No Pants Required Read online

  I can’t watch this.

  Yet, I do.

  The pink lights flicker over and around me, and if either of them looks toward the corner, they might catch a glimpse of my extremely bold, large silver zipper. Remind me why I suggested this change to the designer? Inching my way farther back, I make sure to blend in with my all-black attire.

  “I want you,” she moans with a harsh breath.

  “You don’t get to have me,” he sneers at her.

  “How about this, then?” she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.

  From the groan he makes, it sounds like he’s battling himself. “You don’t want to do this,” he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.

  She ignores his response and yanks his pants and boxers past his knees. No pants required for this act. And then without any more preamble, she takes him in her mouth and sheaths him with her lips. I can’t see his cock, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

  Really, I’m not a pervert. I’m not even the least bit kinky. In fact, I’m the opposite of kinky. I jill off with my fingers. I like sex missionary style, on a bed, at night, in the dark. And I’m not very good at blow jobs. I usually gag.

  There’s a dull thud against the door, and I imagine it is Cam tipping his head in pleasure despite the fact that he’s mad at Megan with a B.

  Why is he mad?

  What did she do?

  Who is she?

  A random pickup?

  His girlfriend?

  His fiancée?

  His wife?

  I’m going with girlfriend. I feel like the intimacy she used to trace the letter on his chest meant something. Not fiancée or wife—I don’t see rings—but I guess if they are in a fight they might have taken them off. What did she do to upset him? Spend too much money? Get tipsy at lunch? Refuse to spread her legs when he wanted her to?

  The act continues. Her long, dark hair bobs. His shirttails practically cover her head. And then his tie whispers across the hint of skin I can see between the folds of fabric, and I start to feel a little overheated. None of that seems to bother her, though, as she works him with both her hands and her mouth.

  Up.

  Down.

  Up.

  Down.

  My eyes feel dry. I blink them a few times. Damn contacts. The movement of my head causes the gemstone around my neck to fall and hit the side of the floor.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Like a clock, it moves until I grab it.

  Suddenly, B stops what she’s doing and looks up at Cam.

  Did she hear it?

  I stop breathing.

  “You like it when I do this. Admit it,” she purrs.

  Phew. She didn’t hear anything.

  Angry or not, I know I don’t imagine the sound of laughter he makes or the hand he puts on B’s hair as he pushes her head down. “In the condition I’m in tonight, sweetheart, any whore will do.”

  Mean, vicious words meant to hurt, or is this just their way?

  The use of the word sweetheart tells me he refuses to call her by name. Megan with a B doesn’t seem to mind, because soon enough the wet noise of mouth on flesh is the only sound besides my heavy breathing that I can hear.

  “Fuck, that’s good,” Cam groans.

  “I know how you like it,” B tells him, looking up again.

  Okay, so at least they’re well acquainted. Again, I’m going with girlfriend.

  Cam doesn’t seem to want to look into her eyes, because he once again pushes her head down. “Who wouldn’t?” he tells her, and for the first time, I hear the slur of alcohol in his voice.

  Fascinated by the exchange before me, I’m more than aware that I shouldn’t be watching this or listening to this private moment, but I want to know if being an asshole is how he gets off, or if Cam is truly mad at Megan with a B.

  A light flickers under the table and I grab for my phone. It’s another text from Maggie, same as before.

  Maggie: Are you still out?

  More soft, wet noises cover up the vibration. Thank God I turned my phone to vibrate earlier. With the screen covered with my palm, I try not to move or even breathe.

  Cam is making a lot more noises now. Groaning. Swearing.

  Why are his sounds turning me on?

  Feeling a way I know I shouldn’t, I close my eyes, unable to watch anymore, but soon enough another thud against the door has me opening them just in time to see Cam’s back arch.

  I know he’s coming by the way his body is reacting—the sounds he’s making, the curve of his spine, the sudden thrusts he makes into B’s mouth. “That’s it, right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

  Megan with a B swallows all of him to the last drop and from what I can see, she doesn’t seem to have a gagging issue.

  Lucky bitch.

  Right now, I’m more than a little hot and bothered. I know what I’ll be doing when I get home to relieve the ache I’m feeling.

  Megan’s arm rises and she wipes her mouth. I wish I could hand her a napkin. Soon after, she gets to her feet and I can no longer see anything but the back of her red dress.

  She’s the devil.

  Or maybe he is?

  “No,” says the very male, very drunk, voice.

  No.

  No to what?

  Oh, God, I hope she doesn’t want to lay him down on the floor and fuck him, because if that happens, I’m so caught.

  “No?” Megan with a B repeats in a questioning tone.

  “No!”

  “Wait. Let me get this straight—you’ll let me suck your dick, but you won’t let me touch your mouth with my lips?”

  Cam’s polished shoes shuffle. He pulls his shirt together. Tucks it. Zips his pants. Then he moves away from the red dress in the high heels and opens the door. “I’m done letting you do anything else, sweetheart.”

  Well, that is just rude.

  “Camden,” she calls, sounding a little frantic. “Give me a chance. I want to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.”

  “There’s nothing I want from you—that’s the problem.”

