‘Have you ever...’
‘Ever what?’ I whisper back.
‘You’re fantastic.’ He chuckles darkly. ‘You want me to spell it out for you?’
I’m not being coy. Yes, an explanation is necessary. Accompanying diagrams might help, too.
‘I... erm...’
‘Close your eyes,’ he coaxes. ‘Imagine you’re wrapped in my arms, so close you can feel my heart beat against your back. And I’m hard, pressed against you and you’re wet,sowet.’No problems with imagery so far. Please, do go on.‘I bend you forward over the arm of the chair and step between your open legs, our hearts beginning to beat faster—mine with excitement, yours with a touch of trepidation. Fear. Then my thumbs trace your spine, moving down to break you apart like a soft, ripe peach.’ He doesn’t speak for a beat. ‘Before I push inside.’
Heat rises in my body, my own breath short in my chest.
‘You struggle a little, half deciding to pull away, but my hands are tight on your hips because, beneath the shame you think you should feel, you want this—know I want this. And with a little more pressure, you let me in. All of me.’ His final three words are exhaled in a throaty moan.
Oh. My. God.
‘Are you still there?’ he asks quietly.
‘Yes! I mean, no!’
My words are high pitched and strangled through indignation, a sense of panic and violation. Of stimulation, the ripple of my arousal swirling soft and silky, like caramel through ice-cream. I’m turned on. Inexplicably so. But, god, I’m so not going there.And neither is he.
‘No?’ he questions, laughing softly at my obvious discomfort.
I’m sure discomfort wouldn’t even cover the actual event.
‘No,’ I answer, my voice unusually high, still.
Where the hell can the conversation go from here? Is there a sliding scale for the depraved and debauched? My heart bangs in my chest, my hand squeezing the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.Pardon the pun. But I’m panicked. And aroused. And that realisation just makes me panic a bit more.
‘Interesting,’ he murmurs. His next words, when delivered, are tentative and entirely sweet. ‘But I rang to invite you to dinner tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’ I manage to force the sound from my lips, not able to skip from one conversation to another with quite as much élan. And interesting. I wish he’d enlighten me. Did we really just have a conversation aboutthat?
‘Well?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I’d like that. Dinner, I mean dinner. That’s what I mean.’
‘Understood.’ He laughs. ‘Rashid will collect you at 7:30, if that suits?’
‘Yes, of course. I can make my own way there,’ I garble, ‘by cab.’
‘Not necessary.’
Not wishing to revisit the whole car/cab/sweaty back thing, I agree. ‘Okay. So, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Then my brain seems to push words from my mouth. ‘You tie me in knots, you know.’
‘That sounds like an invitation,’ he purrs, ‘sweet dreams.’
Then he hangs up without a goodbye, quite possibly the only man outside of TV who can carry that off.
Did I just have phone sex? Probably not. I thinkthatwould involve conscious participation, and probably fluids. Pretty bloody close, though. My cheeks burn as I press disconnect, wishing I could detach my brain just as quick.
Sliding my phone across the nightstand, I glance down at the pad. Beneath my mantra, printed in capitals and gouged repeatedly are two words.
BUTT and SEX.
Flinging myself back against the bed, I cover my eyes with one arm.
Must. Not. Think. About. It.
Can’t do anything... butt.
And who the hell doesn’t know what a onesie is, anyway?
