The Hookup Experiment is coming October 11.
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The Hookup Experiment
CHAPTER ONE
Posted by Hearts and Thorns
Thursday June 16, 9 P.M.
I’m horny.
There’s really no other way to say it.
Sure, there are other terms (I’m fond of randy), but they all make the same point: I desire sexual satisfaction.
My hand isn’t enough. My vibrator isn’t enough. My fantasies of Chris Evans—
Not enough.
I know. It’s beyond strange, diving into my carnal needs here. This is usually a space for messy things. But this is messy.
Sex without love?
That’s a first for me.
And this is all medication induced.
My new prescription didn’t just lift my depression. It left me craving contact too.
I feel my body again.
I feel awake again.
I want again.
Not love or affection.
Sex.
And I know exactly where I can find it.
Okay, I don’t know exactly where to find satisfaction. That’s a slight exaggeration. Otherwise, my online-journal entry is accurate.
It’s a strange hobby, offering my secrets to strangers, but I’m completely addicted to the feeling of throwing my thoughts into the universe. It helps me let my guard down, find clarity, and keep a sense of humor.
Yes, I’m a mess, but I’m here. I’m alive. I’m ready to booty call an available man.
How exactly does that go?
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve craved sex this way. Since I’ve craved sex at all. My last prescription killed my O.
This one might be worse. I’m way too aware of my need for satisfaction.
My ex-boyfriend is off the table.
An App isn’t inviting.
Which leaves one excellent option: Patrick Murphy.
The very cute tattoo artist who a) put the hearts and thorns on my ribs, b) left his card with a casual “call me anytime” and c) put his hands on my skin in a way that felt both safe and sexy as sin.
Maybe it’s the rush of neurotransmitters from my new tattoo. It’s been eight hours and I’m still buzzing. But, for once, I don’t want to question my desires.
Patrick has already seen me topless. He knows I’m flat, and he wants to sleep with me anyway. I might as well call.
I channel my roommate’s confidence, find my cell, and get straight to the point.
Imogen: Hey, Patrick. This is Imogen. The rib tattoo.
He answers quickly.
Patrick: The gorgeous woman who insisted she didn’t need someone to hold her hand?
Imogen: I didn’t.
Patrick: I know. How’s the piece holding up?
Imogen: Beautiful. Do you want to see?
Patrick: Sure.
Imogen: Here.
No. This is too coy. Men don’t understand hints. I need to be more explicit.
Imogen: I need a little help with after-care. In person.
Patrick: Oh?
Imogen: If you’re free.
Patrick: Now?
Imogen: Now.
Patrick: You’re direct.
Imogen: Why mince words?
Patrick: It’s easier, for some people.
Imogen: For you?
Patrick: Not exactly. You said you go to UCLA, right?
Imogen: I live in Brentwood.
I send the cross-streets.
Patrick: Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes to prepare for my first tryst in over a year.
No problem.
Major problems.
What the hell do I wear to host a booty call? My pajamas aren’t sexy. I don’t own any worthy lingerie. Maybe a trench coach, with nothing under it?
But where would I get a trench coat? This is Southern California. The only people who wear trench coats here play detectives on TV.
No. This isn’t for him. It’s for me. What makes me feel sexy?
Dark lipstick. Winged liner. Black panties.
There. My skin flushes as I stare at my reflection. It’s not that I get off on myself. More the thought of a near-stranger seeing me in only my underwear.
He knocks.
I grab the Fiona Apple shirt I wear to sleep and pull it over my head. I don’t feel nearly as sexy in the baggy tee, but I’m not in danger of flashing the neighbors.
The dozen footsteps to the front door feel like a million. My heart thuds against my chest. My stomach flutters. My sex clenches.
Then I open the door and I see him and lust washes my nerves away.
Patrick Murphy is standing on my doorstep in snug jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a leather jacket.
He’s even more handsome than he was this afternoon.
He’s super fucking hot.
Sandy hair, freckles, green eyes.
He’s tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not too built. Adorned in ink, but not too—
Well, how could a tattoo artist have too much ink? Really?
“Come in.” I pull the door open.
“Thanks.” He gives me a long, slow once-over, focusing on my bare legs and the hem of my t-shirt. “Nice place.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’m supposed to offer.”
“Might as well mix things up.” He smiles.
My heart thuds. He’s cute. Way too cute. Cute and sexy is a dangerous combination. A feelings-inspiring combination. And I’m not interested in feelings. Only satisfaction. “Water for me. You?”
“Where are the cups?”
“You’re going to serve me a drink in my apartment?” I ask.
“I’m a gentleman.”
“Are you?”
“Cups?” he asks.
Okay, sure, why not? I lead him to the kitchen side of the main room then I open the top drawer. (Our place is big, by Brentwood standards, but it’s not exactly huge. The kitchen and two-person dining table are on one side. The couch and TV are on the other).