  Cam. Short for Camden.

  I rather like it.

  Too bad Camden is a prick.

  “Then why let me do this?”

  There is no answer, just his feet moving out of my sight.

  “You’re a fucking asshole!” she cries after him.

  Those polished, very male shoes come flying into the room.

  Hell hath no fury like a man scorned.

  He steps very close to her. I imagine him tipping her chin up to look her in the eyes, although I can’t see up that high. “Just so we’re clear on this—I owe you nothing,” he seethes, and this time when he leaves the room he doesn’t return.

  Ouch!

  “But I still want you,” she whispers, more to herself.

  I think she’s used to getting what she wants, and this Cam is it. I wonder how far she’ll go to get him. Wish I could find out.

  Soon after, Megan with a B stumbles, and then slumps onto the bench at the table across from me. I can see her face now.

  Oh, God.

  Oh, God.

  Please don’t look this way.

  If I can see her face, does that mean she can see mine?

  It’s dark enough in the corner and I hope the glow of the pink lights helps to camouflage me, but if she looks hard enough, she’ll see me.

  Sadness consumes her and her crying is as heavy as her breathing. She’s not looking anywhere but into her own lap. I feel a little sorry for her. I don’t know what she did to Camden, but it must have been very bad, or this is one really fucked-up sex game they’re playing.

  Too bad for me I will probably never know because as if reborn, she wipes the tears from her eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands tall before she walks out of the room with a ver
y steady stride.

  Boy, does she put herself together quickly.

  I could take a page or two from her “how to” book.

  Hard to believe I just did that—watched a girl give a guy a blow job. Honestly, I didn’t see much, just the back of her head, but still, that has to count as anything but uptight.

  Right?

  When the coast is clear, I grab my phone, finally press send with the one word, yes, to answer Maggie, and make my way into the lounge. There is no sign of Megan with a B, and although I’m uncertain what Cam looks like, something tells me he’s gone too.

  “Happy” is playing and my friends are onstage moving like Pharrell Williams. Practically skipping toward them, I hop up and join in. Moving my hips, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands, I have no trouble belting out this tune all the way through.

  “Clap along, if you feel like that’s what . . .” I finish the song on a high note, with my hands together and a sense of being reborn myself.

  What I watched in that private room makes me realize everyone has issues, and everyone has a way of dealing with them—beg, cry, get mad, say things that hurt, curl up into a ball, and even have sex. However you deal, at least you deal, and I’ve done my fair share of all of that.

  I’m done dealing.

  I’m ready for tomorrow.

  Ready to start anew.

  Be a hot-air balloon, just like the song says.

  Within minutes of our grand finale, I’m drunkenly hugging my friends goodbye.

  “Don’t forget to call us!” they holler as I get into a cab.

  “I won’t,” I answer, closing the window, and then turning around to wave goodbye as the taxi pulls away.

  Slumping against the door, reality dawns. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be on a plane to Orange County.

  I can’t believe it.

  I’m really doing it.

  New start.

  New life.

  New me.

  California, here I come.

  CAM

  TEMPTATION IS MORE THAN THE inclination to sin.

  It’s coaxing, manipulating, inducing, and everywhere. There are times I deny myself giving in to it. Times I fall prey to it. Times I chase it. Fuck, there are even times I just need it to feel alive.

  This time, though, it’s different. It’s him. And even though I know I shouldn’t follow him, I find myself chasing after him. The temptation is too great to resist. I go wherever he may lead me without question, but like always when one door opens, so does another, and another, and another still.

  Endless doors without answers.

  Never closing.

  I can’t fucking take it.

  When another door swings open, I want to slam it closed and lock it with a million keys, but this time it isn’t a dream.

  It feels real.

  The more than tiny sprinkle of ice-cold water that lands on my face wakes me from the nightmare I can never seem to shake.

  Blinking my eyes open, I shade the sunshine with my arm. “What the fuck, Amelia?”

  My younger sister is standing over me with a smirk on her face and an open bottle of water in her hand. “I thought you were leaving this afternoon?”

  Quickly sitting up on her small sofa, I look around for my phone. “I am. What time is it?”

  “Way past your flight time, bro. Looks like you’re staying.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  Dropping her backpack to the floor, she shoots me a look. “I’m not your personal alarm clock. I had finals, remember? I just got home.”

  Realizing I fucked up, I relax and resolve to catch a later flight. “Right. How do you think you did?”

  “Passed with flying colors, like always. Looks like I’ll be graduating with my MBA at the end of the month.”

  Hating that she’s not doing what she really wants to do, but what our father demands, I give her a sympathetic look and say the only thing I can. “That’s great.”

  That glare she gives me warns that trouble is coming, and before I can stop her, she pours the rest of the water on my head.

  I wipe it from my face and then glare at her. “Really, Amelia, when are you going to grow up?”

  With a shrug, she walks over to the counter to pick up her camera and then fiddles with the settings. “You’re asking me that? Aren’t you the one who stumbled in here drunk off your ass last night?”

