The Fling

“I assume you didn’t slip your number into my door so I could give you a wakeup call for nothing.”

I grin. “I did not.”

“Then why did you do it, Blondie?”

I laugh. “I’ve been calling you Mr. Suit in my head all day long. Seems we’ve both got nicknames for one another.”

“I was trying to figure out what D stood for,” he said. “I’ve already crossed off Danielle, Debbie and Diana.”

“You would be correct, so far.” Not that I have any intention of telling him my name—I made that promise to myself last night. Nothing real. This is just for fun. A necessary diversion while the rest of my life is smoking ruins. “I’ll tell you it’s not Deanna, Deirdre or Dominique, either.”

“What about Dallas?”

I laugh. “Do I look like a cowgirl to you?”

I could talk to him all night long. There’s something soothing about his voice—the deep bass and dry wit—that makes me forget about all my problems.

“I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to make a dirty joke about how hard you ride.” There’s noise in the background, like he’s moving around. “But you deserve more than a cliché, Blondie.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Getting ready for bed.” Something clicks, maybe a light switch. “It’s late.”

“And dark.”

“And it’s my turn, according to your note.”

This is it—the open door. He’s willing to play. A shiver runs the length of my spine and I burrow further down into the couch, keeping the blanket up over me. I feel like we’re playing a game of cat and mouse. Teasing one another.

Playing with fire.

“I believe in equality for the sexes,” I say. “Orgasms for everyone.”

“That’s very noble.” There’s that dry humour again. “What made you do it on the balcony last night? Revenge for me saying no?”

“There was a little of that,” I admit. “You left me hanging. I had pent-up energy to expel, and I wanted to show you what you were missing.”

“I couldn’t get you out of my head. I’ve been trying to concentrate on work all day and I could only think about your pink underwear and incredible legs.”

“And you’re thinking about them again now.”

There’s a soft releasing of breath. “How could I not?”

“I’m wearing blue tonight. With little white stripes and lace around the edges.” I bite down on my lip as there’s a muffled moan from his end. “Same T-shirt.”

“Take if off.”

I pretend to. I’m not going to defile my friend’s couch—there’s girl code about that kind thing. But Mr. Suit doesn’t need to know. And besides, I like the fantasy. I like controlling what he thinks is happening because it makes me feel powerful to be in charge of his pleasure.

“No bra tonight, either,” I say.

“Just the blue stripes, huh?” He lets out a jagged curse. “Are you in your bed?”

“On the couch. Just where I would have been last night in you hadn’t walked out on me. I bet you’re regretting that now.”

“I don’t know what would have happened if I’d stayed.”

“You want storytime, huh?” I cluck my tongue. “That’s naughty.”

“Not as naughty as what I’m doing right now.”

My sex clenches at the thought of it. I know his body is made for pleasure—all broad shoulders and strong arms. I know he was packing something hefty behind that towel last night. I imagine him on top of the covers looking every bit like something I’d hope to find waiting for me at the end of a long day—hooded eyes and a wicked smile and a hard cock.

“Well, my plan was to have a drink and a chat and a kiss.” I close my eyes and let myself sink into the fantasy. “I wanted to see how you kiss, because that’s a sure-fire way to tell if a guy’s good in bed.”

“Did you have concerns that I don’t know how to use my tongue? If so, you’d be wrong.”

Ah, so he’s cocky. I’m not surprised and I kind of like it—he’s a man who doesn’t mince words. He’s firm in his opinions and beliefs. He’s a man of conviction, especially in himself.

“That’s for me to decide, Mr. Suit. Not for you to tell me.”

The dark chuckle that vibrates through the line sends goose bumps skittering across my skin.

“Now, if I’d decided you were a good kisser, I was going to lead you into the shower.”

“The shower, huh?”

“Not my apartment, remember? I can’t bring a guy into my friend’s bed. And truth be told... I love being fucked in the shower.” When he moans, I squeeze my thighs together. “I love the water running over my skin, and the way the tiles feel cold against my palms as I brace myself. I love being clean and dirty at the same time.”

“I think you’re dirty to the bone, Blondie. No shower is going to fix you up.” He grunts. “And bloody hell it’s sexier than anything.”

I’m warm now and I push the blanket back, letting the cool air prickle over my skin. I wish he was here, hands on my thighs while he lowered those full lips to the pulsing spot between my legs. “I would have invited you into the shower, stripped down while you watched and climbed in to give you a show.”

“Like on the balcony.” His breath comes a little quicker now.

“Just like that, but with no T-shirt and no underwear so you could see every part of me.” I pause, making him wait for one heartbeat. Then two. Three. I’ve got him hooked. “I’d give you a show and get myself all warmed up for you. Then I would have told you to strip down and join me.”

“What then?”

“I’d tell you to get on your knees and show me how you use that tongue.”

“Fuck,” he grunts. “I bet you taste sweet as honey. I would have loved feeling those beautiful thighs clamp around my head.”

Now it’s my turn to stifle a moan. Having a big, strong man on his knees for me is my personal catnip. I love a guy who enjoys oral sex—both giving and receiving. Like I said, orgasms for everyone.