Pumpkin Pounder Read online

  “What’s your costume?” he asks.

  “I’m Sally, from The Nightmare Before Christmas.” He gives me a polite, quizzical look. “It’s a movie…where the guy who runs Halloween—The Pumpkin King—tries to take over Christmas. And Sally, she—” I almost say she loves The Pumpkin King but I trail off. “She’s in it too.”

  He shrugs. “Must be an American thing. I’m not much for…” He gestures to the scene around us, to what must look like a deranged horde of American goofs, drinking their faces off while dressed like their childhood heroes.

  “I know it looks crazy, but Halloween in New York is the best.” I bump my shoulder lightly against his arm, mostly because I want to feel that delicious shiver again.

  He shrugs and switches his drink to his other hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  I’ve got to keep this moving before I lose his interest. “Do you want to go up there?” I point to the metal catwalk on the roof of the dance floor.

  “Sure look it.”

  I think that probably means yes, so I grab his hand and lead him up the spiral stairs. It’s a tight fit on the staircase, just as many people coming down as going up. The Irishman (that’s what I’m calling him in my head) has to press up against me to let people by, and he’s slow to pull away.

  The structured roof of this pier has a series of grated catwalks, so there’s almost as much space on the roof as there is on the dance floor. My Pumpkin Pounder strategy brain turns on, and now I’m on a mission. I have one goal: get into The Irishman’s pants. His adorable, accented, Fassbender pants. I pick a far corner, away from the staircases, where we can talk and have an excellent view. This is a classic Pumpkin Pounder tactic: isolate the target so I can gather intel.

  “Ta da!” I sweep my hand to indicate the first-rate view of the Hudson River.

  “Feck me, that is gorgeous. New York is a real stunner.”

  “Um, actually, that’s New Jersey.” I turn his body—my bicep squeeze checks out—to face the buildings behind The Tug Boat. “That is New York.”

  “I thought those other buildings looked a bit short.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. I’m having a hard time reading his body language. Is he shy? Or uninterested? I press on, regardless.

  “Is this your first time here?”

  “In New York? Yes. In America, no. My cousin lived in Boston, but he’s here now.”

  “Is your cousin down there?” I point to The Gaga-le, vogueing on the dance floor.

  “He’s the bloke with coke can curlers.” The Irishman rests his forearms on the railing and gazes down at the dancers. Good, he’s relaxing here.

  “Where are you from?” I need a few basic details from him: place of residence and relationship and employment status. Two out of three of those won’t be deal breakers, but I still want to know.

  “Dublin, by way of County Limerick.”

  The only thing I know about limericks is that they’re clever and dirty, just like me. I nod very seriously, as if I am intimate with every corner of Ireland.

  He gives me a half smile. “You don’t know where that is do you?”

  I smile back. “Nope. Do you know where Fairfax County is?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “That’s where I’m from. It’s in Virginia.”

  He turns toward me, one hand on the railing. “I do know that Virginia is for lovers.” The way he says lovers, it sounds like luffers, which makes my lady parts tingle.

  The smirk on his face gives him away. I slap one hand on the railing next to his and put the other on my hip. Sassy, but open. “I bet you read that on a t-shirt.”

  He opens his mouth to deny it, then shakes his head. “That I did.” I’m rewarded for my cleverness by his sheepish grin.

  I take a small step toward him. “So what brings you to New York on my favorite holiday?”

  He’s so tall, he has to lower his chin to look at me now that I’ve stepped closer. “Well now, I thought I was here on business, but apparently I’m here because it’s your favorite holiday.”

  This is fantastic mission intelligence. He’s employed in something that allows for travel, and he’s definitely flirting back. I lower my voice, give a whiff of an invitation. “Lucky you.”

  His voice is lower too when he says, “Lucky me.”

  I tilt my chin up, closing the distance between us just a hair. “Didn’t your girlfriend want to come to New York too?”

  He gives a quick shake of the head. I love watching the flashing party light play along his face. “No girlfriend to come with.” His voice is huskier. We inhale on the same breath, that invisible thread of tension vibrating between us.

