“Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“I want to come, Damien. I want to come with your voice taking me there, and I’m so close right now I think if this limo goes over a pothole it might just send me shooting to the moon.” I have lost all shame, all propriety. And I don’t even care. All I want to do is explode, knowing that it’s Damien hearing my screams on the other end of the phone line.
“Are you touching yourself?” There’s still an edge to his voice, but it’s raw now. Needy.
“Yes.”
“I want to taste you. Lick your fingers,” he says, and I comply, imagining my slick, wet fingers are his lips. “Tell me.”
“Slick,” I say. “Sweet. But, Damien, I want—”
“Hush, baby, I know. And I’m touching you now. I’m kneeling right in front of you, and you’re wide open to me. You’re wet and delicious, and my tongue is all over you, touching and tasting. Can you feel me flicking my tongue over your hard clit?”
“Yes,” I say as my finger strokes my swollen, demanding clit.
“You taste so good, and I’m so hard. I want to be inside you, but I can’t get enough of the taste of you.”
“Don’t stop.” I’m arching up, an orgasm rising up around me like the overture of a grand opera.
“Never,” he says. “But I need you to come for me now, baby. We’re close now, and it’s time. I’m touching you, I’m taking you over. Now, Nikki. Come for me now.”
I do.
So help me, it’s as if his voice takes me over the edge and I shatter like starlight against a black velvet sky, pinpoints of light bursting through me, so powerful and intense and meltingly hot.
“Oh, yes, baby,” he says, his voice strained, easing me down. “That’s it.”
I realize that I’m gasping, and my cries dissolve into little whimpers of pleasure mixed with loss. It’s over, and I’m alone in the back of a limo and the man who made me come is on the other end of a phone line somewhere.
A loose strand of hair sticks to my face and I push it off. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat. I’m spent. Taken.
I feel good.
I feel reckless.
“We’re here,” Damien says, and I turn to glance through the dark tinted windows. Sure enough, the limo is pulling to a stop outside my condo. I realize that when he’d said that we were close, he didn’t mean my orgasm. He meant my home.
I frown, realizing I never told the driver my address. Had Damien? He must have, but how did he know where I live?
I push myself up and fix my skirt and bodice in some sort of bizarrely placed attempt at modesty. I start to ask him about my address, but he speaks first.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild,” he says formally, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice.
“I look forward to it, Mr. Stark,” I say, equally formal, though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
There is silence, but I know he’s still there. After a moment, I hear him laugh. “Hang up, Ms. Fairchild,” he orders.
“Yes, sir,” I say, then press the button to disconnect the call.
Tomorrow.
Reality slams against me with the force of a tidal wave. What the hell was I thinking having phone sex with a guy I’m going to be seeing up close and personal in just a matter of hours? And not just seeing, but actually pitching to. Putting on a business presentation.
Am I entirely insane?
Yes, I think, I am.
Insane. Foolish. Idiotic.
Reckless.
I shiver.
Yes, but reckless felt so damn good.
The limo has come to a complete stop, and I see the driver approaching to open my door. I reach for my panties, intending to shove them into my purse, but then I have a better idea.
If I’m going to be reckless anyway …
I slip the panties under the armrest, letting the white satin and lace peek out just a little. Then I quickly zip up my dress, check that it’s covering all the appropriate places, and slide to the door just as the driver pulls it open.
I step out of the limo and look up at the sky. I imagine a billion stars twinkling down at me. I grin back at them. By morning, I’ll probably be wallowing in mortification, but right now, I’m going to bask. It has, after all, been an exceptionally good night.
9
I turn the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then slowly twist the knob and push the door open. I just want to get to my room and go to sleep, but Jamie is the world’s lightest sleeper, so I’m not confident that I’ll make it.
The condo is silent and mostly dark, the only light coming from the small nightlight I insist we keep plugged in by the bathroom. It provides minimal illumination, just enough to provide some guidance and keep the apartment from falling into pitch-black.
