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I pay the cab driver and step out onto Pierrepont Street. Two scrolled black iron doors with matching fall-themed teardrop wreaths greet me. The Beaux-Arts style entrance compliments the traditional brick apartment building smack dab in the center of Brooklyn Heights. I step up and ring apartment 8D. A buzzer sounds, and I push the heavy door open. The nondescript lobby has marble floors and several brass door elevators. No doorman. Interesting. I recommend to anyone who asks that they live in a doorman building. The convenience is worth the extra expense. Not to mention the added safety.
When the elevator opens, I glance down the hall. Mason stands with his apartment door propped open with his foot, a smile on his face. He’s wearing faded jeans and a tucked-in button-down flannel shirt with a well-worn brown leather belt. His sleeves are rolled up on his forearms, and he has several plastic bracelets on one arm. I didn’t notice those yesterday. They’re the kind of bracelets that support various causes.
He bends to give me a polite welcoming hug then pushes the door wide. We enter a narrow hall. Immediately to my right is another door. The door is open, and through a small window at the end of the bathroom, I can see a skyline view of Manhattan. The short entrance hall opens into an expansive loft-like space with a dining and living room combination. I don’t see a kitchen, but I assume it’s on the other side of the wall near the dining area. The high ceilings and oversized windows make me think the room must be quite sunny during the day.
Less than two steps into the great room, I halt. On every single wall, pieces of paper are taped. For a minute, I’m unsure, but no, it’s most definitely children’s art. Some of the paper bears the marks of age, faded colors, and dust. Those are mostly comprised of lines and scribbles. Some of the fresher papers include torn-out pages from coloring books, carefully drawn in the lines. A few are colorful paintings in the abstract. Handprints and footprints. Others landscape and animal drawings. Many cat and dog line sketches. I point at the paintings and grin. “Do your kid owners send you artwork?”
He slips both hands into his front pockets and closes one eye, as if he’s thinking about my question. “Kid owners? You mean my patients’ owners?”
“Yeah.” There’s a ton of art here. He must have been collecting these for years.
“No. My daughter is a budding artist. These are all hers.”
Jesus, Mother, Mary, and Angels. I did not expect that. A single dad. I’ve never done that before. Dated a parent. People with kids usually seem so different.
His shoe taps mine. “You can close your mouth.”
“Oh, no, I ah—”
“I should’ve said something yesterday, but I didn’t really know how to bring it up. I haven’t dated, or tried to date, since she was born. If it’s an issue for you, we can just be friends. Really. I’ve got a great vegetarian lasagna in the oven and a huge kale salad, so I hope you’ll still stay for dinner. An adult dinner without a child at the table is a rarity for me.”
As he’s talking, I twist around, studying all the art, wishing my brain would catch up. This is fine. What does it matter if he has a daughter? I’ll probably never meet her. I mean, isn’t that kind of a rule among single parents? You don’t introduce dates until you’re serious? And I’m gonna be moving. I don’t do serious. But wait...
“Are you single?”
He exhales, and it sounds like a mixture of a laugh and relief. “Yes. Never been married, actually. Kara lives with me. Her mom’s in a band and isn’t around. Or...she hasn’t been.” He calls as he heads to a hall at the end of the room, “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Water?”
“Wine, please.” Yes, this situation calls for alcoholic reinforcement.
He disappears around the corner, and I meander along the wall, perusing the art. One piece proudly proclaims, “I LOVE DADDY.” I reach out to touch it, the thick, dried paint uneven beneath my fingertip. I can’t help but smile. As the kid of a painter, the abundance of art reminds me of my afternoons spent drawing and painting away beneath mom’s expert tutelage. Some of the favorite days of my life.
Mason joins me at the wall and hands me a glass of red. With a slight smile on his face, he sits down on the oversized worn brown leather sofa and motions for me to join him.
