Page 19 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
In all, then, it's a good thing I left when I did, even if the way I left may have looked and felt suspiciously like I was running away from her.
Maybe I was.
I can't believe I actually considered her for the role of fake fiancée. Ridiculous. It wouldn't work. She's nothing like the high society woman my parents would want me with, and though she's strong-willed, it's in all the wrong ways.
I cross the Hudson via the George Washington Bridge and take the Garden State Parkway, leaving it at Exit 172 to wind west into Upper Saddle River, in Bergen County, NJ. The gates of my mansion swing open majestically, revealing my estate, built in the colonial style in 2010 on three acres of lush, green lawn, surrounded by mature chestnuts and oaks for privacy. It's the perfect antidote to dirty, noisy, bustling New York, yet I can get here in under forty minutes if I avoid rush hour. The transformation in settings still amazes me every time.
I cruise up the winding drive, and around the centrally placed carp pond, with its fountain and carved stone railings, the gravel crunching softly under the Merc's wide tires.
Stepping out of the car, I realize the drive hasn't dulled my lust the way I hoped. Neither had the slow breathing, nor the rush of cool night air with the top down. The pressure inside me is unbearable, and the only way I know to ease it is physical. I head to my gym, where I punish myself with twenty minutes of HIIT sprints, followed by a brutal weights workout for chest, back, and arms, until the sweat is pouring down my body and every muscle fiber is burning. For a moment, the exhaustion steadies me. But when I stride naked into the shower and twist the faucet to full cold, the icy spray slamming against overheated skin, it still isn't enough. Steam curls into the marble and glass as I turn the dial to hot, but even after the drive, the workout, and the water, my thoughts just won't let go. Her. Always her.
The second she walked into that bar, I couldn't believe my eyes.
It felt like fate playing tricks on me. Like the devil come to tempt me.
What the fuck are the odds we would meet again, so soon after the last encounter, in a random bar on a random fucking street in the middle of a totally different part of Manhattan—a bar I'd never been to before in my life?
I didn't want to deal with people tonight, so I'd put on a pair of nondescript jeans, chosen a standard leather jacket, pulled my baseball cap low, and searched for a place where people were less likely to be on the lookout for me. My only giveaways were my Brunello Cucinelli boots and my Patek Philippe watch, but both were covered. I doubt anyone noticed.
In any case, I'd chosen a bar that was fairly crowded and dimly lit. Also, because so far as I could tell, it wasn't filled with the type of city professionals, or fashionable wealthy types who might know or care who the fuck I am. I'd found a table and ordered a drink, looking forward to—or perhaps simply resigned to—a night of drinking alone, maybe followed by unsatisfying sex with a nameless woman at the end.
But not her… Jenna Marlowe.
Of course, I'd spotted her the moment she'd entered the place. Long, tanned legs in a short, silk skirt and matching top, her hair tumbling around her and framing the high cheeks and slightly uptilted nose. She'd looked comfortable in the place—perhaps a regular, even—sitting cross-legged at the bar, her knee-length, black leather boots on show, with glimpses of soft, silky thighs further up as she moved her weight on the stool, talking animatedly and entirely unconsciously to her friend, downing cocktails in complete ease.
I watched her gesture wildly as she talked. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but from the expressions on her face and that of her friend, I thought I could guess exactly what she was discussing.
Me.
I had to smile, imagining her cursing me out, calling me every name under the sun. It's been a while since I'd come across a woman with so much spirit, and I found it arousing me in a way I can't explain.
Then I'd seen Jenna bat her eyelashes at the bartender who had been making eyes at her all night, and all my amusement instantly died, like ice on a hot surface.
"Fuck," I whisper as I slide my hand down to my cock, anger and lust forming a volatile mixture within. I wonder what she's doing with the bartender now. Did she go back to flirting with him when I left? Did she ask him to dance? Are they planning to leave together when he's done with his shift?
I imagine them together on the crowded, sweaty dance floor, the music pulsing to a sexual rhythm, the lights strobing, the people around them swaying to the beat.
I imagine her dancing with him like she danced with me, rubbing her body against him. Is his hand cupping her breasts, her nipples provocatively pushing against her thin shirt? She wasn't wearing a bra under that silk number. Nowhegets to enjoy what should have been mine. Whatcouldhave been mine…
As I stand in my shower, I think of what it would be like to be dancing with her still, her arms around my neck, the scent and warmth of her body so close to my own. To slowly slide my hand up her soft, supple thigh, edging towards her black, silk panties, imagining her opening her legs to allow me access.
In my mind, my hand is cupping her mound, one finger finding her hot, moist center. She sighs, her hand reaching behind her to unbuckle my pants, to take my manhood out into her cool grasp.
I stroke to the same rhythm that we danced to, my hand gently rubbing my shaft, feeling it swell and harden still more.
I groan and grind my head into the wall, my ass clenching as I pick up the pace, rubbing harder, faster.
Fuck, something is seriously wrong with me. I've not masturbated for years. Whenever I've felt the urge for sex, all I've had to do is either call one of any number of girls I know, or simply go find a bar to pick up a stranger, just as I had planned to do tonight. When you're fit and healthy, and attractive—though I say so myself, but what's the point in false modesty?—and when you've been brought up to exude charm and confidence at all stages of your life, not to mention being labeled New York's most eligible bachelor by several gossip and fashion columnists, finding a woman to sleep with tends not to be an issue.
My imagination takes a new turn. I imagine her here, with me now, in the shower. I imagine the water cascading around us, and the touch of her naked, wet body, pressed hard against my own as we kiss. My knees shake, teeth gnashing. I imagine spinning her around and lifting her, pushing her against the marble of the shower cubicle wall, bending her forward, searching for access, fucking her now with two fingers, not one. She bounces against my fingers in abandon, and when I press that bundle of nerves down in her pussy she shakes and lets out a scream as her orgasm explodes.
My own orgasm follows swiftly behind, a blinding hot sensation, straight from my spine, and with a guttural groan, a stream of white hits the glass cubicle.
"Fuck me," I whisper again, leaning back against the tiles, panting for breath, entirely spent. Water is still running down my slick skin. I reach out to turn off the faucet and then stagger weakly out of the shower cubicle, groping for a towel.
I don't even know what the fuck I've just experienced. I've not done something like this since I was a boy, learning to cope with my teenage hormones and jerking off to my Britney Spearsand Sarah Michelle Gellar posters. Hopefully, this embarrassing little session has gotten her out of my system for good. Deep down, though, I know it hasn't.
I'm still hungry for more.
