overlook from my silent perch. You’d think if I can network with non-profit CEO’s and donor corporations, draft five-hundred-page grant applications for multi-million-dollar projects and programs, administer awards with more regulations than the U.S. tax code, I could ask a guy out. And you’d be wrong.
So, every now and then, I surrender to pressure from my friends to attend one of Donna’s penthouse soirées or Genevieve’s night club VIP parties in the hope that someone will make the move I can’t. On the off chance that piercing eyes will scan the press of my chic, charming friends and, for once, not skip over me.
There was a time when I might have been happy with a movie date and a call the next day. Now I fantasize about instant attraction and being pushed hard against the wall for a sudden, breathless kiss. About carnal stares that burn through me. Dirty words rasped into my ear while I’m being pounded from behind. Driving a man to such extremes of desire that he can’t help taking what he wants. I am a cautionary tale about the dangers of going celibate too long, when it’s not by choice.
It’s a warm evening, so I’m not surprised to find most of Donna’s party arrayed along her deck and swimming pool. A breeze and soft, playful music swirl through the loose clusters of chattering, laughing friends. I stick close to the westward glass wall of the apartment, partly because the view from one of the most sought-after penthouses in the city gives me unbearable vertigo, but also because lurking along the near side of the pool gives me an amazing view of Kai Van Zant.
My breath hitches in the back of my throat as soon as I see him. I hadn’t realized Kai was back in town.
There are more than a few handsome bachelors in my crowd, but whenever I break down and come to one of these parties, Kai is one of the men I always fantasize about for weeks afterward. Or at least that was the case before his job assigned him to an important overseas account and moved him to Zurich last January. I hope his appearance here tonight means they’ve transferred him back.
He’s a relative newcomer, having grown up in Europe rather than here in the city with the rest of us. I think he has only been a fixture at these parties for maybe three or four years. A project manager with an environmental firm, he works with one of my oldest childhood friends, and it’s clear from the lightly bronzed skin—just dark enough for that Greek god glow without looking too harsh on a golden blond—that he spends a lot of time outdoors. From the bulging muscles, especially along his arms and chest, it’s obvious he invests a fair portion of that time in rock-climbing and kayaking and otherwise training for Sex Fantasy of the Year.
Like most gorgeous men, and most Europeans, Kai has no problem stripping down to next to nothing for a swim. It’s hard to tell as he’s standing in the shallow end chatting with Amy, a flirty brunette crouched beside the pool, if he is wearing snug black swim trunks or just decided to dive into the pool in his briefs. He is probably the only man I can think of who could pull off wearing one of those tiny Speedos, but it wouldn’t be as sexy. God, the man’s got an ass, round and high and firm-looking.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Kai with his shirt off. I wasn’t expecting the tattoos he has along his shoulders and upper back—tribal, primal, thick lines in seductive swirls and sudden hard angles. They hint that the polished intellectual might have a darker, wilder side. The urge to trace those inky trails with my tongue is like a taste in my mouth. Salty, smoky, musky. I catch myself chewing on the straw in my overly strong mojito while my thoughts gnaw on something else entirely.
What if I actually tried to get Kai’s attention tonight? It’s not like we’ve never spoken. He’s got a deep, honeyed voice with just the barest trace of an accent—something kind of Germanic, kind of
So, every now and then, I surrender to pressure from my friends to attend one of Donna’s penthouse soirées or Genevieve’s night club VIP parties in the hope that someone will make the move I can’t. On the off chance that piercing eyes will scan the press of my chic, charming friends and, for once, not skip over me.
There was a time when I might have been happy with a movie date and a call the next day. Now I fantasize about instant attraction and being pushed hard against the wall for a sudden, breathless kiss. About carnal stares that burn through me. Dirty words rasped into my ear while I’m being pounded from behind. Driving a man to such extremes of desire that he can’t help taking what he wants. I am a cautionary tale about the dangers of going celibate too long, when it’s not by choice.
It’s a warm evening, so I’m not surprised to find most of Donna’s party arrayed along her deck and swimming pool. A breeze and soft, playful music swirl through the loose clusters of chattering, laughing friends. I stick close to the westward glass wall of the apartment, partly because the view from one of the most sought-after penthouses in the city gives me unbearable vertigo, but also because lurking along the near side of the pool gives me an amazing view of Kai Van Zant.
My breath hitches in the back of my throat as soon as I see him. I hadn’t realized Kai was back in town.
There are more than a few handsome bachelors in my crowd, but whenever I break down and come to one of these parties, Kai is one of the men I always fantasize about for weeks afterward. Or at least that was the case before his job assigned him to an important overseas account and moved him to Zurich last January. I hope his appearance here tonight means they’ve transferred him back.
He’s a relative newcomer, having grown up in Europe rather than here in the city with the rest of us. I think he has only been a fixture at these parties for maybe three or four years. A project manager with an environmental firm, he works with one of my oldest childhood friends, and it’s clear from the lightly bronzed skin—just dark enough for that Greek god glow without looking too harsh on a golden blond—that he spends a lot of time outdoors. From the bulging muscles, especially along his arms and chest, it’s obvious he invests a fair portion of that time in rock-climbing and kayaking and otherwise training for Sex Fantasy of the Year.
Like most gorgeous men, and most Europeans, Kai has no problem stripping down to next to nothing for a swim. It’s hard to tell as he’s standing in the shallow end chatting with Amy, a flirty brunette crouched beside the pool, if he is wearing snug black swim trunks or just decided to dive into the pool in his briefs. He is probably the only man I can think of who could pull off wearing one of those tiny Speedos, but it wouldn’t be as sexy. God, the man’s got an ass, round and high and firm-looking.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Kai with his shirt off. I wasn’t expecting the tattoos he has along his shoulders and upper back—tribal, primal, thick lines in seductive swirls and sudden hard angles. They hint that the polished intellectual might have a darker, wilder side. The urge to trace those inky trails with my tongue is like a taste in my mouth. Salty, smoky, musky. I catch myself chewing on the straw in my overly strong mojito while my thoughts gnaw on something else entirely.
What if I actually tried to get Kai’s attention tonight? It’s not like we’ve never spoken. He’s got a deep, honeyed voice with just the barest trace of an accent—something kind of Germanic, kind of
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