Tamed(19)

At least, that’s why I tell myself I’m pissed.

I shake off my conflicted feelings as I find a parking spot, at a meter, around the corner from the blonde’s apartment, who I now think of as “Salad-girl.” She’s waiting for me inside the atrium of her building and opens the door to her first-floor apartment.

“Wow, it’s really cold,” she tells me in a high-pitched, almost whiny voice. “I can’t believe how quick the temperature dropped. I wonder if it’s going to snow early this year. I hate the snow. Even at Christmastime, I’ll take a sandy beach over . . .”

I kiss her eagerly—just so she’ll stop talking.

She squeaks into my mouth before recovering and putting her all into kissing me back. Her tongue flicks at mine quickly—too quickly. There’s no rhythm or finesse. Feels like there’s a stingerless bumblebee trapped in my mouth, and its wings are beating the hell out of my tongue. She shoves me back onto the sofa and yanks her sweater over her head, revealing a beige, lacy bra, encasing a set of mega-huge melons.

Like I said before, I’m a breast lover, so I try and focus my attention on this positive attribute, but her idea of dirty talk is a major distraction.

“Oh, yeah,” she moans, pushing her tits together. “I’m a bad girl. You gonna be my daddy? Daddy gonna punish his naughty slut?”

There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to frigging begin.

First off, the Daddy talk is a boner killer. It’s as effective as being submerged in a tub of ice water. It makes me think of my father and children and a thousand other things I don’t want to be imagining during foreplay. The naughty slut was a valiant effort—I’m definitely into the name-calling, ass-slapping, dominant role-play thing women seem so fond of these days. But her babyish, breathy voice ruins the effect.

Delores’s voice is low, sultry, unmistakably woman. When she begged me to f*ck her, or called out how she wanted me to f*ck her—it wasn’t forced or fake. It was unrehearsed and real, because she was so turned on, so caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, that staying silent simply wasn’t possible.

I grunt as Salad-girl pounces on my lap. She claws at my shirt but only succeeds in giving me rug burn on my neck. Shirt-burn. Then, with surprising strength, she forces my head between her breasts, holding me so tightly I can’t f*cking breathe. The Vikings believed dying on the battlefield was a “good death,” and normally I’d feel the same way about being tit-smothered . . . but these aren’t the tits I want doing me in. I struggle to turn my head, finally succeeding when I grip her biceps and push back. I tilt my head up and reinflate my lungs.

And then, still holding her arms, I look at Salad-girl’s face. A cute nose, wet, pink lips, and round blue eyes gaze back at me. She’s hot. A solid 8. Any other night I’d be all over this, but tonight . . . I’m not.

Because the eyes I want gazing back at me are light brown with flecks of gold. The lips I want to nibble on are red and full and have the most direct, unexpected responses coming out of them. I’m more turned on picturing Dee in my head than I’ve been for the last five minutes with this topless alternative grinding on my lap.

“Wait . . . hold up a second. This isn’t working for me,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

Women always say they just want men to be honest with them. Let’s see how that plays out. “You’re pretty and you seem like a fun girl . . . but, I just realized . . . I’m into somebody else at the moment.”

Her neck swivels as she asks, “Excuse me?”

“No offense.” She covers her immense chest with her hands. And now she’s glaring at me. “If it makes you feel better, if I hadn’t met her first, I’d totally be having sex with you right now.”

She scampers off my lap. “You’re an *!”

I can see why she’d think that.

“Get the hell out of my apartment, you dick!” She picks a coaster up from the end table—the heavy ceramic kind—and whips it at my head. The first one misses. But the second one nails me in the shoulder blade as I dive for the door.

“Ow! Christ, I’m going!”

“Jerk!”

This proves it—whoever said honesty was the best policy, was obviously lying.



I park my motorcycle on the sidewalk and sprint up to the front door of Dee’s building. I push her buzzer once, twice, three times for good luck. I wait five seconds, but there’s no response.

Next, I do what every other normal human being would.

I push the button down until my motherf*cking fingertip turns white.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

When that doesn’t get an answer, I admit, I start to panic. I walk onto the sidewalk, below Delores’s front window, and cup my hands around my mouth. “Delores! Hey Dee—you awake?”

Because this is New York City, a neighbor immediately yells back, “We’re all awake now, *!”

A few “Shuddups” come from various directions, and I think one woman may have thrown a potted plant at me.

But I’d like to believe it was an accident.