling off his nose and dropping onto my chest. He’d lowered himself and dragged his tongue up my stomach, toward my breasts, and then…

  Ping! Ping!

  Mr. Coffee brought me back from my saucy thoughts, and I was grateful. I could feel myself getting worked up again. Is this going to be a problem?

  I poured a cup of coffee, peeled a banana, and looked out the window. I ignored my compulsion to massage the banana and thrust it into my mouth. Oh, sweet Christ, the thrusting! This was headed south fast. And by south I mean…

  I slapped myself in the face and forced my mind to think of something besides the manwhore I was currently sharing a wall with. Inane things. Innocuous things.

  Puppy dogs…doggy style.

  Ice cream cones…licking his cone and two scoops.

  Children’s games…damn, did I want to do whatever Simon Says…Okay, enough! Now you aren’t even trying.

  While showering I sang “The Star Spangled Banner” over and over again to keep my hands from doing anything other than washing up. I needed to remember what an asshole he was—not how he looked in only a sheet and a grin. I closed my eyes and leaned into the spray, remembering that night again. Once I’d stopped staring at his, well, his below the sheet, I’d opened my mouth to speak:

  “Now look here, mister, do you have any idea how loud you are? I need my sleep! If I have to listen to one more night, one more minute, in fact, of you and your harem banging away on my wall, I’ll go insane!”

  I yelled to release all the tension that would have, could have, should have been released already in a very Clooney way.

  “Just settle down. It can’t be that bad. These walls are pretty thick.” He grinned, pumping his fist against the doorframe and trying to unleash a little charm. He was clearly used to getting what he wanted. With abs like that, I could see why.

  I shook my head to impart focus. “Are you out of your mind? The walls are not nearly as thick as your head. I can hear everything! Every spank, every meow, every giggle, and I have had it! This shit ends now!” I screeched, feeling my face burn with fury. I’d even used air quotes to emphasize the spank, meow, and giggle.

  As I spoke of his harem, he began to downshift from charm to chastise. “Hey, that’s about enough!” he shot back. “What I do in my home is my business. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but you can’t just come over here in the middle of the night and dictate what I can and can’t do! You don’t see me coming across the hall and banging on your door.”

  “No, you just bang on my damn wall. We share a bedroom wall. You’re right up against me when I’m trying to sleep. Have some common courtesy.”

  “Well, how come you can hear me and I can’t hear you? Wait, wait, there’s no one banging on your walls, is there?”

  He smirked, and I felt the color drain from my face. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, and as I looked down, I remembered what I was wearing.

  Pink baby doll nightie. What a way to establish credibility.

  As I fumed, his eyes drifted down my body, unabashedly taking in the pink and the lace and the way my hip jutted out as I tapped my foot angrily.

  His eyes finally came back up, and he met my stare, not backing down. Then with a twinkle in those baby blues, he winked at me.

  I saw red. “Oooohhh!” I’d screamed and slammed back into my apartment.

  Mortified now, I let the water wash away my frustration. I hadn’t seen him since, but what if I did? I thumped my head against the tiles.

  When I opened the front door forty-five minutes later, I tossed a goodbye to Clive over my shoulder and prayed silently that there’d be no random harem girls in the hallway. All clear.

  I pushed my sunglasses on as I walked out the door of the building, barely noticing the Range Rover. And by barely, I mean I barely noticed that rover rhymed with over, as in bend me over the chair in my family room and—

  Caroline!

  I might have a problem here.

  Later that afternoon Jillian stuck her head inside my office. “Knock, knock,” she said, smiling.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” I leaned back in my chair.

  “Ask me about the house in Sausalito.”

  “Hey, Jillian, how’s the house in Sausalito?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  “Done,” she whispered and threw her arms in the air.

  “Shut up!” I whispered back.

  “Totally, completely, absolutely done!” She squealed and sat down across from me.

  I offered a fist bump across the desk. “Now that is some good news. We need to celebrate.” I reached into a drawer.

  “Caroline, if you pull out a bottle of scotch, I’m going to have to consult human resources,” she warned, a grin twitching.

  “First of all, you are human resources. And second of all, like I would keep scotch in my office! Obviously that’s in a flask lashed to my thigh.” I giggled, producing a Blow Pop.

