All the Frogs in Manhattan Page 9

  “Hello?” Her voice sounds tired, but still has that sweet, nasally lilt that I like. She has a slight accent, I never noticed it until now, and she accentuates her A’s and O’s like a true Jersey girl.

  “Hey, Gemma.” I settle back into my pillows, feeling instantly relieved just at having her on the phone.

  My hand goes back on my balls, but I don’t move it.

  “How unexpected, Mr. Anders. What, you think just because you’re on West Coast time you can call a girl at one in the morning?”

  Shit, I’d forgotten it was so late there. And on a Tuesday. Gemma wouldn’t have been out, maybe. But it definitely didn’t sound like it now.

  “Sorry if I woke you. You can go back to bed.” I didn’t really want her to. I wanted to proposition her.

  Rustling and yawning sounds came from the other end of the line. “Nah, that’s okay. I was working … it’s been a busy week and it’s not even Hump Day yet. What’s up? How’s Cali? Hey, is IN-N-OUT just as good as Shake Shack?”

  I laugh, her questions always making me smile. “You have no clue. I’ll bring you a burger home. You’ll never eat at the crappy shack again. Why is work busy?”

  If I’m not mistaken, I hear the creak of bedsprings as Gemma lays down. Or at least I imagine her laying down on her bed. In nothing but an old T-shirt and underwear that is riding up her ass cheeks. And maybe some knee high socks. The schoolgirl fantasy I’m having has my balls tingling and the head of my cock pulsing to life.

  “We have this mid-summer beauty awards article that we do. Fifty pages of nothing but the best product in each category. It’s so time-consuming that we have brackets, March Madness style. Everyone takes home fifteen products a night, tries them, writes up a summary, and decides which out of those are their top three favs. And then we do it all again the next day. There are so many products, I can’t even keep track of what I’m schlepping on my face or combing through my hair.”

  She sounds tired, and a foreign feeling invades my body. I wish I could be lying next to her, smelling her scent and touching her skin. I arch my back, the feeling of need coursing so strongly down my spine. It’s then that I realize … I miss her.

  No, I can’t miss her. We barely speak during the weeks, and only when we see each other, or she comes over do we really talk. Or not talk.

  But … Gemma has been the one constant in my life over the past month. We might not see each other every day, but I know that she’s there. Waiting for me to ask her over, or to call and tell me to clear my schedule because she needs an orgasm. I wasn’t lying when I told the guys I thought she was fun. I wasn’t making it up when I told myself that I genuinely liked her.

  And all of this should freak me out more. But right now, I had insomnia in a city that was far too quiet and she was on the other end of the phone.

  “Sounds daunting. So hey, I can’t sleep over here and I can’t seem to figure out how to fall into la la land. So I thought I’d call you. Because … well, if I was in New York I’d ask you to come over. And because I have my hand down my pants right now, but you’re thousands of miles away.”

  A hitched, muffled breath comes through the receiver on my cell, and Gemma doesn’t say anything for a minute. At first, I think she’s going to ask what we’re doing, because this would be the point where any other woman would try to define what we are. Demand a title or an explanation for whatever this was.

  But, per usual, Gemma is one step ahead of surprising me.

  “Oliver, are you asking me for phone sex? Because if so, yes. A thousand times yes. I am in. Oh, I’ve always wanted to do this!”

  I think I actually hear her clapping her hands over there. The laugh that starts in my chest can’t be held in, and I have to chuckle at her giddiness.

  “Well gee, I never knew someone so excited for a little bit of masturbation over the phone.”

  “Do you even know me, Oliver? I’ve never had phone sex before, but have always wanted to try it. Okay, so what do I do? Do you go first, do I go first? Do I go all porn-star voice and heavy breathing to get you to jack it to me on the phone?”

  She’s hysterical. My ego puffs a little knowing this will be her first time.

  “Slow down, cowgirl. First, get comfortable and put your hands wherever you put them when you’re touching yourself. Then, tell me what you’re wearing.”