  The wind shifts, and a colder breeze blows between us. I am a terrible, shameless hussy, but I am a shameless hussy with a mission. So, although I am not one bit cold, not with all this heat building between us, I fake a little shiver.

  He frowns. “Are you cold?”

  Awwww, what a considerate pumpkin. I shrug my shoulders. “A little. Do you want to go into the boat, where it’s warm?”

  He looks over my head, to the old tug boat behind me. “Aye, love to. Haven’t seen it yet.”

  I put my hand softly on his forearm. “Then I should give you a tour.”

  He looks at my hand, then my coy smile. He brings his beer to his lips and drains the cup. Good job, pumpkin. You should be nervous. I'm hunting you.

  We go down the stairs, then along the edge of the pier to the metal gangplank leading from pier to boat. On the way, I signal to Rachel, who’s found April and Kevin on the dance floor. I point discretely to The Irishman, then the boat, and wink. She gives me a thumbs up and points to the bar, meaning I’ll be there if you need me.

  The gangplank sways with the boat, and we have to take a short hop over the gap at the end. Once we’re both safely onboard, I catch his waist to steady him, curling his t-shirt in my fingers. I stand on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “We’re going down below. It’s dark and loud. Hold onto me so you don’t get lost.”

  He covers my hands with his and nods, sweet in the way he offers his trust. His scruff brushes my cheek and I’m so tempted to kiss him right here on the deck, but it’s not time yet. Phase Two is when I move the target to a second location. Phase Three is when I pounce.

  * * *

  I feel like a master seductress when I lead The Irishman through the ship’s door, down a narrow staircase, and across a metal bridge to the belly of The Tug Boat. It’s a small area, set up more like a stoned teenager’s basement than a deejay’s dream. A random armchair is tucked next to the turntables. It’s mostly dark, with only a few industrial clip lights bouncing shadows off the sweaty bodies grinding against each other to the thumping bass. It’s stuffy and trippy, but undeniably sexy.

  I squeeze us into a spot along the curved wall, just big enough for two bodies. His mouth is open, his wide eyes taking in the unreal amount of people squished into this room, the anachronistic appeal of a nearly underwater dance party.

  “What do you think?” I shout up at him.

  His voice tickles the inside of my ear. “It’s brilliant. You’d never know this was here.”

  I’m close enough that I can smell his neck without being too obvious about it. He smells fresh, like soap. It is way too cheesy to even think of it, but he really does smell like Irish Spring…only better. I swear every ginger inherits a magic pH balance with that recessive gene because they always smell freaking amazing, like an open field.

  The music builds, and the crowd pulses along with it. Someone jostles into us, pushing The Irishman’s body closer to mine. I’m trapped between the wall and his chest. If I squirmed a little to the left, I’d be free. But I don’t want to be free. I lift my chin, find his bright blue eyes staring at me. The boat is shaking with the movement of the crowd. He settles his hand on my upper arm. I can feel its warmth through the thin fabric of my sleeve. “Sorry,” his words say, but his eyes say something more.

  Fuck it. I don�
�t want to be a master seductress. I don’t want to bide my time and banter my way into the perfect make-out scenario. I want to kiss him.

  So I do.

  I’ve surprised him. I feel it in the way his lips still under the press of mine, but he recovers quickly. After a moment, he’s kissing me back, in teasing nibbles and then, after I give a soft huff, in a deeper fashion. I taste the beer he drank, and mint. He sets his fingers lightly on my hip bones, like he wants to hold me in place but he wants to ask first. I squeeze his hard forearms, nudge his waist with mine. Go on. He gets the hint and holds me closer. He flicks his tongue over mine. I shiver. All the while the music builds, higher, tighter, no peak to this crescendo. That’s how I feel kissing him. It’s not enough. There will be no satisfaction, no relief or release.

  I like the closeness of the crowd, the flickering lights, the way he seems ready to get lost in me. From the way he’s leaning over me, tipping me almost backward, I think he’s content to stay here. But I’m not content. I run my fingers over his arms, feeling his I-still-play-my-high-school-sport-and-now-I’m-forever- buff muscles. I feel a familiar desperate clawing, deep inside. I feel this way sometimes, in the middle of pumpkin-hunting. Like I need the next level to happen ASAP. Like there’s something to prove.

