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I found Mango when he was a kitten, yowling his wet orange head off from under the boxwoods outside my mom’s house, in the rain. I was twelve. Mango, bless his malevolent heart, lived to be twenty-one, and I still miss his stupid grouchy ass.
I wonder what it would be like to have a woman here in my bed with me. I think about women in general. Their pretty hair. Their soft lips, elegant hands, beautiful shoulders. Their tits. Thighs. Ass. Pussy.
None of which I’ve seen up close and personal in real life, but c’mon, there’s internet porn. I’m rock-hard in my boxers right now, and I can’t help giving my stallion a little squeeze.
Stallion. Is that stupid? Probably.
Anyway, I still want to know how to make a woman enjoy sex, and I’m pretty sure pounding away like they do in porn is not it. I do an internet search for “how to please a woman in bed” and read the articles I find intently, about teasing the clitoris and nibbling on her neck and telling her how much she excites you and going slow and focusing on pleasure in general rather than going straight for my own orgasm.
I fantasize. I still can’t see the face of the woman in my mind, but I learn her body. In my head, I tease her nipples, kiss all over her body, caress her girl parts until she moans, and lick her until she’s awash in pleasure, and about then I explode on my stomach, my legs shaky and my breath rasping in my throat.
This woman who will be mine? I need her. She has to exist. I just have to find her.
Again, I’m feeling dumb. But I’ve been too down on myself to keep asking girls out when they kept turning me down. That was then.
This is now.
Brand new Alaric.
And someday, I just know it, my princess will come. (And then I’ll make her come, too.)
The next morning I’m up with the sun. After breakfast, I pour a second cup of coffee into my travel mug, put on my blazer, and head out the door. I’m over an hour early, but I can use the extra time to figure out the layout of Rivertown’s central business district.
My next-door neighbor has just pushed the elevator button. I usually take the stairs, but New Alaric decides to try to make friends.
Not sure how that will happen in one floor, but hey. Gotta start somewhere.
“Morning,” I say, joining my neighbor.
“Morning,” he says back. “You just moved in?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to firehose him with info about me. “I’m Alaric Ambrose.”
“Joel Mann,” he says, and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I’m about to respond when the elevator dings and the door opens. The car is packed, mostly with women in suits and skirts and heels. I follow Joel into the elevator and turn to face the door, wondering in the back of my mind if any of these ladies might be The One.
When the elevator stops on the first floor, I step to the side to let the women out first.
Mistake. I wind up stepping on the foot of the woman I hadn’t realized was behind me. I’m still staring awkwardly at her feet in those nurse clog things and trying to get out of the way when I realize I’m just making things worse. “Sorry,” I say, and gesture for her to go ahead. “Really sor—”
And then I make things even worse, because my you-go-first gesture has slopped hot coffee over her medical scrubs. She gasps in surprise and pain.
“Well, shit,” I say, “I’m really, really sorry.” And then I get a good look at her face.
And then my jaw drops, because she’s fucking beautiful.
Dark hair pulled back from her angular face. Almond-shaped eyes with a mix of warm brown and olive green. Full lips I’d love to kiss.