“I probably should have asked you out to dinner. It’s been so long.” He sets his glass down on the table. “This whole dating thing. My life.” He shakes his head and stares out the window. It’s dark, and other than the random lights from an apartment building across the street, there’s not much to see. “Kara was born less than a year after I started working, right out of vet school. Exhausting days. And nights. Kara came home with me from the hospital. She’s four now, and the clinic’s getting a bit easier.” He lifts his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “As you saw, it can still be manic and nonstop, but at least now I don’t have to refer to books to double-check every single diagnosis. And four is easier. Each month it gets easier with Kara. But those first few years were not easy. At all. Dating wasn’t remotely on my radar. I haven’t done the online app thing. The idea of creating a dating profile? No, thanks. Do you have kids?”
I giggle-snort at the ridiculousness of the question then immediately sit straighter and compose myself. He’s got a serious face going on. The man’s not joking. Right. “No. I don’t even babysit.” Oh, Mylanta. He’s going to usher me out the door before dinner. “So, um, Kara came home with you from the hospital. Is that normal? Or were you guys living together then broke up? For the love of nuts and berries, I should stop talking.” I slap my palm over my forehead, and he grins in response. At least I’m entertaining.
He kicks his feet out on the coffee table and crosses one foot over the other. “It’s fine. Kara’s mom wasn’t ready for motherhood. We hooked up a few times when I was right out of vet school. Pregnancy wasn’t in her plans. She told me she was going to put the baby up for adoption, but the adoption agency wanted her to get the father to agree.” He stares toward the back of the room, as if lost in the memory replaying before him. On an exhale, he lifts his gaze. “Here we are.”
It all makes sense. “So, where is Kara now?”
“She’s at Rockaway Beach with my mom. They get back tomorrow. My mom’s been a godsend. I don’t know what in the world I would’ve done without her. She cares for Kara during the day and when I work late, like last night. Kara will be starting kindergarten next year. Which is insane to think about. You wait. When you have kids, you’ll see. It’s like they take everything out of you. You have to be on every single minute they’re awake. Then it gets easier, especially when they eat on a more regular daytime schedule. Then they start moving around, and it’s like you have to have eagle eyes, watching for danger. Then they start to get smarter and don’t pose such a risk to themselves. Then you blink, and you have this wunderkind who’s learning her letters and numbers and talking to you like a little adult, and you can say something like ‘pick up your toys’ and she does it!”
He’s full of disbelief, and I suppress my laugh. He’s so animated when he talks about his daughter, it’s like he comes alive and loses some of the serious man vibe.
I don’t have any personal experience with what he’s talking about, but I love listening to him. So full of life. His forearm muscles flex when he shifts his wine glass. Dark, curly hair covers his wrists and a touch of the back of his hand. Everything about him says he’s relaxed and at home, from his socked feet crossed on the coffee table to the way he rambles. The laidback vibe works for me. So much better than the bar scene I frequent. I kick off my boots and pull my legs up onto the sofa.
He scratches his head, ruffling his hair a bit. “What am I doing? You don’t want to hear about kids. I mean, do you want kids? One day?” He asks the question as if the thought just crossed his mind.
“Yeah, I do. They’re part of the plan.” One day, when I’m older. Have grown up more. Can take care of a dog without an emergency visit to the vet.
A buzzer sounds in the kitchen, and he stands. “Lasagna’s ready.”
I follow him into a kitchen with a lovely window over the sink and Silestone counters and white appliances. The tiny kitchen offers limited counter space but has a cozy vibe. I stand on the edge, searching for a way I can help. He bypasses me with the lasagna, and I refill our wine glasses then follow him to the dining table.
He’s already set the table for two. A couple of candles are set out, and while he lights them, I duck back into the kitchen and grab the salad I saw sitting on the counter. When I round the corner, I collide with Mason, and his arm wraps around my waist, and some part of his anatomy brushes my ass. A flurry of sensations shoots through me, and I instinctively press my body closer to his and breathe in his fresh herbal soap smell.
He holds on to my hips and steps back with a sexy smile. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” This man can rub against me all he wants.
The lasagna is loaded with cheese, finely chopped vegetables, and spicy marinara sauce. I moan with my first bite because it is that good. It’s so much better than anything I could cook. I tell him so.
“Single dads kind of need to cook.” He gives this modest shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “What do you do, Delilah? When you’re not saving dogs that eat too much?”
I laugh, maybe a little louder than the situation warrants. I’m typically not one to get nervous, but he’s more mature than a lot of the guys I meet. Better looking too. That must be why the nerves are shooting off a fireworks extravaganza deep in my belly. “You mean, what do I do when I’m not out attempting to kill my friends’ pets?”
