All the Frogs in Manhattan Read online

  Except, when I walk into the room and all heads turn toward me, I'm even more confused than I was upstairs.

  "Here she is." Dean smiles warmly at me, and I force a jovial expression onto my face even though I'm panicking.

  Because the two older people standing across the kitchen island don't look like friends. They are the perfect mixture of Dean, and I immediately know these must be parents.

  What in the ever loving hell?

  "Mom, Dad … I'd like you to meet Gemma." Dean puts his hand on my lower back and nudges me forward.

  Oh my God. I stick out my hand, forcing myself to remain calm. "Hi, it's … nice to meet you."

  His mom, a blonde with Cartier dripping from each wrist and earlobe, extends a hand. "It's so nice to meet you, honey. We were thrilled when Dean told us he'd be bringing you out to the house!"

  Before I can answer, his dad, a carbon copy of his son, rounds on me. "Our son doesn't bring many girls home, and so I knew you had to be special. Treat our home like your own while you're here."

  I turn to Dean, alarm bells going off in my head. "This is your family home?" I try not to phrase the question in an insulting way.

  They all laugh, and my spine goes icy. These people are straight out of Stepford. "Of course it is," Dean says, kind of hugging me as if I'm so adorable. “My mom and dad own the house, but I’m down here almost every weekend. They just can’t get enough of me during the week, so they came down to meet you and party with us tonight.”

  “During the week?” My brain isn’t even computing the madness happening in the middle of this Hamptons kitchen right now.

  “Yeah, I live with my parents on the Upper East Side. Come on, Gem, you can’t think I can afford a place up there by myself.”

  They all laugh amicably again and I feel like vomiting in my mouth. I didn’t even realize that Dean was one of those guys who has never left the nest. Maybe my radar was off, but then again it had been so off lately I should probably bench myself from the dating game for like a year.

  “I’m so excited for The White Party tonight, love your outfit by the way! So darling, let’s make our men some drinks and chat. I can’t wait to get to know you!” His mother, Ginny she tells me her name is, links her arm through mine and drags me to a bar cart in the dining room.

  I’m almost too stunned to feel anything close to anger or annoyance. The way I thought this weekend would go has completely derailed, and I’m stuck here with two parents who are clearly trying to marry their son off to the first pretty, subservient girl he finds. Dean is a complete conman. He misled me about the house, misled me in our conversations, and absolutely misled me on our first date. Here I thought he was some self-made, responsible, attractive grown up.

  When really all he is is the dude who still lives in his parent’s basement. If you can call a gorgeous Manhattan apartment and luxurious Hamptons house a basement.

  My body somehow goes through the motions as I have drinks with the parents of a man I’ve only been on one and a half dates with. At least I think it does, because my brain is totally tuned into its own escape plan. Do I really have to go to the party with these people? Did Ginny really just dab a napkin on her tongue and rub a smudge off of Dean’s cheek?

  Christ, there was no way I could sleep here tonight.

  Before I know it, I’m being helped out of the car by a valet at an even bigger house. I hear the beat of music coming from the backyard, and instead of a red carpet leading up the front stairs, it’s obviously white. A waiter stands near the door and hands the four of us some frothy white drink, and I down it without even asking what’s in it. Alcohol is going to be the only way I’m surviving this wacky night.

  “So dear, do you like this diamond? Because you know, I have one that looks just like it I can have made into an engagement ring.” Ginny giggles at me.

  Oh fucking lord.

  I grab another drink before entering the house. What I wouldn’t pay for any kind of red liquid to throw on myself. Could I fake my own murder, or use my go-to period excuse, to get the hell away from these people?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Oliver

  "This isn't even far enough away. I need at least two countries and a freighter."

  The sand sloshes beneath our feet, the ground cool and the ocean tamer under the starry night sky.

  Gemma walks beside me, her fire engine red shoes in one hand. The beach stretches out in front of us, filtered laughter and music from various parties at the houses along the shoreline landing on our ears.

