Page 43 of Omega Artist
She engulfs me in the sweetest hug, and as I lean into her comforting embrace, the moment is interrupted by the phone buzzing in the back pocket of my dark denim. That’ll probably be the most sensation I’ll experience this week, considering that I seem to be in a slump, woman-wise. Maybe I should pace myself instead of piling up women like I have boxes.
“Check that out,” Soraya presses, releasing my large frame from her curvy one. My quizzical eyes bore into hers. “I felt your heart speed up.”
“That can’t be true,” I counter in a defensive tone. “My heart died when—”
“Enough, Tig de Luca! Keep telling yourself that, and I’ll leave you to your damn boxes… alone!” She scratches her head and shoots me a mean glare. “I get it, moving on is heartbreaking, but you owe it to Delia. She’d want you to be happy, to live. Now, stop resisting, for Christ’s sake! This place,” she makes a big production with her arms, “this is your second chance. Don’t waste it.” Her hand slaps my butt. “I’ll make some lunch and give you some privacy.”
With Soraya’s back to me, I retrieve the phone from my jeans. My dead heart is even more stupid than I initially thought it was, racing when I see a certain French girl’s name. At last. I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding for a while. Relief floods my body, and my stiff shoulders relax.
Alie G: There’s a Turner exhibition at the Met. His work made me think of you. Wanna go later today?
I close my eyes for a second to gather my thoughts and welcome the delicious smell of grilled chicken, if I’m not mistaken.
“Whole wheat bread and avocado okay? Maybe a salad on the side?”
Ohhh, she’s making one of my favorite sandwiches!
“Sure!” My mouth begins to water as a big smile forms on my face; this woman knows me all too well.
Rereading Alie’s not so indecent proposal, I stroll in the direction of my soon-to-be fully equipped kitchen. My French admirer’s offer—the one where she said that she could have given me a hand in the restaurant’s bathroom—was much more adventurous. Besides, those were words. I have yet to witness her act on them.
Must be the reason for my agitated nights—I keep fantasizing about the girl with an angelic face, a wet dream body, and a sexy-as-fuck voice. Must be the reason for my four dull days—my mind was otherwise occupied while running all over the place with last-minute errands for my new digs. Must be the reason for my three hookups—after a late dinner with my crew, I find myself a hookup to shake off my lingering feelings for Alie. And I did. Only I failed miserably, especially last night. The sexed-up woman was conked out next to me on her bed, and I was ready to gather my things and head out as soon as I heard her snoring lightly. The woman’s handle isDearAbbyand I kept calling her Alie. The former, I ran away from after an emotionless encounter that troubled me. The latter, I keep coming back to.
Our communication style is odd; Alie continues to comment on my posts like she did before we met, and I make a point to reply. I texted her earlier this week because I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to let her know that I had a good time. It’s so uncharacteristic of me to text after I take someone to dinner, but then again, nothing about her is ordinary. My dick gets the message and twitches in approval.
Don’t get too excited, buddy. For now, I can’t figure out what she wants. Online connection is incredible. Real life needs adjustments… just like I do.
Perched on one of the tall barstools a few feet away, I watch my friend swivel from the counter to set two impressive plates on the marble island.
“You know it’s written all over your face, right?”
“Mmm?” My mouth is full. My jaw is in motion. My bewilderment is complete.
“It’s the woman from New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?” My jaw drops in a cartoon fashion. “Gross!”
I rapidly chew and apologize yet again, scolding myself. Alie finally replied to my text!
The silence is heavy, but I’m too hungry to have this conversation this second, so I munch my lunch in silence. Once I’ve finished, I confess that she’s right. I admit that Alie flew here from Paris. I admit that our dinner was nice but awkward. I admit that I’m conflicted. From my excitement at her proximity. From the distance instilled since her arrival. From the unmistakable yearning that her text stirred in my dead heart.
“Go, silly. I’ll take care of unboxing the rest of your stuff. You’ve been nothing but a burden since we started this morning. It’ll go much faster without you around.”
There’s another round of hugs, then I thank her.
For everything.
* * *
We’retwo stops from 190thStreet when the A train’s driver abruptly hits the brakes in the middle of a smelly tunnel. Why are some of the windows open in the middle of winter? Why do people pee in subway tunnels? Why is this happening now that we’ve almost reached our destination?
From both the shock and the suddenness, Alie’s hand slips from the steel subway bar, and she’s propelled forward.
Her delectable body slams into my chest, pounding her rack against my upper body and rendering my clothes a useless barrier to my escalating horniness. It’s as brutal as it is appreciated, no matter the surroundings.
People complain; I don’t, fighting the urge to laugh at this twist of fate. Swiftly, I open one arm to hold her flush. She looks up at me. If I’m not mistaken, I see astonishment, followed by relief, until a mischievous glimmer flashes through her expressive eyes. A rush of heat instantly raises my body temperature. As much as I should unzip my jacket, I barely allow myself to move, apart from widening my stance for better balance.
Nah, let’s be honest, I’m an asshole who wants her snuggled between my legs.
Getting antsy, I tap my left foot on the floor and manage to do a decent job of blocking most of the dirty thoughts that our tight embrace ignites in me; she didn’t even put up a fight.