He flexes his socked feet as he stretches out his legs. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. So, you know I’m a vet. You’re one up on me. What do you do?”
“I’m an art director at an ad agency.”
His thick dark eyebrows angle inward towards his nose. “What’s an art director do?”
“I’m the one who works on the layouts for ads. The photographs or illustrations.” I splay out my hands in the air and shift them around to kind of give him a visual aid. “I decide where the headline goes, font for the body copy, where to put it on the page, that kind of thing.”
“That kind of thing. Hmmm. So, why an art director?”
I twirl my glass, swishing the wine around, trying to remember exactly why I went into advertising. “Well, I always wanted to do something with art. My mom, she’s a painter. She doesn’t make any real money, but she loves it. I love painting too, but I also love graphic design, photography, illustrations. She’s an introvert, so spending time alone works well for her, you know? But I’m more of an extrovert. I’d go crazy if I didn’t interact with people during the day. In an ad agency, I get to work with art, but I work with people all day too. It fits my personality best. And it was a middle ground for me and my parents.” I sip more of my wine as I consider how to change the subject. “Why’d you become a vet?”
He grins. “Love of animals. Probably what drives most vets. And science. I’ve been into science for as long as I can remember.”
“Life motto?”
He sort of chuckles. “Excuse me?”
“We’re asking questions. Getting to know each other. What’s your life motto? The words you live by?”
Within seconds, he answers. “Be kind to all living things.”
I nod a bit, appreciating the depth of his motto and the appropriateness, given his career.
“Your turn. Life motto?” he asks.
“Love is all around.” Somehow my life motto, stolen straight from one of my all-time favorite flicks, Love Actually, doesn’t seem quite so impressive when compared to Mason’s.
“Cute. Life goal?”
Did he shade my life motto? “Um. I don’t know. Let’s see. Life goal.” I’ve never been a goal-oriented kind of person. “Be near family. Be happy.” Don’t rock the boat. “What’s yours?”
“Give back.” That could also be a life motto, but it’s not like I’m gonna shade his life goal. “Favorite city?” I ask.
Seconds lapse before he answers. “Minneapolis.” Wow. Unexpected. “Yours?”
My response is instantaneous. “Barcelona. Favorite airline?”
He smiles a warm smile. “I don’t get to travel much. No favorite airline. Or I guess it’d be the one with the lowest fare. What’s your favorite?”
I chew on a bite of lasagna, reflecting a bit. “I’d say it’s a tie between British Air and Virgin. First class in both blows any of the domestic airlines out of the water.”
He mutters so low it’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a lull in the conversation as we each finish the first helping of lasagna on our plates. Every now and again, our eyes meet. The silence feels awkward, so I pull out the king cake of conversation starters. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
He almost spits out his wine but manages to hold it in, a big grin on his face. He half chuckles as if he can’t believe I asked the question. Come on, now, big handsome guy. Once you know me, you’ll accept this as par for the course.
He licks his lips. “I’ll answer, but after I do, it’s your turn.” He raises his eyebrows in an unspoken request for agreement, and I nod my consent. “Sixteen. High school girlfriend. Dated her until we left for college.”
“Oh, wow. High school love. Still speak to her?”
“Sure. She’s in LA.”
“Do you still love her?”
“No. We had an amicable split. A long time ago. No drama. We’re friends. You?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Seventeen. High school boyfriend. Quarterback for the football team. I was head cheerleader. A tale as old as time. He went and told the whole football team. Pissed me off. I dumped his ass and created a voodoo doll of him. Which might have been a bit over the top because he broke his leg one week later. He wasn’t on his way to college ball, anyway, but still. Kind of harsh. But, to be clear, it’s not like I asked for his leg to break. I wasn’t specific with the...” I trail off and don’t finish the sentence. There’s no good way to finish the story. “Anyway, it was one and done for me. He wasn’t too skilled. Not a great first.”
Mason sets his wine glass down and rests his elbows on the table. “I’m not sure where to go with that one. Voodoo doll? Where are you from, again?”
“New Orleans. Home of black magic, jazz music, and Bourbon Street. You?”