  There is some rustling before Gemma answers. “Okay, so I was going to lie and tell you I had some sexy negligee on, but like what normal woman lays around in silk teddies or garters? I’m wearing an old T-shirt and … that pair of boxers you gave me in the Hamptons. It’s not like weird or obsessive or anything, I just like them because they’re more comfortable than girl underwear.”

  My cock jumps at the image of her snaking her hand down my boxers that rest on her hips. I imagine those pouty, cotton candy pink lips forming a perfect O as she circles her clit for the first time.

  “Mmm, that’s sexy. Sexier than any silk piece of cloth. Tell me how you’re touching yourself.” I have to exhale as I pull up on my shaft, the weight of my balls making my head spin.

  “I’m using two fingers to circle around my clit, and then move down to gather my wetness and circle some more.” Gemma lets out a small moan, and my heart pounds against my chest. She sounds perfect, and I wish I was kneeling between her curvy thighs rather than stroking myself in San Francisco.

  “God, I can just imagine you. Legs spread wide, head arched back in the pillow. Hand down my pair of boxers, because you’re too dirty to take them off and rub freely. They’re constricting right now, but it feels good, right? Like I’m there with you.”

  Gemma groans, and her breathing and the way she’s softly mewling is all I need now.

  “I’ve got my hand wrapped around my dick. I’m pretending it’s your hot, sweet mouth. You suck me so good, Gemma. Those beautiful hazel eyes looking up at me while your tongue is lapping at my cock? It’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I meant to ease us into this, to foreplay and stall and drag it out. Phone sex wasn’t supposed to be a hot, clothes half-on fuck. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I could practically feel the way Gemma’s skin lit up under mine, how her pussy gripped me tighter as I rubbed her clit between us.

  “Oh my God, Oliver …”

  I loved how she said my name. Like a curse and a prayer.

  “How fast are you moving those fingers, Gemma? Rubbing yourself so good, as if you can feel my cock jamming up into you. You’re probably dripping wet, that sweet slit is probably glistening just for me.”

  I felt the ball of my release start in my neck, sliding down my spine and gripping my balls like Gemma’s small, skilled hands.

  “Come for me now, Gemma. Let me hear how fucking good you make yourself come.”

  I was right there myself, but it was her breathing and muttered curses that hurled me over the edge of the cliff. My balls drew tight and the head of my cock pulsed just once. And then wet, hot ropes of come splattered onto my hand and bare chest. I screwed my eyes shut, images of Gemma’s naked breasts bouncing as she rode me from above filling my mind. I lost my breath, dropping the phone in my lust-filled haze.

  After I was done, squeezing the last drops of come from my shaft, I paused for a minute to control myself before I picked the phone back up.

  “Hi,” I said, my lungs still aching.

  “Holy shit.” Gemma laughed.

  “Phone sex rocks.” I couldn’t think of anything wittier to say in that moment.

  Her voice sounded so good across the other end of the line, and I was alone. So even after I’d gotten off, and when Gemma would typically leave or I would grab a cab, we stayed on the phone.

  Gemma’s voice didn’t leave me until I nodded off to sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gemma

  Something was happening. Something that I couldn't explain. And I could usually explain everything in my life.

  See, outside of the whole men thing,
I was an organized control freak. Nothing happened in my life without me having a hand in it. I was the friend who made the plans, the employee in the department everyone came to when they had an issue. I was the one in the family who organized the birthday or anniversary parties. I kept on top of Sam about the dishes and laundry, or whether we were going to renew our lease. It was just how I was.

  Oliver had started, and was supposed to stay, as a friend with benefits. He wasn't my type; too smart and witty for his own good, almost cocky but not in an overly showy way. He was a brunette, when my only long-term relationships had always ever been with blonds. He most certainly didn't commit, and I hated guys with rules and games.