I consider the quiet darkness a good sign. Maybe Jamie walked down to the divey little bar on the corner next to the Stop ’n’ Shop. Both the bar and the shop smell faintly of sewage and sweat, but that doesn’t stop Jamie when she’s in a mood for either alcohol or chocolate. I’ve lived here less than a week, and we’ve already visited the store twice (for supplies of Diet Coke and Chips Ahoy) and the bar once (for bourbon, straight up, because it’s not the kind of place you trust to make a martini).
I close the door carefully and set the dead bolt, but I leave the chain dangling in the hope that my guess as to Jamie’s whereabouts is right. Then I start to tiptoe to my room, just in case my guess is wrong.
Even dimly lit, the condo is easily navigable. A traditional apartment before the owners decided to go condo, it’s small at only about eight hundred square feet. The main room serves a triple purpose as entrance hall, living room, and dining area. There’s also a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The living area is on the left, and is furnished comfortably with a chair and a sofa. One long wall boasts a never-used fireplace and a mounted flat-screen television.
Just in front of the door—past the four feet or so that can be considered the foyer—is the dining area, which has a truly ugly orange Formica table and four mismatched wooden chairs. Jamie may have bought the condo when prices were down, but that didn’t mean she’d been rolling in extra cash. She’d furnished it with an eye to cost, not appeal. I don’t mind, but I’ve already told Jamie that when I can afford it, I want to paint the interior and try to make the place a little more Ikea. Home and Garden is completely out of the question.
The kitchen is to the left of the dining area, and is separated from the living area by a solid wall that one day I’d love to knock down and turn into a pass-through. Until then, whoever’s cooking not only can’t see the television, but is trapped in the claustrophobic galley-style kitchen. Between the dining area and kitchen are two stairs that seem to serve no purpose. They lead to the bedrooms—one on either side—and the bathroom, which takes up the space between.
I’ve gone about three feet and am transitioning from entrance to dining area when a light snaps on to my left. I turn and see Jamie in the far side of the room, curled up in the battered armchair that Lady Meow-Meow uses as a scratching post.
“You okay?” I ask, because Jamie brooding in the dark is never a good thing.
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“I want to come, Damien. I want to come with your voice taking me there, and I’m so close right now I think if this limo goes over a pothole it might just send me shooting to the moon.” I have lost all shame, all propriety. And I don’t even care. All I want to do is explode, knowing that it’s Damien hearing my screams on the other end of the phone line.
“Are you touching yourself?” There’s still an edge to his voice, but it’s raw now. Needy.
“Yes.”
“I want to taste you. Lick your fingers,” he says, and I comply, imagining my slick, wet fingers are his lips. “Tell me.”
“Slick,” I say. “Sweet. But, Damien, I want—”
“Hush, baby, I know. And I’m touching you now. I’m kneeling right in front of you, and you’re wide open to me. You’re wet and delicious, and my tongue is all over you, touching and tasting. Can you feel me flicking my tongue over your hard clit?”
“Yes,” I say as my finger strokes my swollen, demanding clit.
“You taste so good, and I’m so hard. I want to be inside you, but I can’t get enough of the taste of you.”
“Don’t stop.” I’m arching up, an orgasm rising up around me like the overture of a grand opera.
“Never,” he says. “But I need you to come for me now, baby. We’re close now, and it’s time. I’m touching you, I’m taking you over. Now, Nikki. Come for me now.”
I do.
So help me, it’s as if his voice takes me over the edge and I shatter like starlight against a black velvet sky, pinpoints of light bursting through me, so powerful and intense and meltingly hot.
“Oh, yes, baby,” he says, his voice strained, easing me down. “That’s it.”
I realize that I’m gasping, and my cries dissolve into little whimpers of pleasure mixed with loss. It’s over, and I’m alone in the back of a limo and the man who made me come is on the other end of a phone line somewhere.
A loose strand of hair sticks to my face and I push it off. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat. I’m spent. Taken.
I feel good.
I feel reckless.
“We’re here,” Damien says, and I turn to glance through the dark tinted windows. Sure enough, the limo is pulling to a stop outside my condo. I realize that when he’d said that we were close, he didn’t mean my orgasm. He meant my home.
