Page 8 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Puck, that’s so good, right there, baby.”

Maybe it’s weird for him because I’m saying naked things, but I’m wearing running tights and a sweatshirt, and shoes and socks. And a messy bun with a paintbrush jammed in it.

Chet makes everything worse when he says, “Hey, let’s do some anal.”

I feel obligated to respond, “You know I love it in my butt, baby. Do me in my ass. I need it.”

Hotty deliveryman’s jaw is now hanging open. Pretty sure it’s my fault.

“It’s so big. Do you think it will fit?”

I hand back his little electronic signing pad thingie and give him a thumbs-up and a silent “Good?”

He looks like a confused puppy, including baffled head tilt, as he watches me get ready to have another verbal orgasm.

Chet insists we come together, and he’s losing his mind, so I kinda have to do what I have to do. Now. On my doorstep. In front of the hot deliveryman.

Oh hell.

“Oh my god, it’s so pucking good. I’m coming. Right now. I’m pucking coming!” I let it out, loud, with a shriek for authenticity, thankful none of our neighbors are around.

Mr. Gorgeous finally shakes it off and gives me a silent thumbs-up in return and hands over the envelope, scratching his head. I’m pretty sure I’ve scarred him for life. Either that or he’ll start sending me packages himself so he can get another look, no idea which.

“Bye, baby.”

I’m talking to Chet, but the cute deliveryman turns around and gives me a fat wink and waves as he heads down the stairs.

I don’t even blush about these things anymore. Fancy that.

A few hours later, our apartment is sparkling clean, my paycheck is a few hundred bucks richer, the day is young, and I’ve only terrorized one deliveryman.

A couple of blowjobs, some sexy times with a werewolf with a biting problem, and a gang bang done around folding laundry and scrubbing every surface that can be scrubbed might not be everyone’s idea of a good time, but I can’t complain. I put on a kettle, and I’m setting up my easel to work on a painting for my CCAD class when I get another call from the office.

“Kaitlin, remind me,” Jessica says, her tone a little smug, which is rarely a good thing. “Was the bet fifty dollars if Henry Sterling called back in ten days or two weeks?”

Ugh. I’m not a betting girl. I won’t let go of two pennies if I have a choice about it. There’s a reason I still eat instant ramen, despite being well out of the starving student tax bracket. But the odds of someone sweet and polite calling again were zero in this case, and that felt like free money.

“Fourteen days. Tonight at 2:00 a.m., specifically, your money is mine. Feel free to make your concession speech now.”

“Back at ya, babe. Repeat after me, ‘Jessica Hunter is always right.’”

“Hardly,” I say. “There is no chance I’m saying that.”

“He’s on the phone, asking for you now, so it’s enough for me to take your money and know that I’m 100 percent correct.”

I hate the waste, but I’m oddly pleased to be wrong. As soon as the thought rolls through my brain, a wave of panic rips through me. Am I hallucinating right now? Delighted to lose fifty bucks because it means I get to talk to a caller? Nonsense.

“I’ll call you back once he’s set up, if it’s safe to assume you’ll speak to him?”

“Happy to.” And I am. Quite. Must be part of the hallucination.

“Remember this one thing: you’re going to have to think of a better story to tell the grandkids. You’ll scar them for life if you tell them Grandma and Grandpa met while having phone sex.” She laughs, cracking herself up. “Henry and Kaitlin sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Whatever. I’m not meeting the love of my life doing phone sex.”

I pour a cup of tea, lapsang souchong. It’s a smoked black tea, so it kind of smells like campfire with a slug of cream and sugar. I grab my cup, find the matching saucer, and head to my favorite chair.

I like my job. It’s lucrative, and the three of us work well together. People hate call centers and voicemail mazes, yet that’s how most phone sex businesses are run. I was convinced that phones being answered by real humans would be a winner. Add a brainy idea by Hunter, “Let’s make it feel like matchmaking and ask them what kind of woman they’re looking for,” and we were killing it.