Chapter 8

By the time my knuckles met the wood at her entryway, I'd forgotten about the dude with the car, and his memory had been replaced by nervous butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach. When Beck answered the door, my mouth fell open, and what had been an abundance of saliva, dried up into the Sahara Desert. Apparently, I hadn't understood what dinner meant or had missed the memo on just how casual this affair was. As I stood, jeans and a fancy T-shirt was overdressed. Clothes at all appeared to be optional.

My eyebrows rose on my forehead, and I managed to snap my jaw shut when Beck giggled. Maybe I was early, and she hadn't finished dressing. I doubted she planned to cook in a silk robe that barely covered her ass, but maybe I'd caught her between preparing dinner and jeans.

"Come on in."

"I met your brother outside. He seemed...less than happy." I didn't have a clue what to say to a woman I barely knew standing in the doorway with nothing on but a thin piece of fabric.

"Collier." She didn't hide her irritation with her sibling. "My twin."

"Really? You're a twin?"

"Yep." She popped the P and turned around to walk into the house. I assumed I should follow and closed the door behind me. My boots echoed on the marble floors as I tried to take in all my surroundings without gawking. This girl had stupid amounts of money. "He was pissed I made him leave."

"He could've joined us for dinner?"

"He can find his own dates. Come on in."

Beck showed me to the kitchen, which was close to the size of my downstairs-the entire floor. I'd expected to see a meal of some sort, but all that sat on the counter was a pitiful excuse for a salad and two empty glasses waiting for my wine. When she turned her back to get a bottle opener, I peered closer at the bowls. I'd bet money if I dug in the trash I'd find the plastic containers and the Wendy's bag they'd come in-she hadn't even sprung for Chick-Fil-A.

I'd spent forty bucks on a bottle of wine, and this heifer had promised me dinner. There were two extra miles thrown in this morning to account for a caloric overload-not a damn salad. I wondered how I could dilute her wine with water and save the majority for myself without her noticing.

While I eyed the sink, she turned back to me. She went to uncork the bottle, and her robe gaped at her cleavage, then as she twisted the key, that divide became non-existent. The lapels of silk fell to the sides of her plastic breasts, which were still beautiful I might add. I didn't have to touch them to know she'd paid a lot of money for the pair.

She took my curiosity as intrigue and purposely moved around the space, causing the fabric to flow behind her. Taut abs showed through, her tan didn't have a line in it, and I quickly noticed she was naked as the day was long under that robe. There wasn't a hair anywhere on her body outside of her scalp. Not one. My line of sight had traveled from her chest down the center of her stomach, straight to her bare-naked lady where it lingered in awe. There was no doubt about it-Beck had a porn-star vajayjay. It was tiny, perfectly prepubescent in its hairless glory. She had the vagina women paid thousands for with rejuvenation.

It took her seconds to fill both glasses with my spicy, red gift and take me by the hand to a custom-made couch in what I assumed was the living room. I didn't have to worry about white carpet, there wasn't an inch of the stuff as far as the eye could see. Marble floors lined every room in sight, and high ceilings made each step I took reverberate off the walls. This place was an acoustical nightmare. It was gauche in the truest sense of the word, and it wasn't just jealousy marring my thoughts. The house was cold and in need of a decorator. Nothing but monochromatic tones on every surface. I couldn't fathom why anyone with this much money wouldn't want to be comfortable in their home. But c'est la vie.

"I've been so excited for you to get here." She made no attempt to cover herself, clearly comfortable in her own skin.

I, on the other hand, was sweating like a whore in church who'd just been caught with my hand in the preacher's pants. She relaxed on the sofa, and I wondered if her ass was sticking to the leather and if she'd have to peel her skin off to stand. The perspiration forming on the backside of my thighs made the denim increasingly more uncomfortable with each minute that passed. The tepid wine did nothing to bring my body temperature down and only served to heighten my already exponential anxiety.

This girl was to lesbians what I'd become to heterosexuals. She knew what she wanted-and it was me. We made idle chit chat as the wine mixed with the liquor already in my stomach. Nerves turned into desire, and when Beck took our glasses and set them on the coffee table that could seat eight comfortably, I knew it was go-time.

My mind focused on the parts of her that intrigued me-her eyes, those full lips, her professionally sculpted tits. Suddenly, I felt like a cat in heat, ready to push my ass in her lap just to get her to touch me. But the instant her fingers grazed the skin under my shirt, I erupted in childlike giggles. Her hand danced on my sides, but what should have been erotic turned into comedy central.

"Don't be nervous, Giselle. I'll be gentle." That was the problem. Her touch was light as a feather, and I almost kneed her in the jaw when she came in for a kiss at the same time her palms cupped my breasts. I jumped back, unable to control my laughter-too much alcohol. I was giddy and suddenly immature. If she'd said the word penis, I might have rolled on the floor, clutching my stomach in gales of laughter.

I bit my tongue, trying to force myself to regain control. Beck took that as a green light to proceed. Her lips met my neck in soft kisses and trailed their way down to my collarbone. The laughter died when her teeth nipped at my skin just beneath my ear-normally an erogenous zone, I'd gone stiff as a board. Her attempt at foreplay did nothing but cause my heart to race-and not in a way that turned me on.

She took my hand in hers and lifted my fingers to her mouth. Those perfect lips showered my knuckles with affection. They were just as soft as they appeared from across the bar table. But when she opened her mouth and slid my pinky in to suck it like she would man-meat, I jerked my hand back. I fought against the creepy-crawly feeling her tongue left on the pads of my fingers, and in its place, came tears. I couldn't help it. She'd pulled my tiny finger in and out of her mouth like she was sucking dick, and the emotions bubbled to the surface.

Maybe I just wasn't ready for an intimate relationship with a woman. Maybe this truly was like learning to date all over again. Maybe I needed time to acclimate to a female's touch on my body. Whatever it was-the warm fuzzy feeling I'd had when I knocked on the door was knotting itself up into a ball of emotional frenzy.

And there, on her couch, with her fine ass stuck to the leather and her perfect twat on display for anyone to see, I began to cry about the horrible things all the men in my life had done. Before I knew it, she'd tied her robe and gotten two pints of Ben & Jerry's along with two spoons. We spent the rest of the evening regaling tales of lost loves over Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia.