Page 20 of Total Dreamboat

Hope

Felix’s honest, no-bullshit approach to his past—and to mine—is refreshing. This is not a man who intends to seduce me with visions of a better life.

He wants a harmless, fun little cruise fling.

So do I.

I think it will be healing.

The doorbell rings.

“That must be the food,” Felix says. “I’ll go get it.”

“Wait. I have to confess something,” I say.

“Uh oh,” he says. “What?”

“I ordered a feast .”

“Great. I’m starving.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

But he’s already walking away.

I brace myself.

He lets in Crisanto, who rolls a two-tiered cart crammed precariously with silver platters. Crisanto calmly arranges everything on the table as though ordering eight separate dishes is not at all weird and gluttonous, tells us to ring him when we’d like it cleared away, and bon appetit .

“Jesus, Hope,” Felix says when he’s gone. “Are you expecting twelve more people?”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, and I didn’t want to alienate you with my bad taste,” I say. “I’d rather alienate you with my maximalism instead.”

“You haven’t alienated me. Though I will say pappardelle bolognese, steak tartare, crab cakes, coq au vin, and endive salad are an odd combination.”

“Don’t forget the truffle macaroni and cheese.”

“I blacked it out.”

“Good because there’s also dessert.”

“Dare I ask?”

“Molten chocolate brownies and pistachio cheesecake. I declined ice cream because I figured it would melt in the four hours it will take to eat all this.”

“You’re a marvel.”

“Wait until you see how much damage I can do.”

I load up my plate with a generous assemblage of food and dive in, both out of rabid hunger and determination not to put it to waste. Felix, probably just to avoid embarrassing me, does the same.

“What, as a professional chef, is your review of the cuisine?” I ask him, once I’m out of danger of hypoglycemia.

“This Roquefort dressing is delicious. And I’m impressed by the homemade pappardelle. Though the macaroni cheese is a bit too truffley for my palate, and the crab cakes could do with less potato and a sharper aioli.”

“A measured response.”

“No chef should be judged by room service food. Unless you’re doing chicken fingers. Those have to be perfect.”

“Do you do chicken fingers in your restaurants?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Tell me your specialties.”

He describes things like Cornish crab salad with grated egg, aged lamb tartare with pancetta and tarragon crostini, roasted pork belly with celeriac mash, butter-poached Dover sole with cod’s roe and sage emulsion.

“I’m dying,” I say. “Let’s steal a lifeboat and sail directly to London.”

“Can you sail?” he asks.

“I can canoe.”

“Surely a translatable skill.”

“I have other skills.”

“Like what?”

“Juggling. Architectural photography. Badminton.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Of course not. All I’m good at is writing short stories no one will ever read and college admissions essays for high school students.”

“That last part seems unethical.”

“Well, I don’t technically write them. I just tell them what to say and edit it with a very heavy hand. It’s a good side hustle to earn extra cash.”

“Tell me more about the short stories part.”

I sigh. I don’t love talking about my failed ambitions and wasted potential to people I’m trying to sleep with.

“I always wanted to be a writer,” I say. “A novelist. I had some success early on—sold a book when I was still in college.”

“Wow,” he says. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But it was with a small press, and they went out of business before the book was printed. My agent tried to find a new publisher but no one else picked it up, and I was so demoralized I turned to short stories. But my MFA collection didn’t sell either.

I still dabble here and there, but nothing good enough to submit, and my agent has likely forgotten I exist. And I don’t really have time to pursue it, between my job and freelancing on the side. ”

I feel myself wilting. It’s never fun to admit that you’re living your backup plan. But he takes it all in without judgment. With compassion in his eyes.

“You’re obviously brilliant,” he says. “I suspect you’ll figure it out.”

I shrug. “Maybe. I hope so. In any case, this is a nice break from real life.”

He smiles. “It is. I’m usually not keen on holidays. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and all that. Mum nearly had to break my arms to get me here. But I’m having a delightful time.”

“All that bingo?”

“Nope. Met a nice girl.”

My heart thumps like the tail of an overexcited puppy who’s been told he’s a very good boy.

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

I cannot sensibly take this conversation forward without swooning, so I change the subject. “What are you doing for tomorrow’s entertainment?”

“Zip-lining,” he says.

“Ah, too bad. I’m deeply afraid of zip-lining.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“God, no.”

“What are you doing?”