  But as we spent more time together, my foolish head and heart were straying further and further away from that OCD side of me. It started in the Hamptons, when the thought of him beside me in bed was oddly comforting. It continued when we got back to New York, seeing each other four times in the week and a half before he left for Silicon Valley. And we crossed the line somewhere in the hours we spent on the phone, including the mind bending phone sex. I'd had one of the sweatiest, blood-vessel popping orgasms I'd ever had in my life, and I had been freaking masturbating.

  I had a crush on my fuck buddy. He wasn't romantic or a gentleman; he was sexy in a nerdy way and had an honest, factual way of looking at the world. I had no idea if he felt the stirrings of something between us or if I was imagining it, but he was the one who had called me while he was away. Oliver could have slept with any number of women out there, of that I'm sure. But instead, he had called me. Almost as if he'd missed me.

  Oliver must know something is different, or else why would he invite me to his company's annual kickball tournament in Central Park? Guys didn't invite you somewhere they knew you'd be seen by friends or people in their life unless it meant something. He was going to introduce me to his coworkers, and I'm sure they'd ask how we knew each other. I, or he, would have to set the tone for what we were telling people.

  I assessed my outfit once more in the mirror. I'd chosen a pair of high waisted jean shorts with rips. They weren't that short, as I didn't want to come off as desperate. I was going for sporty casual, and with the white tank top and summer scarf I'd paired with little white canvas slip ons, I knew I was achieving just that. I looked like I could sub in and play, but I could also stand by the snack table and chat over lemonade.

  Sam was gone, she texted that she was sleeping over somewhere last night, and I knew she'd be in a sleep coma all of Sunday at some strangers place. I grabbed a small cross body bag and headed for the stairs.

  It was a beautiful Sunday, one of those rare days in New York in July when it wasn't sticky or humid. The sun was shining, but there was a light breeze and it didn't stink from the underground fumes of the subway as I walked towards the park.

  Twenty minutes later and I was there, heading for the sports fields. It was actually pretty nice that Oliver put this on for his Graphite employees. The most Femme ever did was give us a Christmas party in a posh club that was so stuffy, you couldn't order a drink under thirty dollars. And considering each Femme employee only got two drink tickets, we all smuggled airplane bottles of alcohol in our purses.

  "Hey, Gemma!" Oliver walks over, breaking off from a group of people.

  Fuck, he looks good. He's tan, really tan. That California sun did him well. And his hair is shorter, no more long bouncy curls but instead a more cropped look with the dark brown ends curling up slightly. His blue eyes shine in the early afternoon sun, and his entire lean, athletic frame is encased in black sports gear.

  "Hey, stranger. I'm ready to kick some balls."

  His lips tip up. "I hope not mine. Thanks for coming out, I know it's probably early for you millennials."

  He hugs me, and his piney, minty scent hugs me too. The embrace is friendly and doesn't linger, and I'm left trying to decipher what it means.

  "You are a millennial, albeit an old one. Don't break a hip out there."

  He busts my chops some more before walking me to a big group of men and women with Graphite shirts on. He introduces me as a friend, and a minute later, walks away to go chat with someone else.

  Okayyyy. I came solo to this thing because I wanted to be respectful, it wasn't an open invitation to bring friends. But, now I have to stand here and talk to people I don't know. I'm sure they're nice, but I'm not a small talker. Myra or Sam always save me when it comes to group talking; they always know the exact right subject to bring up.

  Me? I usually stand there nodding my head and smiling like I'm actually listening. Like right now.

  "So Gemma, where do you work?" A tall blonde with turtle framed glasses asks me.

  The group turns to me, and before I even give them my job title, I know they're going to judge me.

  "I'm a beauty editor at Femme."

  Most of the girls manage to hold their eye rolls, while the men instantly turn to talk to one another. Nothing like the mention of feminine products and fashion to completely bore them.

  "That's ... cool." The tall blonde regards me with a different stare.

  It would be the same if I said I was a stay at home. Some chicks in STEM just completely looked down on those who were into makeup, or something like romance novels. They deemed it girly; I even once had a woman say to me that my job didn't use five percent of the brain or knowledge capacity I was capable of. It didn't matter that I was happy, that I loved my work. Because it didn't come with a flashy, smart description and didn't cure cancer, it wasn't good enough.