“Minnesota, originally. Then New York. Tell me about jazz music. Specific artists or bands you love?”
Now, music—music, I can talk about. “Let’s see, where to start? Isaac Hayes, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, Armstrong, Sinatra. I could go on and on. There’s a new jazz artist I’m starting to love. Sasha Masakowski. I also love bands like The Shins and Vampire Weekend and Jack Johnson. Any songs with a happy beat or vibe. What about you?”
“Alternative rock. Rock. The kind of stuff you hear on the radio. If I’m in the apartment and I want music to play, I’ll often ask Alexa to play Tom Petty or Bob Dylan.”
“Solid choices.” I consider diving into my list of favorite Tom Petty songs, but he doesn’t seem like he’s so into music. I flip through my mental conversation cue cards and whip out, “What childhood memory stands out the strongest in your mind?”
He takes his time answering. “You first.”
I answer with confidence. “Hands down, my ‘doll’ Christmas. The year I got a Barbie Dream House, the Julie Albright American Girl Doll—she’s from 1974—and I also got her egg chair and bed and her pet bunny. Stuffed bunny, not real.”
He squints. I sense the judgement. “That’s what you remember? Stuff?”
“Well, no. There’s more. I remember walking down the stairs and passing a video camera set up on a tripod. Then another camera. Then another camera. I turned into our living room, and flashes went off as both Mom and Dad stood there snapping pictures. It was insane. My parents went over the top every Christmas, but that year, it was especially insane. I felt like a celebrity.”
“Only child?”
“Oh, sugar, you know it. What about you?”
He stares across the room as he answers, his voice solemn. “Me too.” He sips his wine, focusing his gaze on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “My clearest memory is of us moving. Mom and I moved from Minneapolis to New York to be closer to her family after she and Dad divorced. I remember Dad standing by the front door. I sat in the back seat, watching him through the rear window as he got smaller and smaller.”
In my mind’s eye, I see a young boy with longish hair waving goodbye to his father. My heart aches for the precious little boy. “Bless your heart. How old were you?”
“Six, maybe seven years old.”
We both finished our dinner a while ago, so I help him clean up the dishes, and we return to the table. He sits down in his chair and refills our wine glasses. We talk more. He opens another bottle. Our conversation roams around everything and anything, and I get the sense he’s going to be a gentleman. The trouble is, after a couple of glasses of wine, brave and bold Delilah comes out to play.
“So, you say you don’t date much?”
He nods his answer.
I remember the women calling him and find it hard to believe, but if that’s the way he wants to play it, I’ll roll with it. “You know, I don’t want to be too forward. Well, who am I kidding? I always tend to be a tad forward, but not this kind of forward.” The wine in my glass sloshes around as I talk. “It sounds like you have a lot going on in your life.” He opens his mouth, and I can tell from his expression he has no idea where I’m going with this, and I continue before he can speak. “And that’s okay. So do I. I mean, my life...” I flutter my hands, my best explanation of my life at this point in time. “Anyway, I so rarely meet a guy who I spend time with and am attracted to. My friends say I’m overly picky and...they could be right. But the side effect of pickiness is it’s been a long time for me.” It might all be in my head, but his eyes seem to widen. “Would you be at all open to us having sex? Tonight? No strings?”
He catches his lower lip with his teeth as he grins at me. After what feels like a small eternity, he asks, “Are you for real?”
Oddly enough, he’s not the first person to ask me that. “Totally, one hundred percent real.” For extra effect, I add, “Mostly organic.”
His lips twist into a sexy smirk as he shifts back onto the sofa. “I’m open to sex. Very open. But applying the word ‘complicated’ to my life is a bit of an understatement. Are you okay with that?”
“Very.” I lift my wine glass and sip it as we eye each other. The current in the room feels almost electric as awareness of what we’re considering doing filters through. We’ve been making small talk all night, but sometimes a girl’s gotta take it up a notch.