  "How did you even hitch yourself to Dean?" I knew the guy from some similar circles, and even as a man I knew to stay away. Something about that smile put off a creepy mommy's boy vibe.

  Gemma shudders, her tan shoulders rising and the moon highlighting the light red in her hair. "God, please don't say hitch. It's just too soon. I thought this weekend was going to be great. Just me and a guy alone in a Hamptons house, the beach, bubble baths, breakfast. I was holding out hope for the dream."

  I had to hand it to her, she was tenacious. And I liked hard workers. "Well, you still have me. I'm a guy, with a Hamptons house."

  At this point, I don't even care what message I'm sending. I just had a shit night, made even worse by a woman who drunkenly groped me instead of helping me land a deal. And she was almost abducted by a family of genetically perfect aliens.

  I want to bang her brains out and then maybe have a slice of midnight pizza. It's Gemma, she won't get the wrong idea. Right?

  "Fine. I guess you'll do. As long as I can take a bubble bath." Gemma tilts her head at me, and in this scenery, she looks like some kind of sea goddess in that white scrap of material she's wearing.

  My cock was already pulsing, and I realize that in the last week and a half, I've almost ... missed her camaraderie. I don't deal with many people during my average day who feel comfortable enough to talk back to me. I also never find a woman mature enough to handle what Gemma and I are doing.

  I guide her up the steps off the beach and to my house, her small fingers lacing through mine as I walk her through the dark. We don't speak, just listen to the waves as I press my finger into the touch key pad to enter the house.

  "I mean, come on, Anders. Could you brag more? Next you're going to tell me you have a house in Italy or Greece or some shit."

  We enter the house and I start flicking on lights. "The Canary Islands, but close."

  A heavy sigh comes from behind me as I walk to the wine fridge in the big white kitchen of my house. "Then what are we still doing here? Let's go. You have to have a private plane somewhere."

  Gemma is swinging her head around, looking at everything in the black and white design of my Montauk home. I don't come here often, it's usually rented out, but I do love the modern beach house design and it's very peaceful.

  "So now I get why you're fucking me. The money. I knew I'd figure it out sooner or later."

  "Of course I am. What else are you good for?" Gemma deadpans.

  Drawing my attention away from the bottle of rosé I was attempting to uncork for a nightcap, I launch myself at her, needing to shut that smart little mouth up.

  I back her up to into the kitchen island, the butcher block counter stopping our momentum and making it possible for me to move her body exactly how I want it. I taste the smile on her lips before my head descends to capture them, our mouths sealing on a relieved sigh. I haven’t tasted her, haven’t locked my tongue with hers in a while and it feels …

  Fucking amazing. Gemma’s hands move down my back and under my shirt, her fingernails scraping lightly on my skin. I want to touch her everywhere, to watch her unravel beneath me, but I can’t seem to move my palms from her jaw and neck. I feast on her mouth like a starved man, my fingers sparking along the smooth skin of her face.

  Just making out with her is making my cock harder than a lead pipe, and in the back of mind I realize this is the longest we’ve just kissed. Each time before, we haven’t wasted much time on
foreplay or formalities. Just raw, real fucking. Mutual release of orgasms.

  Tonight though, tonight feels different altogether. And even though I told her it shouldn’t, even though I am her stand-in romantic weekend guy … it feels like the real thing.

  My heart and head should be in complete panic mode; I actually like the girl I’m about to have sex with. I respect and care about her. It’s fucked up that that sentence should be a warning, but I’m a guy and we are fucking stupid when it comes to relationships. I don’t even want a relationship. I don’t even know what my twelve-year-old brain is trying to compute right now, so I’m going to go ahead and shut it up and give Gemma some orgasms.

  “That was … unexpected. But nice.” Gemma breaks off our make out session, and her eyes are drowsy with foreplay and champagne.