“Embarrassing myself on a surfboard.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great.”

“Um, you saw my attempt to aquacise. And that was in a tiny pool with the elderly.”

“It was good, family-friendly entertainment.”

I snort. “Yeah. I remember. Vividly and deep in my bones.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” he says. “I finished Middlemarch .”

“Wow. That was fast.”

“Trying to impress that girl I mentioned.”

“It’s working. What did you think?”

“I was relieved to see that love conquered all in the end.”

“Well, except for poor Lydgate,” I say.

“Yeah, tragic figure, that guy. But it was, in all seriousness, one of the best books I’ve ever read. What, in your estimation as a scholar of English literature, should I read next?”

“Well, she’s not British, but have you fucked with Edith Wharton?”

“I have not.”

“Let’s get you on Age of Innocence . Very doomed-marriage-core.”

“On it. One moment, please.”

He takes out his phone and starts typing.

“I’m going audio on this one,” he says.

“So you can listen while zip-lining?”

“Yep.”

We both laugh, and then we’re quiet for a moment.

It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but there’s an air of uncertainty.

The sun has gone down, the meal has been eaten, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking in terms of what happens next.

So, in the spirit of our general policy of self-disclosure, I say, “What do we do now?”

He gives me a crooked grin. “You mentioned something about seducing me?”

I’m glad that this is where his mind went. I’m not going to let myself fall for him. But I am very much going to let myself sleep with him.

If I can remember the steps.

There was a time when I prided myself on being quite a pro at this. But after Gabe, and my long abstinence, I feel a bit uncertain of myself.

“Yeah, about that—” I begin.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be an asshole. You definitely don’t need to seduce me. I was just—”

“No!” I say. “I still want to! I’m just not sure how to go about it. Should I order more food?”

“If I eat more you are definitely not going to want to seduce me.”

“Roger.”

“We could go inside,” he suggests. “And maybe I could kiss you?”

“I like this plan,” I say.

We stand up and he takes my hand and squeezes it, then walks me into his living room. He turns to me and opens his arms. I step into them.

He leans down and softly brushes my lips.

My entire body radiates approval. I press closer.

He takes the back of my head in his hand and kisses me deeply. And when I lean in to devour him, he puts his hands on my hips and kisses his way down my neck, then lower.

Maybe I do remember how to do this. I grab the hem of my dress and pull it up over my head. I’m not wearing a bra, and I’m aware that this sight is astonishing.

By the look on his face, he is aware too.

I reach for him. “Touch me.”

His grabs me and pulls my hips to his. His hands trace my waist, the small of my back, my rib cage, and then, deliciously, my breasts. He’s hard, and I grab his ass and press myself against him.

It feels amazing.

So amazing that I let out a jagged sound that gives me away.

“Can I take off your shirt?” I ask.

He does it himself, throwing it onto the floor like he never wants to see it again.

And nor do I, because his body is ridiculous, and all I want is to feel it against mine.

We grab each other and things get frenzied and raw, and I’m grinding my hips into his, and he’s sucking my nipples and I’m moaning and he’s moaning and his hand is tracing over my panties and I’m so wet I know I’ve soaked through them and it’s so fucking hot that I widen my legs for him and hear myself whisper “Please.”

His fingers are warm and assured, and he doesn’t stop kissing me as he strokes expertly between my legs, teasing me, and I’m whimpering and I can actually hear the sound his fingers make against me as they caress me, venture inside me, and it’s like the most erotic ASMR I’ve ever heard.

He’s biting my bottom lip and his stubble is brushing up against my face and I’m grinding myself against his fingers, the palm of his hand, and then I’m breaking completely apart.

I shudder against him and go boneless and wobbly as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me. He catches me, holds me against him, and I can feel his hard cock and I want it inside me like I can’t remember wanting anything in this world for a long, long, long time.

I reach down and unbutton his jeans.

“Hey,” he says softly. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I say, slipping my hand into his underwear and stroking the hard, hot length of him. He pulses under my hand and sucks in his breath. I pause, not sure if that gasp is a yes or a no.

“I mean, if you do,” I say, looking into his eyes. They’re green, almost yellow around the irises, and the intensity in them says yes at the same time that he does out loud, like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

“Do you have a bed?” I ask.

“As it happens, I do.”

“Can I see it?”

He picks me up and I wrap my legs around him and let him carry me into the bedroom.