Holding my wine glass, I saunter around the table to his side. I stand in front of him, and he shifts his chair, so it’s facing me more than the table. I straddle his legs, wine glass in one hand, and rest my arm around his shoulder. Sitting like this, we’re almost equals, but his lips are still a little higher than mine. He leans down and presses his lips to mine, tentative at first, then we dive deeper, exploring. His hands roam my back, quickly making their way down to my ass. I rock my hips against him, and he groans. He breaks our kiss for a moment, takes my glass from me, and sets it on the table. He caresses the side of my face, and his thumb rests near my lip.
I tilt my head and playfully nip his finger, and he rolls his lower lip beneath his teeth. “You are a breath of fresh air. Has anyone ever told you that?”
My heart thunders, and I shift my hips, searching for friction, desire building. I swallow. “Believe it or not, yes.” I reach up and pull his mouth to mine. Enough small talk.
He holds on to my hips, stopping the kisses once again. Dark, hungry eyes probe mine. “You’re sure? If you change your mind...we can go slow. We don’t have to rush.”
I understand. It’s our first date. I could regret this. But I’m not going to be around long. And, damn, slow is not what I want. It’s been too long. And right now, I want to experience a night with this gorgeous guy. Seize the day, live in the moment, and all that good stuff. I grasp his shirt and pull, as he lowers his lips to mine. Our tongues collide, and his hands shift to my ass, gripping and kneading.
He stands, lifting me with him and bumping the table, almost toppling the wine glasses. He grunts and carries me down the hall. I wrap my legs around his waist. He kisses my throat and growls, “You sure?”
I respond by shoving my tongue into his mouth and practically climbing him.
He drops me onto a bed, and I sink into the comforter. I register this is his bedroom and not much else. I sit up and grab the edges of my sweater and lift it off and toss it across the room, exposing a white lace semi-cup bra. His eyes darken, and within seconds his shirt is off and tossed to the side. He’s muscular and ripped in a lean, athletic sort of way. Dark, curly hair lightly covers the firm lines of his pecs and tapers down. I reach out and pull at his belt buckle, wanting to see more.
“You know, I had a hunch you’d be fun, Delilah.” He trails kisses from my neck, down to my chest. “But I really had no idea how much fun.”
Before I can unbutton his jeans, a firm hand pushes me back and grasps the waistband of my long, loose cotton skirt and slips it off, taking my moist panties with them. I didn’t plan on anything happening tonight but send a silent thank you to the gods of the universe my waxing appointment was last Friday, and another that my practical self always carries condoms in my purse. A girl’s gotta be prepared.
“Damn. You are gorgeous.” At one point in my life, my D sized breasts embarrassed the hell out of me. Not tonight. I push my shoulders back, displaying the ladies at their best angle while tossing my hair over my shoulder. He kicks off his jeans and boxers. Naked, he crawls over me, his firm erection aiming outward.
His mouth reclaims mine, and as his weight falls over me, I wrap my legs around him, and his cock presses against my belly. He shifts to my side and lavishes attention to each of my breasts as he slips a finger inside me.
I gasp as his thumb presses and circles my clit. “Oh...My...lanta that feels good.” I tilt my head back as pleasure overwhelms me. A little nagging voice tells me it’s our first date, and I’m gonna regret this in the morning—but, damn, this feels good.
He lies on his side, removes his finger, and places it in his mouth and sucks. It’s as if I can feel the suction on his finger, and I push him on his back and straddle him.
He removes his finger with a popping sound, and with a slight smirk, teases, “Hhmm...so good.” He grabs my hips, and with one quick movement, flips me over so he’s back on top, and I squeal out loud in surprise. He slides his long finger into me while using his thumb to work my clit.
“Ah, fuck. Right there. Just like that.”
“Hmm. I like this bare pussy. So wet. For me?”
I sound out a wispy “yes” or something like that. Whatever I say, he understands. His lips curl up, and he shifts, his hand still pleasing my lady bits to the point golden spots dot my vision.
He bites the edge of my bra and pulls it down, releasing my breast, then circles my nipple with his tongue and sucks, working the sensitive skin to the point I’m writhing below him from pleasure overload. He releases my nipple and kisses it then moves farther down and dips his head.
I sit up on my elbows and watch as his tongue enters me and licks up my center, straight to the bundle of nerves awaiting attention at the top. I run my fingers through his thick hair as his tongue spins magic and plays me like a fiddle. My muscles quiver, and I let out an uninhibited scream as I climax, a happy, exalted sprite dancing on the edge of fire.