  But behind them I see that hope. She might not even know she has it, buried deep down there for me. Right now, I’m too turned on and too desperate to get away from the shit-show that was The White Party to lecture her on what we are and send her to her own room. That may make me an asshole, but tonight, I don’t care.

  “Maybe the Hamptons could be like Vegas. What happens here, stays here?” Am I saying it more for myself, or for her?

  Gemma nods slowly, her hands going to my belt. “Sure it can.”

  Things happen quickly from there. We claw at each other’s clothes, white material falling to the kitchen floor, moans and gasps coming closer and closer together. I work Gemma standing up, my fingers rutting up into her as my other hand kneads each nipple tautly. Her hands fumble on my dick and balls, pulling and stroking at them. I know she’s close when she can’t continue to grip me anymore, and even though my hand is fucking cramping, I fuck her with my fingers until she’s practically bending backwards on the butcher’s block, coming gloriously.

  Unlike the other times we have slept together, I only say one thing to her before, during and after.

  “I just made you come like Moses parting the Red Sea. Now I’m going to lift you up onto this counter and fuck you until you can’t remember your name. No faking it, Gemma. Between you and I, everything is real. You understand?”

  My cock trembles as I roll on the condom, waiting for her to nod her head. And when she finally does, I drive all the way home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gemma

  Do you know what looks better than a counter littered with full-to-the-brim Chinese food takeout boxes?

  A naked man sitting on the counter littered with full-to-the-brim Chinese food takeout boxes.

  “The shrimp lo mein is definitely the best one.” I shove a chopstick full of noodles in my face, my naked ass cold against the marble of the counter.

  “No! The pork skewers are incredible. Even in the city, you can’t get Chinese like this.” Oliver ripped off a piece of meat with his teeth, and I imagined all of the things that mouth could do to me.

  Oliver is right, of course. It was some of the best Asian cuisine I’d ever tasted. I guess when you were rich, random people would deliver food to your secluded Montauk house at two in the morning.

  “You’re an anomaly.” I look up to two piercing blue eyes staring at me, greasy fingers holding an empty skewer.

  “You use big words.” I ignore him, completely in my post-orgasm bliss bubble and fueling it with sweet and sour chicken.

  “No, hear me out. I like numbers and science. So most of the girls I … see, they would never sit butt naked with me after sex eating Chinese food. Hell, they would never actually eat Chinese food. And they would always need to cover themselves up with a sheet or my shirt or some stupid excuse not to show off their sexy, amazing bodies.”

  I frown. “Okay, rule number one, don’t mention other ladies bodies in front of the naked girl who is sitting just feet from you.”

  He bows his head and feeds me a shrimp off of his chopsticks. “Point taken, I am sorry. But you get what I’m saying. What’s with that? And why don’t you feel the need to do any of it? You’re an anomaly.”

  I turn to face him straight on, laughing a bit when I see his shriveled dick. It looks so much different when it’s hard and pummeling into me. “I’m only an anomaly with you.”

  We both freeze, realizing what I just said. A moment of awkwardness fills the air, and I try to glaze over the feeling that I really did mean to say that. And really am able to feel the most comfortable I’ve ever been with a guy … with him.

  I start rambling, trying to make sense of his little theory and move us away from the tension floating over the Chinese food. “I meant to say that … there is no pressure with you, because I know what’s happening. I don’t need to play coy or pretend I don’t eat junk food to make you think I’m some healthy stick figure who goes to the gym two hours a day and then eats five almonds and I’m full. Women who are trying to impress a man, to make him something more than just a date or a fuck buddy, don’t want to give it all away. We want to remain enticing and secretive until we have you hook, line and sinker. I would never do this with a guy I was serious about.”

  There is an unreadable expression on Oliver’s face, and his mocha curls jut out all over his head from where I’d been grabbing onto them.

  “Why do you keep trying? Even after all of these horrible dates and shitty guys?”

