10 Rules to Sex Up a Blind Date

‘His ex-wife’s a pal from college, too. Della got drunk with me the night after their divorce papers came through and told me why she married him. Turns out he’s so good at giving head she totally missed the fact that he’s a—’ Sam paused to do air quotes ‘—”heartless bastard” for three whole years. Good enough?’

‘Promising, certainly,’ Tally hedged.

And sort of tacky. Who married a guy based on his cunnilingus skills?

‘And to seal the deal,’ Sam continued. ‘Brent’s also ripped, ruggedly handsome and extremely well-endowed.’

Tally’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. ‘Not to be funny, but how do you know that?’ Good grief, had Brent’s ex-wife gotten drunk enough to give out his measurements? That took tacky to a whole new level.

‘Locker-room voyeurism.’ Sam coughed into his hand, looking sheepish. ‘Mostly. We played on the same basketball team at Cornell. Believe me, a dick that size is impossible to miss. Not that I was trying that hard to miss it. A guy can dream, after all.’

Tally’s clitoris throbbed deliciously. ‘Well, as long as it was only dreaming.’

‘I swear.’ Sam crossed a finger over his heart. ‘He’s straight as an arrow.’ His eyebrows wiggled. ‘Joke intended that time.’

A high, fluttering laugh floated out of Tally’s mouth that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. ‘Sam, you’re hired.’

‘Awesome.’ Resting an elbow on the bar, he flicked a finger at the barman, who trotted over like a trained pony.

‘A beer for me and another daiquiri for the lady,’ Sam ordered while the barman beamed at him like a long-lost lover. Clearly the barman’s gaydar was a lot better than Melody’s. Or hers.

Sam’s gaze lingered for a second on the barman’s tight ass as he headed off to fetch their order. ‘Right, let’s figure out how to hook you guys up without Brent knowing it’s a set-up.’

‘Why can’t it be a set-up?’

‘Because that’s way too cute.’ Sam’s condescension somehow managed to be charming instead of, well, condescending. ‘Brent’s a wolf in geek’s clothing. A type-A guy who gets off on the hunt. Which means this’ll work a whole lot better if we let him think it was all his idea.’

‘You’re not serious?’ Tally’s feminist outrage tumbled out. ‘He sounds like a sexist jerk.’ Heartless was doable. Misogyny not so much. She had to be able to talk to this guy, at least a little bit.

‘Hey, I’m working with your wish list here. Not mine.’ Sam threw up his hands in exaggerated dismay. ‘You wanna get laid by a guy who’s hung like a horse and has made it his life’s work to turn giving head into an art form, then Brent’s your guy. But he’s a hard-ass when it comes to women—ever since his divorce. No argument there. So if you’re looking for more than a casual hook-up, we’re going to have to look elsewhere.’

‘Forget I said anything.’ Tally capitulated, her feminist outrage drowned out by the reminder of Brent’s expert lip-service. She propped her own elbows on the bar and smiled encouragingly at her matchmaker. ‘This isn’t a forever deal. At all.’ She did a zipping motion over her lips. ‘I’ll shut up now and let you do your job.’

When it came to Project Get Laid, surely she could suck up her feminist principles for a night? Plus Brent the Clitoris Junkie got points for letting his shortcomings show—unlike Henry the Metrosexual Rat. At least women knew to approach Brent at their peril. She’d just have to cut the talking portion of the evening short if his alpha-jerk tendencies came to the fore.

‘Cool.’ Sam lifted his bottle to take a fortifying swallow of his Bud.

‘But before we get down to business.’ Tally fluttered her eyelashes outrageously. ‘Do you think you could describe Brent’s hard ass in more detail?’

Sam clinked his bottle to her glass, a slow conspiratorial smile spreading across his face. ‘Sure. I’ve written a couple of songs about Brent’s hard ass.’ He winked. ‘It’s kind of inspirational.’

‘Fabulous.’ Tally licked dry lips, already composing tomorrow morning’s tweet to the insistent rhythm of her throbbing clit. ‘Inspirational is just what I’m looking for.’

Chapter Three

#NewRule: 2 Wear or Not 2 Wear Knickers? Is that the question? Answer: Dress for sex-cess but aim for the #Wow Factor not the #Whoa Factor

Tally handed her coat to the fresh-faced cloak-room attendant, who sent her a shy smile before his gaze became surgically attached to her cleavage. Her confidence perked up as he handed her the ticket, his cheeks shining like beacons in the club’s half-light. She smoothed her palms down the plush velvet of the vintage minidress she’d found on eBay. Tucking the ticket into her bag, she smiled at the poor kid. Good to know the three hours she’d spent debating her wardrobe options for this evening had not been entirely wasted.

Her phone pinged and she whipped it out of her bag, grinning when she saw the text pop up from her partner in crime.