I’m shaking and shuddering, my muscles quaking from his ministrations. As he places soft kisses along my throat and the sensitive skin below my ear, I reach between us and wrap my fingers around his hard shaft, the skin soft, smooth.
He groans. “Shit. Condom.” I continue to work him over, toying with the precum dripping on the end. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, clearly enjoying what I’m doing but distressed. “I don’t have a condom.”
“No problem.” I drop a quick kiss on his jaw and hop off the bed, naked as a jaybird, and sprint into his den to locate my bag. Within seconds, I’m running back into his bedroom and jumping onto the bed, throwing two condoms his way. He picks one up as his lips curve up into a smile then rips the condom packet open with his teeth.
I take the condom from him. “Let me.”
He shifts onto his back and watches me with raw hunger. I grip him with my hand, moving up and down, then wrap my lips around him.
When my tongue flicks over his precum, he grunts. “I’m...God I want your mouth, but I don’t—”
I don’t let him finish. I take him into my mouth as far as I can. He grabs a fistful of my hair. “That’s. Oh. Amazing. But, stop. It’s been too long. I won’t last.” I place a small kiss on the top of his shaft then slip the condom on, taking care to ensure room at the top, because one thing’s for sure, he will come.
I push him back onto the bed and run my fingers down his chest as I straddle him, his cock between my legs. I slide against him, wetting him with my juices. He kneads my breasts, and I lift my head back, loving the gentle caresses and firm pressure from his long, strong fingers. I shift my hips over his tip, then shift again, stretching around him, taking all of him.
We both moan as we join, eyes locked on each other. Holy fuck, the sensations rip through my body, forcing me to still. He lifts me up, then drives into me. I lean forward and angle myself so I can ride him hard. And I do. As I rock back and forth, the pressure works my clit, and I’m on the verge of oblivion when he flips me over and he’s on his knees, ramming into me.
My toes curl as I scream out, “Yes, yes. Mase, right. There. Harder. Mase. Mase.” I sputter out fractions of words and complete nonsense as my muscles contract and golden flecks scatter behind my closed eyelids. He tenses and grunts as he releases deep inside me, his contractions coaxing and mingling with mine. He collapses onto me, and I circle my arms around his sweaty back, out of breath.
“Holy shit. That was...”
“Amazing,” he grunts.
“Unbelievable,” I gasp. As my breathing slows and my brain function resumes, I place light kisses on the base of his neck, tasting his sweat. “Needed. Oh, so needed. How have I gone so long without sex?”
He grimaces slightly as he pulls out and rolls off me. He places a kiss on my neck, then nipple, pulls the condom off, checks it, knots it, and tosses it into a garbage can on the floor next to a tall wooden dresser. He pulls me against his chest, and I drape one of my legs over his, my heart still slowing to a resting beat.
He squeezes me. “If I never have sex again, I swear, as long as I can remember you, tits bouncing as you ride me, holy shit. And your noises. That memory. It’s all I need for the rest of my life.” He shifts to give me a long, slow, deep kiss. “You’re staying here tonight, right?”
I smile a lazy, happy smile. “Yeah, I’m staying here.” I settle myself onto his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart and loving the way our naked bodies fit. I could easily fall asleep, content and peaceful, but I force myself out of the bed and to the restroom before sleep claims me. I stumble over to the door across the room and open it to find a closet filled to the brim with clothes. I circle around the room as I ask, “Bathroom?”
“Down the hall. Near the door where you came in.” Naked, I tiptoe through the apartment in the dark, the only light from the glow of outdoor streetlamps. What a strange apartment layout. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a bedroom where the bathroom wasn’t attached or at least across the hall. I’d hate this. Next time, he’ll need to stay at my place.
When I return to the bedroom and crawl under the covers, he kisses me quickly then jumps out of bed to pad through the apartment to the bathroom. When he returns, he slides beneath the comforter and pulls me close. His fingers trace my side, skirting the curves of my breast, the rough pads of his fingertips caressing my skin. My fingers play with his dark, curly chest hair, until I relax and rest my head against his shoulder as we hold each other. I slip into sleep while trying to come up with something to say.