He pulls two glasses from the top shelf and fills both from the tap. “Unless you prefer bottled?”
“This is perfect.”
His fingers brush mine as he hands me the glass. “I’m not a gentleman.”
“But you make sure a lady comes first?”
“You’ve heard that one?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” I ask.
“Probably.” He takes a long sip. “What do you like?”
What do I like? I don’t even know. Not anymore. “Not talking.”
“No? No dirty talk?”
My cheeks flush. “I haven’t tried it.”
He smiles. “This should be fun then.”
“Do you have condoms or should I grab mine?”
“Latex. Do you have an allergy?”
“No. Latex is good. Thanks.”
Again, he smiles.
“What?”
“This isn’t usually how this goes.”
“How does it go?” I ask.
“A lot more pretense.”
“I’m not big on pretense,” I say. “Besides. You’ve already seen me topless.”
“I barely saw anything.”
“You did too.”
“I did too.” He takes another sip and sets the glass down. “But I am a gentleman at work.”
“You don’t stare at client’s breasts?”
“Unless the piece requires it.” He crosses the space to me. “How does it feel?”
“Huh?”
“You need help with after-care?”
“Right.”
“Did you wash with soap?”
I nod.
“A&D ointment?”
“Not yet.”
“Allow me.” He pulls a small tube from his pocket, places it on the kitchen table, washes his hands in the sink, and turns to me.
His hands brush the hem of my t-shirt. His fingers skim the bare skin on my stomach.
Fuck, he’s close to where I need him. No one has been this close in a long, long time. The soft touch is enough to set me on fire.
He moves to my left side as he rolls my t-shirt up my stomach. He only lifts enough to expose the new ink, not enough to expose my breasts.
I hold the extra fabric.
He squeezes ointment on his finger and applies with a gentle touch.
It’s strange—not at all what I expect from a booty call—but it’s only sexier for its oddness. He’s tending to my body, my skin, the work he put on my skin.
We collaborated on this. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable with him. Because I shared a vague idea and he turned it into something beautiful.
I want to celebrate being alive but acknowledge how hard it is too. Is a heart covered in thorns too cliché?
Maybe it is. But he made it into something unique and beautiful.
“There.” He holds the t-shirt above my new tattoo. “Perfect. You want to see?”
“There’s a mirror in the bedroom.”
“That wasn’t a come-on,” he says.
“That either. It’s that or the bathroom.”
“Do you have a bathroom kink?”
“Not that I know about.”
He smiles that same you’re interesting and I like it smile. “Can you hold this?” He drops the fabric.
I don’t reply. I let the fabric fall and I lead him into the bedroom. My bedroom.
When was the last time I invited a man into this space? Anyone into this space? The marvel of a main room is I don’t have to share my bedroom with anyone.
The last time I slept with someone… my ex, his place. It wasn’t great. It was never great, but it wasn’t his fault. It was the combination of my meds and my inability to let go.
Patrick is a near stranger. I don’t need to worry about what he thinks of me tomorrow. I don’t need to consider our future or whether or not I love him (or if I’m even capable of the kind of love he expects).
No, this is crystal clear—sex.
Only sex.
The end.
I toss my t-shirt over my head and turn to the standing mirror. “It looks perfect.”
“It does.” He pulls a condom from his pocket and tosses it on the bed. Then he closes the distance between us. He places his body behind mine, wraps his arm around my waist. “Anything you don’t like?”
“Having to issue verbal responses.” I can’t form thoughts and stay in my body at the same time. Not usually.
He laughs. “Then show me.”
I can do that. I turn so my neck is to him.
He understands my request. He presses his lips to my neck as he pulls my body against his.
My eyes flutter closed. It’s almost too much, already. I want him too badly, already.
Is this how normal people feel? No wonder they make terrible sexual decisions all the time. This is fucking amazing.
A moan falls from my lips as he pulls me against his hard-on.
He kisses a line down my neck, brings his hands to my hips, turns me around, so we’re eye to eye.
For a split second, I look up at him. I try to find intention in his green eyes, but I only find desire.
It’s intoxicating.
I bring my lips to his.
He kisses back with the perfect mix of need and patience. He meets me halfway, soft where I need that, hard where I need that.
I fall into the back and forth, my tongue playing with his, my hands curling into his skin. I’m a horny teenager, lost in the bliss of making out, happy to kiss and touch for hours without any expectation of more.
Only I want more. I want everything.
I pull back with a sigh. He does away with his t-shirt and lowers me onto the bed.
My body responds before my brain has a chance. My brain is already slowing down, letting my thoughts dissolve. The same zen state I reach when I race.
There’s only me and my body.
Only here, there’s me and my body and his body and an intense desire to enjoy his body.
I turn onto my side and tangle my legs in his.
He toys with me as he kisses me, his palm on my breast, his thumb against my nipple.