I frown, realizing I never told the driver my address. Had Damien? He must have, but how did he know where I live?
I push myself up and fix my skirt and bodice in some sort of bizarrely placed attempt at modesty. I start to ask him about my address, but he speaks first.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild,” he says formally, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice.
“I look forward to it, Mr. Stark,” I say, equally formal, though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
There is silence, but I know he’s still there. After a moment, I hear him laugh. “Hang up, Ms. Fairchild,” he orders.
“Yes, sir,” I say, then press the button to disconnect the call.
Tomorrow.
Reality slams against me with the force of a tidal wave. What the hell was I thinking having phone sex with a guy I’m going to be seeing up close and personal in just a matter of hours? And not just seeing, but actually pitching to. Putting on a business presentation.
Am I entirely insane?
Yes, I think, I am.
Insane. Foolish. Idiotic.
Reckless.
I shiver.
Yes, but reckless felt so damn good.
The limo has come to a complete stop, and I see the driver approaching to open my door. I reach for my panties, intending to shove them into my purse, but then I have a better idea.
If I’m going to be reckless anyway …
I slip the panties under the armrest, letting the white satin and lace peek out just a little. Then I quickly zip up my dress, check that it’s covering all the appropriate places, and slide to the door just as the driver pulls it open.
I step out of the limo and look up at the sky. I imagine a billion stars twinkling down at me. I grin back at them. By morning, I’ll probably be wallowing in mortification, but right now, I’m going to bask. It has, after all, been an exceptionally good night.
9
I turn the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then slowly twist the knob and push the door open. I just want to get to my room and go to sleep, but Jamie is the world’s lightest sleeper, so I’m not confident that I’ll make it.
The condo is silent and mostly dark, the only light coming from the small nightlight I insist we keep plugged in by the bathroom. It provides minimal illumination, just enough to provide some guidance and keep the apartment from falling into pitch-black.
I consider the quiet darkness a good sign. Maybe Jamie walked down to the divey little bar on the corner next to the Stop ’n’ Shop. Both the bar and the shop smell faintly of sewage and sweat, but that doesn’t stop Jamie when she’s in a mood for either alcohol or chocolate. I’ve lived here less than a week, and we’ve already visited the store twice (for supplies of Diet Coke and Chips Ahoy) and the bar once (for bourbon, straight up, because it’s not the kind of place you trust to make a martini).
I close the door carefully and set the dead bolt, but I leave the chain dangling in the hope that my guess as to Jamie’s whereabouts is right. Then I start to tiptoe to my room, just in case my guess is wrong.
Even dimly lit, the condo is easily navigable. A traditional apartment before the owners decided to go condo, it’s small at only about eight hundred square feet. The main room serves a triple purpose as entrance hall, living room, and dining area. There’s also a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The living area is on the left, and is furnished comfortably with a chair and a sofa. One long wall boasts a never-used fireplace and a mounted flat-screen television.
Just in front of the door—past the four feet or so that can be considered the foyer—is the dining area, which has a truly ugly orange Formica table and four mismatched wooden chairs. Jamie may have bought the condo when prices were down, but that didn’t mean she’d been rolling in extra cash. She’d furnished it with an eye to cost, not appeal. I don’t mind, but I’ve already told Jamie that when I can afford it, I want to paint the interior and try to make the place a little more Ikea. Home and Garden is completely out of the question.
The kitchen is to the left of the dining area, and is separated from the living area by a solid wall that one day I’d love to knock down and turn into a pass-through. Until then, whoever’s cooking not only can’t see the television, but is trapped in the claustrophobic galley-style kitchen. Between the dining area and kitchen are two stairs that seem to serve no purpose. They lead to the bedrooms—one on either side—and the bathroom, which takes up the space between.
I’ve gone about three feet and am transitioning from entrance to dining area when a light snaps on to my left. I turn and see Jamie in the far side of the room, curled up in the battered armchair that Lady Meow-Meow uses as a scratching post.
“You okay?” I ask, because Jamie brooding in the dark is never a good thing.