  He’s scooted himself across the counter, his toned, tan body catching my eye. I could go another round after this food session refuel. He’d actually made me come, twice … a feat no other man had ever even come close to. With Oliver, I could speak my mind, tell him what I needed or wanted and instead of being offended by my direction, he got more turned on by my honesty. If anyone was an anomaly, it was him.

  I shrug. “I’m a romantic, I believe in love. I think that there is one perfect person out there for everyone, and I’m just trying to find mine.”

  I can’t look at him after I say it, because I don’t want to see his judgment. It’s quiet for a second, nothing but the sound of the waves lapping the shore just yards from where we sit.

  “It’s getting late, we should get to bed.” Oliver starts to box up the contents of our pig out.

  Yawning, I nod. “I have nothing to sleep in. Shit! All of my stuff is at the creepy house. What am I going to do?”

  Admiring his fine, fine backside, the man had an ass you could bounce quarters off of, I hopped off the counter as Oliver put the food away. “I’ll drive you over tomorrow morning and we will get all of your stuff. They have a couple of screws loose; they’re not serial killers.”

  “Or so you think …” I mutter under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

  We put the food away together, and I’m not sure what to do next. Do I ask for a shirt to sleep in, do I get my own bedroom? This place has to have more than one bedroom, I mean the guy owns a freaking empire for God’s sake.

  “Do you want to, I mean … you could sleep in my bed. If you want …” Oliver turns to me before we climb the stairs.

  For a man who is so in charge when it comes to the bedroom, he sure is awkward when it comes to anything beyond lustful intimacy.

  “I don’t mind, that works for me.” And it does. Because it would be weird if I slept in another room. Right?

  Oliver doesn’t take my hand, just walks a little bit in front of me up the stairs and then turns right down the hallway. Even up here, every wall is basically a window, with amazing views of the beach and ocean. He turns into a doorway with double doors that stand open. Entering behind him, I can make out the room in the dark. Done in all whites, it’s simple but elegant with a beach chic flare. That’s how the whole house is, and it’s beautiful … but also has a homeyness to it that Dean’s house didn’t have.

  Without words, Oliver turns a beside lamp on and then moves to the dresser, pulling out two pairs of boxers and a T-shirt. He hands me the shirt and a pair of his underwear, which I pull on gratefully. I usually sleep naked, but right now doesn’t feel like the time to divulge that. Right now, it doesn’t feel like
the time to do much talking.

  We slip under the white sheets and duvet, him on the left side and me on the right. Oliver turns out the lamp and rolls over on his side, facing away from me.

  “Good night, Gemma.”

  I turn so that my back is facing him. “Good night.”

  The tension settles over us, and for the next half hour, I can tell that he’s not sleeping either. It’s awkward but I can’t address it, don’t want to add to the weirdness.

  It’s the first time we’ve actually slept together. And it’s the most formal, least warm interaction we’ve had to date.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gemma

  "So what're you up to this weekend?"

  RIP.

  I suck in a breath and try not to scream or puke my guts out.

  "Um, probably hitting up that new club on seventy-second.” My voice is wobbly.

  RIP.

  Jesus fuck! It burns, which is only quadrupled when Rosie pours another strip of boiling hot wax on my snatch.

  "Did you want me to pluck the tiny hairs?"

  Did I want her to a take a tweezer to my pelvis and stab me while she pulled pubic hair from my body? Absolutely not. But I'd put it up with it.

  "Yes, please." At least she was done with the worst parts. Whenever she did the inside of the lips, it felt like someone was ripping pieces of flesh from my body.

  Which technically, I guess it was. I got a Brazilian every four weeks, and the torture chamber I laid on a table in was both heaven and hell. I sweated bullets each time I walked back here, but loved the soft, smooth results.

  "You're all done. Did you want the in-grown hair serum?"

  "You know it." It's the reason I started getting waxed in the first place. One in-grown hair from shaving and I was running for the freaking wax center. That fucker had hurt, and I'd had to sit on a blow up donut for a week.