  “Nice. Watermelon even. My favorite,” she said as we unwrapped and began to suck.

  “So, tell me all about it,” I prompted.

  I’d been consulting a little with Jillian as she chose the final touches on the house she and Benjamin had been renovating, and I knew it was just the kind of house I’d been dreaming of for years. Like Jillian, it would be warm, inviting, elegant, and filled with light.

  We talked shop for a while, and then she let me get back to work.

  “By the way, housewarming next weekend. You and your posse are invited,” she said on her way out the door.

  “Did you just say posse?” I asked.

  “I might have. You in?”

  “Sounds great. Can we bring anything, and can we stare at your fiancé?”

  “Don’t you dare, and I would expect nothing less,” she fired back.

  I smiled as I went back to work. Party in Sausalito? Sounded promising.

  “You don’t seriously have a crush on him do you? I mean, how many dreams have you had about him?” Mimi asked, sucking on her straw.

  “A crush? No, he’s an asshole! Why would I—”

  “Of course she doesn’t. Who knows where that dick has been? Caroline would never,” Sophia answered for me, tossing her hair over her shoulder and stunning stupid a table of businessmen who’d been staring since she walked in. We’d met for lunch at our favorite little bistro in North Beach.

  Mimi settled back into her chair and giggled, kicking me under the table.

  “Piss off, pipsqueak.” I stared hard at her, blushing furiously.

  “Yeah, piss off, pipsqueak! Caroline knows better than to…” Sophia laughed then trailed off, finally taking off her sunglasses and switching her gaze to me.

  The cellist and the pipsqueak watched me fidget. One smiled and the other swore.

  “Ah, jeez, Caroline, do not tell me you are crushing on that guy? Oh no, you are, aren’t you?” Sophia huffed as the waiter set down a bottle of Pellegrino. He stared at her as she ran her fingers through her hair, and she wav
ed him away with a carefully aimed wink. She knew how men looked at her, and it was fun to watch her make them squirm.

  Mimi was different. She was so tiny and cute that initially men were drawn in by her innate charm. Then they really got a look at her and realized she was lovely. Something about her made men want to take care of her and protect her—until they got her to the bedroom. Or so I’d been told. Crazytown that one was…

  I’d been told I was pretty, and on some days I believed it. On a good day I knew I could work it. I never felt as hot as Sophia or as perfectly pulled together as Mimi, but I cleaned up good. I knew when the three of us went out we could really work a scene, and until recently we’d used this to our advantage.

  We each had very distinct types, which was good. We rarely went for the same guy.

  Sophia was very particular. She liked her men long, lean, and pretty. She liked them not too tall, but taller than her. She wanted her men polite and smart, and preferably with blond hair. It was her true weakness. She also was a sucker for a southern accent. Seriously, if a guy called her “sugar,” she’d wet herself. I had firsthand knowledge of this because I’d messed with her one night when she was wasted using my best Oklahoma accent. I had to fight her off the rest of the evening. She claimed it was college, and she wanted to experiment.

  Mimi, on the other hand, was particular, but not with a specific look. She went for overall size. She liked her men big, huge, tall, and strong. She loved when they had to pick her up to kiss her, or stand her on a stool so they didn’t get neck cramps. She liked her men a little on the sarcastic side and hated condescending. Because she was small, she had a tendency to draw types that wanted to “protect.” But girlfriend had been taking karate since she was a kid, and she needed no one’s protection. She was a badass in a retro skirt.

  I was harder to pin down, but I knew him when I saw him. Like the Supreme Court and pornography, I was aware. I did have a tendency toward outdoorsy guys—lifeguards, scuba divers, rock climbers. I liked them clean cut, but a little shaggy, gentlemanly with a touch of bad boy, and making enough money that I didn’t have to play mommy. I’d spent a summer with a hotter-than-hell surfer who couldn’t afford his own peanut butter. Even Micah’s round-the-clock orgasms couldn’t save him when I found out he’d been using my AmEx to pay for his sex wax. And his cell phone bill. And his trip to Fiji that I wasn’t even invited on. To the curb, surfer boy. To the curb.