Page 52 of Maybe You

He lives in SoHo, in one of those lofts that is in a building so fancy the facade is somehow a pristine cream color, and there are ornaments and decorations on it. I’m sure there’s a name for them in architecture, but I have no idea what it might be, so I’m just gonna go ahead and call them wavy thingamadoos.

The lobby has a high ceiling, and there’s marble everywhere. It’s so shiny that I have to believe they’ve hired somebody for the express purpose of polishing those walls and floors hourly. I discreetly check the soles of my shoes before I get any farther from the front door. I wouldn’t want to create any more work for the poor soul whose task it is to keep this place looking so pristine.

I got out of here so quickly earlier, and last night I was clearly too drunk to really notice it, but this place… Well, it’s really fucking intimidating. It’s as if the building is looking down on me, and doing it snootily at that.

Nevertheless, I venture farther into the lobby. I give the doorman my name and briefly wonder if he recognizes me from my covert escape this morning. If he does, he doesn’t show it.

I’m freaking out inside, if it wasn’t clear yet. The nerves I thought I’d already abolished are back full force, wreaking havoc on my insides. It’s been like this the whole day.

When the elevator doors open, I step out and find Sutton waiting for me. He’s standing in the open doorway of his apartment, arms crossed over his chest, casually leaning against the jamb.

“Hey,” he says when our eyes meet, easygoing as always.

My stomach gives a jolt, and my heart picks up speed at the sight of him. He looks as good as ever in his dark jeans and white V-neck T-shirt. His feet are bare, and his hair is damp.

“Hey,” I manage to reply.

I follow him into the living room down a wood-paneled hallway. Once there, I stand by the couch and do my best not to look too much like a deer in headlights. Soft music is playing in the background from invisible speakers, and the air is heavy with the smell of… I can’t really put my finger on what it is, but it’s definitely sweet and reminds me of cinnamon buns.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sutton says as he heads toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, and peers into it. “Do you want something to drink?”

By now, my insides are twisting themselves into knots. It’s not so much anticipation at this point, it’s more that I want to get out of this nervous limbo I’m in, so I’d prefer to just get down to business. There’s very little chance I’ll be able to force anything down right now, so I shake my head. “I’m good. So… we should just get started, right? Go and do it.”

He sends me a look while he’s fixing himself a drink. “Are you in a hurry?”

Unlike me, Sutton seems nothing but relaxed. Then again, he probably does this kind of thing on a regular basis. Picks somebody up from a bar or a club or a charity event. Brings them here. Fucks the life out of them.

He finishes putting ice in his glass and lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and something tingles low in my belly. Definitely something other than nerves, so that’s promising.

I really need to chill the fuck out. Nerves are what usually ruins it for me.

“On second thought, can I have a taste?” I ask, and I don’t really wait for an answer. I just grab his glass and take a sip. Fuck it. I’ll just get drunk. It’s scotch, I think, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. It burns as it goes down, and I make a face before I pour the rest of the drink down my throat too, then hold out the glass.

“That was… not good. Can I have another one?”

There’s a smirk on his lips. Not like he’s mocking me, but like he’s amused. He goes and pours another splash of scotch into the glass, then walks back over and hands it to me.

“It’s meant to be savored,” he says. “Maybe try that instead of chugging?”

He’s so close.

And so beautiful.

I clutch the glass tighter.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

I take another sip. Slower this time. It’s still not great. Maybe I’m just not a scotch-type of person.

“So how does this work, exactly?” I ask.

I take another experimental sip and then hand the glass back to Sutton. He laughs when I scrunch my nose up and shake my head. Nope. I’m out. No more scotch for me, thank you. I’ve also kind of realized getting blackout drunk probably won’t do me any good. I don’t think anybody’s ever said, ‘Oh yeah, my whiskey dick performed like a miracle last night.’

“How does what work?” He takes a drink and makes it look sexy as hell while he’s at it. No wincing or face pulling for him. Just sophisticated savoring.

“This sex-with-a-stranger business. Should I… know anything beforehand? Do I seduce you? Do you seduce me? I don’t know if I have any moves, to be honest. I might surprise myself once we get going, but it’s not guaranteed.”

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