He’s good at this. Way too good at this.
It’s intense, almost too intense, but that feels good in its own way.
Only, I have no idea how to respond. I feel too good to respond. I can’t stop to consider what he wants, how to give as much as I take. I’m too wracked with bliss.
Sensation overwhelms me as he toys with me again and again.
I surrender to the feeling for minutes. Hours maybe. I’m not sure. Finally, my anticipation slows, and I find my footing enough to push him onto his back and climb on top of him.
I kiss him here. I roll my hips against his.
“Slow down.” He lets out a low groan and digs his fingers into my thighs. “Or I’ll come too fast.”
My entire body buzzes. Yes. I want that. I want to make him come. It sounds so obvious like this, but I’ve never felt the desire before. I’ve never craved a man’s orgasm.
It was… obvious. Expected. Of course, he’d come. That’s how it always goes.
But right now?
I need it. I need it so fucking badly.
“Fuck me.” The words fall off my lips. It’s easy. Too easy, but I don’t care about that either. I only care about finding satisfaction. “Please.”
He responds by flipping me onto my back.
I do away with my panties.
He slides his hand between my legs.
I nearly come from the contact of his thumb against my clit. I have to kiss him harder. I have to dig my hands into his hair.
Even then, it’s not enough. Every brush of his thumb winds me tighter. Tighter. So tight I can barely take it.
Then I’m there, groaning against his lips as I come, pleasure rocking through my pelvis, spilling all the way to my fingers and toes.
It’s almost too much to take.
He rubs me through my orgasm, then he slips two fingers inside me. He warms me up, slowly at first, then faster.
“You’re wet.” He groans into my neck.
I nod. Then I let my head fall back. This is good. Too good.
He stretches me again. Again.
And, again, I’m too overwhelmed to respond.
Again.
I reach for his button. His zipper.
I rub him over the fabric of his boxers.
“Fuck.” He groans into my neck as he reaches for the condom. Then it’s his jeans, his boxers.
And he’s there, naked in my bed.
We’re naked in my bed.
He rolls the rubber over his cock; he spreads my legs’ he brings our bodies together.
He fills me with one slow, steady stroke.
I’m ready. I take him with ease, even as he stretches me wider, drives deeper.
I wrap my legs around his hips, and I kiss him hard.
We stay locked like that, moving together, bodies a tangled mess as he pumps into me again and again.
I don’t think. I raise my hips to meet him; I kiss him hard; I rake my nails over his back.
Every thrust winds me tighter and tighter, but it’s not enough. The angle isn’t there.
Then I shift my hips and it is.
An internal clitoral orgasm.
Fuck. I know too much. But I don’t care about that either. Only about finding another round of satisfaction.
I dig my nails into his back and I raise my hips to meet him. Again and again, the two of us winding me tighter and tighter.
Then I’m there, my sex pulsing around him, pulling him closer.
He keeps that perfect speed until I release his back, then he moves a little faster, a little harder, the rhythm he needs.
There’s something sexy about knowing he’s close, feeling the change in his breath, the shudder of his thighs.
Then he’s there, groaning against my neck, pulsing inside me.
He works through his orgasm, shifts off me, takes care of the condom, dons his boxers.
“Thanks.” I don’t move. I don’t want to move. I want to lie here and absorb this.
“Thanks?” He laughs again. “You’re different.”
“What do people usually say?”
“Thanks is good.” He takes a long look at me.
“You, uh, you can stay if you want,” I say. “But I have an early class and my roomie will freak if you’re here alone, so…”
“Do you want me to stay?”
No, but—”I won’t kick you out of bed.”
“Until tomorrow?”
“Basically.”
He smiles. “Next time, we can do this when you don’t have class. Go for round two in the morning.”
Hmm. Is that why people spend the night after a booty call? “I’ve never had morning sex.”
“I’ll pop your cherry sometime.”
Sometime. In the future. He wants to do this again.
“If you want.” He pulls on his jeans and his t-shirt. “If this was a one-time-thing, I’m happy to be used.”
“Is it that untoward?”
“I like thinking of it that way. It’s sexy.” He finds his socks and shoes and sits on the bed to don them. “But I’m happy to be used again. If you’re game.”
“If I’m what?”
He smiles, proud he wore me out. “Exactly.”
He is handsome. And this was amazing. But it’s overwhelming too. And seeing him again… that sounds like a relationship. The start of a relationship. And that’s messy. Too messy.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.
“I’m just going to sleep here.”
“In that case—” He gathers my sheets and drapes them over my body. “Good night, Imogen.” Patrick leans down and presses his lips to mine. “Call me if you want to go again.”
“Just sex?”
“Just sex.” He says it casually, as if he’s said it a million times before.
Maybe it’s casual for him.
But for me?
A second session of just sex? A third? An entire no-strings-attached arrangement?
Is that actually possible?