  My pounding head is the only reminder I need of last night’s binge. With a cock of my head, I scratch my scalp. “About that. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

  The camera pointing my way is something I’m used to when I’m in my sister’s company.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  If that horrible gut feeling I have turns out to be true, if she goes to work for my father at The Waters Group, she will be kissing her passion for photography goodbye. Who knows, though, she might change her mind about working for him. And he might, just might, let her off the hook, though he wasn’t willing to do so for my brother and me. The fact that I’m looking around her nice, one-bedroom apartment in the Village that my father pays for, even though he hates that she lives here, is the start of Amelia being who she wants to be, not who he wants her to be.

  According to our father, she should be living in Morningside Heights because it’s much safer, and after all it’s where he lived, where his father lived, and where my brother and I lived when we attended Columbia Business School.

  Like every Waters since the beginning of time.

  Really, though, I’m proud of my sister for standing up to him and living where she wants, not where he wants her to live, not what’s convenient for him.

  I hold my hand up. “Not now, please—the shutter noise is too much.”

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “Amelia, I said please.”

  That makes her stop. When she pulls the lens away from her face, there’s an unusual look of sympathy in her gray eyes. “By the way, it wasn’t you who woke me up. It was Vanessa, when she wouldn’t stop buzzing.”

  I rub my scruff again. “What are you talking about?”

  She points to my duffle bag. “She wanted to talk to you. She settled for leaving you a present.”

  “You let her up?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. She was going to wake the whole neighborhood. Lucky for you, you were passed out. I have to admit it was rather funny watching her trying to wake you up, though. The harder she tried, the madder she got. She had all kinds of names for you. I don’t know what you did, but you really pissed her off. I wanted to take her picture so badly, and then post it all over social media with the caption ‘The ice queen fails.’”

  Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh. “You never did like her.”

  “What was to like? She was always a stuck-up bitch whenever she was around me.”

  Standing, I ignore her and head toward the counter, where I spot a black photo album. “Is this your latest portfolio?”

  Amelia runs her slender fingers over the silver lining. “No, it’s pictures of the three of us.”

  With that, I know it’s time for me to go. “I’m going to hop in the shower. Do you think you could find me another flight to Orange County?”

  The camera never far from her reach, she raises it again and starts shooting. “Why don’t you stay a few more days? I’ve missed you.”

  Hating leaving her, but knowing I have to for my own well-being, I try to lighten the mood by making faces. I stick my tongue out. Put my thumb to my nose and spread my fingers. Place my hands near my ears and wave them. All the while saying nothing that answers her question. She knows the answer is no.

  “Be serious,” she tells me.

  “I’m hung over and not even showered. How serious can I be?”

  “At least try.”

  I shoot her a glance and grin. “How’s this?”

  Amelia lowers her camera. “Not much better. Go shower and I’ll find you a flight.”

  I lean in and k
iss her on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

  Affection not really being her thing, or mine for that matter, she shoves me. “Get away from me. You smell like alcohol and her.”

  Her.

  Right.

  Fuck.

  Grabbing my duffle bag, I head into the bathroom.

  Amelia’s black dress is thrown on the floor in a heap, her high heels beside it. I run my hands through my hair.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  All it does is remind me of yesterday. Why I’m back. Slamming my hand against the wall, I’m so mad, I can hardly breathe. I want to scream, “Why, why, why,” but it won’t do anyone any good.

  We all know why, or at least part of it.

  And not wanting to go down that dark road, I strip out of my clothes from yesterday and step under the spray.

  Leaning against the cool tile, I let the cold water wash away my nightmare. I need to get out of New York. It’s toxic for me here.

  The bar of soap is lavender scented and I shake my head as I lather up and wash away the scent of her, the feel of her, the very essence of her. Vanessa was not what I needed last night and is not what I need now, or ever.

  As the water grows warmer, my cock, a little behind the game, must realize it missed its chance at morning wood, and the rub-off it might receive in my effort to help the guy out.

  Ever since I moved away from the city last Thanksgiving, I’ve had this need that never seems to be satisfied. No matter how many women, how many fucks, it’s never enough.

  Sex is just sex.

  No feelings.

  Don’t get me wrong—I like it that way.

  Yet every once in a while, I wish that when I find myself pulling out of a woman mumbling, “That felt fucking amazing,” I could still feel that emotion after I walk away from her.

  What happens next occurs before I realize what I’m doing. I close my eyes and gently rub, first around my cock, then my balls.

  Fuck, that feels good.

  Soon, I’m picturing a faceless woman—a hot body, another fuck. She’s gripping me. Tight. Causing just enough pain to remind me that I’m alive. I turn her around and imagine driving my cock into her sweet pussy, over and over, and it makes me want to come hard and fast.

  The thought has my fist pumping at a quicker pace and I lick the water from my lips. The pressure wells deep and a tingling radiates from my cock. As my orgasm starts to build, so do the contractions—it feels like electricity is shooting through me. My dick twitches and I can’t hold on any longer. As I start to come, practically spasming from the tight grip, the incredible feeling builds. Finally, I let myself go, crossing that threshold over and over until I’m spent. My chest rises and falls, and I slouch against the shower wall.