We’re in one of the booths on the left in the American Bar. Hope you’re looking hot because Brent certainly is. S x

She headed down a wide stairway, the walls expensively upholstered in dark wood and red leather, tapping out a reply while doing her best to ignore the knot in her stomach.

Stop salivating, he’s my date, not yours. And I’m in ’80s Dior—so let the enslavement begin. T x

But as she stepped into the darkened bar and walked past the booths, listening for Sam’s greeting, the knot swelled and pushed into her throat. After close to six months of crappy dates, it was incredible she could still feel anything at the prospect of meeting a new guy. So what exactly was this knot about? Because it was getting uncomfortable. Excitement, maybe? After all, this was a date with actual prospects. The anticipation of flesh-to-flesh contact with another human being, and the promised endorphin rush of good hard sweaty sex, had caused her to waste a good hour debating the appropriate knicker etiquette for tonight.

‘Hey, Tally, is that you?’

She stopped dead at the sound of Sam’s deliberately nonchalant tone, her heels sinking into the deep-pile carpet—and eased a breath out of constricted lungs. Pasting on the surprised smile she’d been practising in the mirror all evening, she spotted Sam standing beside one of the booths. She scanned the rest of his booth as discreetly as possible. A pair of muscular forearms rested on the table, but the remainder of Sam’s companion was hidden in the shadows.

‘Sam, fancy meeting you here.’ She winced at her overly bright tone.

‘Yeah, fancy.’ The twinkle in Sam’s eyes dazzled her with conspiratorial glee. ‘Hey, Brent, this is Tally, a girl I know from way back,’ he added, being deliberately vague about their connection, as they’d arranged. ‘Tally, meet Brent, a pal from my college days.’

She dragged in air, trying not to hyperventilate as a tall man appeared from the shadows and unfolded himself from the booth.

Holy shit.

She sucked in a breath, nearly choking on the drool that collected under her tongue, as he reached out one large tanned hand. ‘Tally, hi.’

Sam had said his friend was ruggedly handsome. For a gay man into art and design, Sam certainly wasn’t into flamboyant overstatement. Brent O’Neill wasn’t ruggedly handsome. He was ruggedly awesome.

Firm fingers folded over hers as her gaze met eyes so blue they were almost translucent, the brilliant aquamarine reminiscent of a Caribbean tourist brochure. She stood momentarily transfixed, the calluses on his palm sending goose bumps sprinting up her arm, as she noticed the bold angles and contours of his face.

Muscular shoulders stretched the seams of a white shirt and tapered down to the lean waist of his charcoal-grey suit trousers. Despite wearing the standard uniform of a well-heeled office worker, with his height—he towered over her even in her heels—and those mile-wide shoulders, he had the aura of a navy SEAL rather than a tech geek.

The brutal buzz cut added to the impression of raw, all-American masculinity, accentuating his blunt features and making her fingers itch to caress the soft spikes of hair covering his scalp. Goodness. He certainly had a physique better suited to hand-to-hand combat in a war zone than booting up a hard drive in Mayfair.

She struggled to re-inflate her lungs, before they collapsed entirely, and say something that didn’t involve whimpering, but then his deep unfathomable gaze roamed down to her cleavage, insolent and entitled—and the supply of oxygen to her brain cut off entirely.

Given that her bust was clad in sequined velvet precisely for the purpose of drawing the male gaze, she couldn’t exactly be outraged by the bold assessment, but that didn’t stop heat flaring across her chest as the knowledge in his eyes made her wonder if Sam had managed to keep his mouth shut about her intentions.

‘Great to meet you. Why don’t you join us?’ His wide, sensual mouth quirked on one side and he gave her hand a gentle tug.

She cleared her throat. That was supposed to have been Sam’s line.

‘Um, thanks.’ She went to slide into the booth next to Sam, but Brent the Magnificent’s large hand touched her hip, sending a jolt of shock and awe up her spine. And stopped her in her tracks. ‘Take my seat. I was heading to the bar. What’s your poison?’

‘A daiquiri.’ He brushed past her, the spicy scent of clean male sending her senses into overdrive as his hand slid off her hip. The familiarity unsettled her a little. Either the guy was super-tactile or he was already staking a claim. And while her nipples weren’t objecting, the rest of her felt a bit dazed. After two years without a ride of any description, maybe she’d overestimated her ability to jump back on the horse—or rather, the stallion—this quickly.

Had she actually requested a huge dick? What had seemed hopelessly arousing in the cab on the way over now seemed overwhelming. Why the heck hadn’t she thought this through a lot more carefully?

Brent lifted a finger to Sam. ‘Another Bud, buddy?’

Sam glanced at his watch, not at all subtly. ‘Actually I’ve gotta shoot.’ He gave Tally a peck on the cheek, as if they were old buddies. The faker. ‘Real sorry not to get the chance to catch up.’ He patted her waist. ‘You wanna hang out with Brent for a while?’