  I tell myself to calm down, enjoy the moment, take pleasure in being “that couple” in the crowd. I try to focus on his lips, on the heat of our breath. In the back of my mind a voice whispers, get him before he runs away. Why would he run away, another voice responds, but I don’t want to unpack any of that, not now. Why won’t my stupid brain turn off and let my body turn all the way on? Actually, I know the answer, I read a whole book on how women’s bodies can differ from their brains in their response to—GODDAMMIT. I can’t concentrate. What’s wrong with me?

  He must be able to tell that I’m not focusing, because he pulls back. His lips hovering over mine, he whispers, “You alright, love?”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely. I’m into it. It’s just….”

  He twists my fingers in his. “We can relax, enjoy the music…if that’s what you want.” He rubs his thumbs over the backs of my hands reassuringly. Unf, what a big sweetie. I attacked his face and he’s the one offering to back off.

  The music sinks into a slower beat. All around us, couples move closer together. He twirls me so my back is to his front. He wraps his long, freckled arms around me and sways with the beat. My shoulders relax as he nuzzles my neck. This is nice, this is okay. I’m still raging inwardly at my inconsistent libido, but this is still good.

  During the next little while, we sway together. We laugh when some guys show off by trying parkour tricks on the boat’s pipes and railings, and then lose their grip and fall to the floor. The Irishman has a nice, easy way about him, like he doesn’t expect much, he’s simply along for the ride. Eventually, that weird, anxious feeling I had passes. I notice again the firmness of his chest along my back. That clean field smell of his skin. If I move my hips back, I definitely feel what he’s packing below the belt. It’s time for Phase Three, and I know exactly what to do next.

  I twist to face him. “Do you want to see my favorite part of the boat?”

  “Lead the way, love.” He slides his hand into mine. His fingers are long and smooth. I can make lots of plans for those hands.

  I lead us through the crowd to a second, less populated stairway. At the top, most people would turn right, where the string lights of the top deck beckon. However, I pull us left, duck around a red pipe where an oval door stands ajar. “Watch your head,” I warn as I step through the narrow opening and into a small bunkroom.

  The Irishman takes in the solitary swinging lightbulb, the small chair, metal desk, and the slim bunk bolted into the wall. “What’s this?”

  I stand with my back against the desk. “The captain’s room, I think. I found it last time I was here.”

  “Can we be in here?” He runs a hand along the thin rough blanket tucked around the mattress on the bunk.

  “No one has stopped me yet.” I place my hands behind me on the desk, arch my back a little. We’re staring at each other, goofy half-grins on our faces. I think we both know why I brought him here.

  “So you wanted to show me this?” He looks me up and down, lingering on the curve of my waist and the thrust of my chest.

  “No, I brought you here because I wanted to tell you a secret.”

  “Oh, a secret? Should I come closer?” His smile is so sly, he’s almost winking at me.

  The butterflies in my stomach are rioting. “Well, I do have to whisper it.”

  He takes one step, then two. He leans in close. “What’s your secret?” He puts his hands on the desk on either side of me. I’m in a perfect box made of his arms.

  Nose to nose, we linger there. The music below us sounds so far away. My vision narrows. All I see are his full lips and the soft red hairs of his beard poking through his freckles, the shadow of a dimple in his cheek. I think he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever kissed. Maybe ever seen. My heart races. C’mon Pumpkin Pounder. Now’s your chance. Pounce.

  I press a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a long secret,” I say. “I have to tell it slow.”

  I kiss his mouth, his cheek, his ear. I move slowly, deliberately. He holds still but for the shallow rise and fall of his breath. The light swings, fanning us with shadows. I kiss the hollow of his neck, then tug on his lower lip with mine. “Do you like this secret?” I ask.

  “Yes. I have one for you too,” he says in a graveled voice.

  Where I was slow, he is urgent. His kisses are deep and persistent as he bows over me. His knees knock on the leg of the desk and he curses. He picks me up and I land on the surface of the desk with a surprised giggle. I love make-out acrobatics.

