Page 5 of Blush

“Well…I figure…you know me as well asIknow me. Better in some ways.”

“I’m not sure the time you had an accident in my sandbox belongs on your Lustr profile.”

“For God’s sake, Jack. Could you be serious for one minute?”

Iamserious. She just doesn’t realize it. Lustr is no place for Amanda Thomas. It’s a fucking meat market.

“Jack?” Mandy prods.

I sip the last of my sake from my tiny cup. “You’re serious about this?”

“Absolutely. My little sister’s engaged, and I have absolutely no prospects. I can’t wait around for life to start happening to me. I need to get proactive. I want a partner in life. A family.”

Amanda has always underestimated herself. She’s quite beautiful, with a luscious hourglass figure. Her silvery gray eyes are unique and sparkling, and she has some of the fullest lips I’ve ever seen on a woman.

If she weren’t my Mandy Cake? Sure, I’d tap that. But Amanda is a white-picket-fence type. Sweet and innocent.

And I’m not.

Not even close.

I’m up at four a.m. every morning. I work eighty hours a week.

And I play.

I playhard.

I don’t want Mandy on Lustr, but if she’s going to be on the site, I can at least make sure she doesn’t attract the wrong kind of man.

“All right, Amanda.” I sigh and can’t help thinking I’m going to regret this. “I’ll help you.”

…

The next morning—Sunday—I head over to Amanda’s. She lives in a small one-bedroom apartment in the Village that’s still in her great-aunt’s name, so it’s rent controlled. Me? I live in a larger apartment in Manhattan that’s close to work and play.

I knock and then key in her code, pushing the door open. “Mandy, where are you?”

I kneel and pet her rescue pup, Roger. He’s a Chihuahua mix and hates pretty much everyone except Mandy and me. “What’s up, Rog?” I scratch him behind his ears.

Amanda walks out from her bedroom, her hair wet and hanging in ringlets around her shoulders. She’s wearing pink lounging pants and a white tank top. No bra. Her nipples poke through the cotton.

I’m a guy. I notice these things.

Mandy has really nice tits. Not that I’ve ever seen them. The closest I’ve ever gotten was when she lost her bikini top at my parents’ pool the summer between our freshman and sophomore years of high school. She covered herself and ran inside before I got a good look. The nipples, though? They poke through the flimsy cotton fabric and give me an eyeful.

“Hey, Mandy Cake,” I say.

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you knock. Did you get a cup of coffee?” She points to the drip coffee maker on a kitchen counter.

“No. I stopped at the new Bean There Done That after my run this morning.”

“You want anything else? I’ve got some glazed doughnuts, or I can make you some scrambled eggs.”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Mandy always wants to cook me something. Every time I come over, it’s, “Can I get you this? Can I get you that?” She once told me it’s because I take her out to expensive dinners sometimes. She can’t afford to do that for me in return, so she likes to offer what she can. She doesn’t need to worry about that, but no matter how many times I tell her, she still tries to take care of me. To be honest, I don’t mind. Not at all. It’s comforting.

Her laptop is set up on the small table in the kitchen—or rather, the kitchen area. Mandy pours herself a cup of coffee and then sits down, motioning for me to do the same.

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