  It was okay though. I was around catty women enough to know how to handle them. So that's what I did. For the next two hours I schmoozed and listened, tried to stay involved in the group that knew each other all too well.

  And I watched Oliver laugh and pal around with everyone but me. Okay, so he'd just invited me out of courtesy, but it still stung a bit. I'd done exactly what I always did, assumed and dreamed. Oliver was my friend, one who'd seen me naked, but nonetheless a friend. It would do me well to set my stupid heart straight right now.

  "You're probably tired of all the tech talk."

  I turn from where I sit on the bench by the trays of catered food towards the deep, lightly accented voice that calls out to me.

  The whole office has practically left the food tables and gone to play and heckle each other in kickball.

  So I'm surprised when a tall, athletic blond drink of water sits down across from me.

  "Are you calling this beauty editor dumb?" I pointed at myself.

  His green eyes lit up, and he leaned in. He was interested and not hiding it. Refreshing.

  "All these tech guys are total assholes, ignore them."

  I laughed and stuck my hand out. "They are pretty lame. I'm Gemma."

  Hot, Ryan Phillipe-lookalike takes my hand, his fingers warm but firm.

  "Cody Jenkins, head of IT at Graphite."

  My hand froze, and my embarrassment choked me in my throat.

  "Well, I just stuck my foot in that one, didn't I?" I tried to recover even though my hand was shaking as I pulled it away.

  "Don't worry about it, it’s my passion and I hate it half the time. I find it nice to talk to someone who isn't in this field."

  I probably should have left by now, I don't fit in and no one has talked to me in an hour. Well, except for this guy. I know that I look stupid sitting here, like I'm waiting for Oliver. But now there is something else, or someone else, holding my attention.

  "So how long have you been with the company, Cody?"

  He folds his big hands together and looks at me like I'm some sort of puzzle to be figured out. I watch the muscles flex and bulge in his arms, and he definitely has my body's attention.

  "About two years, it's been a challenge and a pleasure. You know Oliver, right?"

  He's trying to see if we are together. "Yep, just casual friends. I had nothing to do this Sunday, so I thought I'd get some free food and a walk in the park."

  Cody n
ods, his cropped blond hair catching the rays of the sun. "You, not having anything to do? I don't buy that bullshit. You must have men nipping at your heels."

  I roll my eyes. "Flattery as a pick up line, how lame. If you want to ask if I have a boyfriend, just ask."

  I'm feeling his vibe, and I know this kind of wit will work.

  Cody eats it up. "You're right, I do want to know. But I won't ask because you just gave me the answer. Other girls would gush about how willing their boyfriend was to let them hang out alone. And since you didn't mention Harry or Tom or whoever, I know you don't have one. So let me have your number, and I'm going to take you out."

  He's confident. Really confident. I like it.

  "Sure. But it better be a good one. Or at this point, I'm becoming a lesbian."

  He hands me his phone and I plug my number in. There is laughter in his eyes as he regards me. "Only if I can watch."

  I thought today was going to be a total wash, but the big man in the sky must have heard my Hail Mary the other day when I aimlessly strolled this park after Myra's engagement. Maybe my one just strolled into my life in a cheesy kickball shirt.

  After Cody and I talk for a few more minutes, I figure I should be demure and leave him wanting more. So I say good-bye and pick my bag up off of the bench.

  I don't bother turning to see if Oliver watches me leave.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gemma

  In general, I don’t like or understand sports. One team of egotistical men play around near a team of another team of egotistical men’s private parts, usually, and the ones with the most points win. It’s first grade all over again, and it boggles my mind that it’s one of the biggest money making industries in our country, let alone the world.

  Most of the time, I find sports boring. Hours long of the same thing over and over, and most of the time teams fail more than they succeed. I’d much rather watch an interesting or funny show, but men love watching other men run around chasing balls, so as a rule, I have gone on some sports-related dates.