  His fingertips run alongside my neck, down my collarbone. I hope he’s heading for my nipples, and I’m delighted when he cups my breasts and circles my nipples with his thumbs. That clawing feeling in my belly is back, but now it’s hot, burning me while my skin feels electrified. I want to grind into him, but the height difference is off by a little so I settle for rocking my hips. He makes a low sound and kneads my ass in big handfuls. Atta boy. Grab me like you want me.

  I run my hands along his lower back. I’m about to slip them into his back pockets when something soft and plush stops me. What the… I withdraw a small Dalmatian toy on a key ring.

  He tries to grab it from me before I can bring it fully before his face. “Shit. Em, that’s not mine.”

  I cock one eyebrow. Oh really?

  “The lads said it would complete the look and….”

  “And what?” He looks so miserable. I bite my lip so I won’t laugh.

  “And that…well, I believe the word they used was ‘panty-dropper.’”

  I can’t hold it in. He flushes a deep strawberry while I laugh. His friends sent this dreamboat into the night and let him think a stuffed dog would be the thing to seal the deal. Like he needed any help at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “It’s a very cute dog.”

  He scratches the back of his neck. “So, em, were they right?”

  “About the dog?”

  He looks down at my lap, then leans toward my ear. “About your pants.”

  I know “pants” is an Irish term for underwear, and with that devilish spark in his eye, it sounds wonderfully filthy when he says it. I pull him in for a kiss. “Find out for yourself.”

  He smiles as he devours my lips. I keep my eyes partly open while he kisses me. God, he’s so handsome. I can’t handle it. Here in this tiny room, so warm and close, every sound he makes, the heat coming off his skin, it’s all heightened. Everything about him surrounds me. And his kiss! The way he returns my soft explorations, and then doubles down. He wants me, really wants me. I feel a bloom in my chest, a surge of triumph. Pumpkin Pounder, conqueror of men, wrangling in the hottest of hotties on this cool night. Again, I have the
thought that I’m proving something…but what? And to whom?

  He makes a soft, snuffling noise as he kisses my neck. He’s murmuring something, calling me beautiful, and other sweet, gentle words rising and falling in the melody of his voice. What does he mean, beautiful? I know I am (thankyouverymuch), but the sweet, aching kind of lust he’s drawing from my body is different. I’m used to a grittier kind of need, raw, two bodies rubbing against each other to satisfy something primal. It’s honest, but maybe also…transactional? Like, I want to get off and you can give that to me. But these words he’s whispering, the way his hands run along my body, they’re so…nice. Does he like me? Is that what’s happening? I thought I was doing a good job of flirting, but did I accidentally strike something deeper?

  The clawing-proving thing in me is morphing into something else. I’m relaxing instead of tightening, opening instead of coiling toward a release. His fingers knead my waist and it’s all so tender. Like splashes of gentle rain on a window. Plop, plop, each compliment drops against the glass, and I’m inside the window, watching what’s happening. But I don’t want to be inside. I want to be where he is. Where the niceness is coming from.

  I’ve got to turn this around, steer it back to familiar territory before it changes me, before all this newfound tenderness slips out of my control.

  I pull gently at his hair. “Touch me,” I say. He knows where.

  I suck on his bottom lip while he strokes my knees with his thumbs. He traces the hem of my dress, which has crept up to my mid thigh. His crooked finger slips under my dress and strokes my inner thigh. My legs fall open as his fingertips trail higher. Fuck yes. This is more like it. Hot. Dirty. Physical. I think he’s just about to graze the center of my tights and then—

  “Whoa! Heeeeyyyyyy!”

  We freeze. Jersey Shore Guy sways in the doorway. A sexy fairy giggles from behind him. You’ve got to be kidding me. This clown again?

  “Get out!” I yell.

  Jersey Shore Guy grins. “Smush-smush! Smush-smush!” he chants. The light shines on the grease in his hair.

  The Irishman reaches behind us, places one hand politely on the center of Jersey Shore Guy’s chest, and moves him out of the room. “G’night, pal.” He manages to jockey the heavy door to be almost closed, but we can still hear Jersey Shore Guy chanting as he leaves.