“Oh, humor. And cultured humor at that.” She gives me a small, silent clap, but still waits for my assessment.
I can’t think of anything else. Fashion isn’t my forte, but maybe I can turn this around. “Okay, I haven’t hired anybody to pick out my clothes, so tell me what you think I’m like.” Even as I say it, I wonder why. It isn’t like me to care that much about what people think. Or ask a woman I just met how she views me. It’s too much like begging for approval, or worse, affection.
I, Edgar Henry Clayton Blackwood, do not need or seek out affection.
“You?” Jo pulls back a bit and gives me a slow once-over from head to toe.
Since I can’t think of a good way to take back my question, I just stand and wait for her verdict. Her gaze sweeps over me again, and it feels tangible. Like gentle strokes. My skin prickles.
Shit. Don’t get hard—or, more accurately, don’t get any harder.
“Hmm.” She taps a finger against her lips.
I take a long swallow of my drink. I might as well be drinking water, though, since I can’t taste a thing. Why does it feel like the fate of the world rests on her opinion?
“Responsible,” she says finally. “Dependable. Controlled.”
I nod. “Perceptive.” They’re all good qualities. And I’ve done my best to embody them. But her saying that about me makes me feel flatter than a forgotten glass of Coke. I wanted her to say…what?
Sexy?
Fuckable?
Hot?
Before I can decide, Yuna clears her throat loudly for attention. “Thank you all for coming. I wanted to host this party to congratulate my amazing roommate Kim’s bonus. Apparently she was perfect at her job for the last five years, so it is well deserved.”
Jo makes a fist with her free hand and pumps it in the air. “Yeah!”
“Do you know her?” I ask in a low voice.
“She’s one of my best friends. This is super exciting. I’m so happy for her.”
The joy in her eyes sparkles like sunlight; my breath catches in my throat. She’s absolutely mesmerizing, and makes me feel like I’m standing on a cloud.
But Yuna calls my name, breaking the spell. “Thank you, Edgar, for coming. I didn’t think you’d make it, since you spend almost all your time in Louisiana. And do get him to talk, ladies. He has the nicest voice ever.”
Talk? I don’t want to talk to anybody except Jo. But it’d be unpardonably rude to say that, so I wave Yuna’s suggestion away instead. “Stop. You’re embarrassing me.” Hopefully this will make it clear I’m not interested in speaking to other women.
Jo leans closer. “You do have a nice voice.” The pink of her cheeks turns more intense, her eyes brighter.
“Thank you,” I say, liking this better than the earlier “responsible, dependable, controlled” stuff. I don’t want to be any of those things tonight. I want to be like her—brilliant, gorgeous and enthralling.
Yuna continues to speak. I’m barely paying attention. If she’s saying anything important I need to know about… Well, she can debrief me later.
Right now, I’m more interested in the way Jo’s dress clings to her mouth-watering body. The material is fairly thin… Is she wearing any underwear? If not, those breasts really are hers, not helped or shaped by anything. On the other hand, female lingerie can be seamless…
Either way, I want to drag the dress off her and find out. It isn’t the most convenient desire to have at the moment, however, because it’s making me harder than a steel pipe.
Two uniformed waiters bring in silver pushcarts with trays laden with elegant white plates. It wouldn’t be like Yuna to do anything without quite a bit of flourish. Small, flaky, strudel-like pastries are laid out, two per plate. Servers carry more bubbly drinks in.
“How did you manage that?” Ivy asks. “I thought your mother froze your account for running away.”
Obviously Yuna is smart enough to sock away some money, I think, then take another champagne for Jo. She accepts it, mouthing, Thank you.
“She didn’t cut it all off,” Yuna says. “I can still charge up to five thousand a day, in case of emergency.”
“Where can you find a chartered plane that cheap?” someone jokes from my left.
“You can’t. So I had it charged to my brother’s expense account.” Yuna grins shamelessly. “He loves me, hahaha. Now come on. Enjoy!” She gestures.
I pick up two plates and hand one to Jo. “If Yuna had these flown in from Japan, they’re either really good or really unusual.”
Jo gives me a small smile. “That sounds more like a legal disclaimer than an endorsement.”
“Being upfront is important.” Almost all disputes occur because people aren’t fully honest with each other, but I keep that part to myself so she doesn’t add “dry” to the qualities she’s picked up about me.
I take a small bite of one of the pastries. It’s filled with a thick cream that tastes like rich cheesecake. Not bad. But it could be sweeter.
Jo nibbles on one, looking slightly dubious. But I know the moment she hits the cream inside because her eyes widen, and she grins with pleasure.
“What are they called?” Ryder says around his bite. “I need to make sure my assistant can get me some.”
He’s probably going to send a plane over to grab them all. How he can be such a glutton and still maintain his movie-star physique is beyond me.
“They’re called otona no kuriimu pie,” Yuna answers.
“Otona…what?” Ryder asks.
“Otona no kuriimu pie.”
“What does that mean?” another guest asks.
Yuna turns to her with a bright, happy smile. “Adult cream pie.”
Laughter and the sound of people choking fill the room. I stare at the creamy white filling. Adult cream? What voodoo do you need to perform to make it taste like cheesecake?
“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks, her perfectly shaped and drawn eyebrows pulled together.
Tony gapes at her. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. What do you think I said?”
“Adult cream pie,” he says, his face slightly red.
“Yeah. It’s a special pie, made to suit adult tastes.”
“Ohh,” Ivy says. “So it’s more like ‘a cream pie for adults.’”
“You could say it like that, but the direct translation is—”
“We like Ivy’s version better,” I say quickly. I’m not going to enlighten Yuna, and I’m also not going to continue to call the pastry I just had “adult cream pie,” of all things.
Yuna shrugs again. “Okay. But it’s really a mouthful to say it that way.”
Jo raises an eyebrow. “Oh, adult cream is a mouthful either way.”
A mouth isn’t the only thing it can fill.
The thought pops into my mind, unbidden and wholly unexpected. But it isn’t any less arousing. I’d love to fill her with my cock, then my cum, although realistically the second part would be a bad idea with potentially undesirable consequences.
That’s why God gave men brains. So we could invent condoms.