The Boy Toy

by Nicola Marsh

  His mixed heritage explained the gray eyes.

  “I’m a half-and-half too. You’ve met Mom, and Dad was American.”

  “What a spectacular mix it is, if I do say so myself.”

  They locked gazes and . . . nothing. Not a hint of sizzle or attraction like she had with Rory. Kushi would be disappointed with their lack of spark. Manish was easy on the eyes, had a sense of humor, and was a doctor: perfection in any woman’s eyes, but Samira felt nothing but friendship for the handsome medico.

  “I have to get back to the center,” she said, standing. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Anytime, friend.”

  She hesitated, unsure whether to bring up her mom’s matchmaking but thinking it prudent in case Kushi misconstrued this meeting. “Just so you know, I’m going to tell Mom we met up to get her off my back. So if she tells your gran and they book the wedding reception hall, don’t freak out.”

  He chuckled and stood. “So you’re using me as your dating beard. Nice.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’ll play along, but you know giving your mom a hint of anything between us is going to encourage her.”

  Samira sighed. “Maybe, or I’m hoping she’ll back off with the nightly phone calls where she extols your virtues at great length.”

  “I am a pretty good catch.” He squared his shoulders in a mock superhero pose that had her laughing.

  “Then why are you single?”

  The amusement in his eyes faded, and he masked it with an exaggerated eye roll. “Because I haven’t met the right one, of course.”

  He sent her a pointed glare, and she held up her hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m all wrong for you.”

  “Pity. Just imagine, we could’ve had a merging of medical minds.” He winked. “And a merging of other parts—”

  “Stop right there, mister. Being friends means no lame-ass flirting, got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted. “And for the record, I’m not interested in you as more than a friend either, but it’s fun to wind you up.”

  “Idiot,” she muttered, softening it with a touch on his arm. “Thanks again.”

  “Anytime.”

  She watched him stride away, wending his way through Southbank’s lunchtime crowds, relieved they’d established a friendship and craving Rory more than ever.

  Eighteen

  After coffee with Manny, Samira didn’t head back to the health center as planned to catch up on paperwork. Instead, she sought the sanctity of her apartment, where she pondered her irrational urge to call Rory while trying to get patient files in order.

  Bizarre that she felt disloyal after spending thirty minutes with Manny, and while there was absolutely nothing between them and she’d reiterated that, she still felt like she’d cheated somehow. Totally idiotic.

  That was one of the things she’d never been able to fathom about Avi; how he could leave their bed in the morning and go directly to that teenager’s place on his way to work. She hadn’t wanted to know any of the gory details of his affair, but he’d been almost gleeful when he’d told her the news of his impending fatherhood and that he was leaving her for a nineteen-year-old. Bastard.

  She’d been gutted by his cheating and distraught their marriage had ended so soon. It may have taken her a long time to get over it, but Avi had done her a favor. Not being able to give him a baby he so desperately wanted would’ve ultimately caused a breakdown in their marriage. If he couldn’t wait eighteen months for her to fall pregnant before sticking it to another woman, their marriage would’ve been peppered with infidelities, and she would’ve hated that.

  She’d been young and impressionable and hopeful back then. At thirty-seven, she was older and wiser and wouldn’t put up with crap from a guy.

  As much as the news of Avi expecting his second child had affected her when she’d found out, she wondered why the long gap between kids. His eldest would be . . . what? Thirteen or fourteen by now? She wouldn’t wish reproductive challenges on any couple, but maybe karma had caught up with her philandering ex and baby number two might not have been so easy to conceive?

  Hating that she’d allowed thoughts of her ex to intrude, she refocused on her work. However, after staring aimlessly at a patient file for ten minutes, she gave up and shut down her laptop. She knew what would help this strange unease plaguing her.

  Seeing Rory.

  He made her feel carefree in a way she hadn’t experienced for a long time, and right now she could do with some of that. She hoped their second date would be sooner rather than later. She picked up her cell and fired off a text.

  MY SCHEDULE OPENED UP.

  I’M HOME. U FREE?

  She just wanted to spend some time with him, but her text sounded like an invitation for a booty call. Not such a bad idea, but she’d never done anything so brazen.

  When his response pinged a moment later, she jumped.

  B THERE @3

  Glancing at the time in the corner of her cell, she noted she had twenty-five minutes to wait. After firing off a quick GR8, she headed for the shower, where she lathered off her busy morning, shaved her legs, and slathered on body lotion before slipping into a strapless cotton sundress as the buzzer rang.

  After instructing downstairs security to bring him up, she paced a few feet, nerves making her tingle with anticipation. She didn’t do this, invite guys she’d barely started dating up to her apartment during the day knowing it would end in sex. She didn’t lust much as a rule, discounting her crushes on Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston. But there was a world of difference between fantasizing about unattainable movie stars and having a walking, talking fantasy that knew how to pleasure her exactly right.

  A throb between her legs alerted her to why she’d done this. It had only been two days since she’d seen Rory, but she missed him. And she wanted him. Real bad.

  A soft knock sounded at her door, and she padded toward it, inhaling and exhaling with every step. When she opened the door, her breath whooshed out of her lungs. Rory. Wearing a tight black T-shirt, black jeans, and a sexy smile that indicated he knew exactly why she’d asked him over.

  With a nod of thanks to the security guard, she opened the door wider and waited until Rory had entered before slamming the door and whirling on him.

  “Is this what I think it is?” His bold gaze raked over her, and she felt it like a physical touch, as if he’d caressed every inch of exposed skin. “A g-good old-fashioned booty call?”

  Looked like she wasn’t the only nervous one, and in response she took his hand and led him to the bedroom, anticipation thrumming through her veins.

  “Technically, it’s our second date, but hey, booty call works for me too,” she murmured, letting out a little squeal as he nipped at her neck and palmed her ass.

  She wanted this. Wanted him.

  All afternoon.

  * * *

  * * *

  As Rory lay flat on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at Samira’s bland beige ceiling, he wished he could de-stress with mind-blowing sex all the time.

  If hanging out with the housing commission kids in the morning hadn’t been difficult enough, getting a phone call from his agent with the news he’d now be up against one of the biggest reality TV hosts for the Renegades gig had really put him in a shitty mood.

  Samira’s text had been a godsend, and he’d hightailed it to her apartment. He’d expected to sit around, chatting, having a few laughs. He’d hoped for the sex later. To his surprise, she’d skipped the chatter and gone straight for the good stuff. Could she be any more perfect?

  “Here you go.” She padded back into the bedroom holding two glasses of water, incredibly sexy in a large blue T-shirt with USA emblazoned on the front, which skimmed her upper thighs. “Screaming your name is thirsty work, so I really needed this.”

  He laughed, more rela
xed than he’d been since . . . he had been here on Saturday morning. He shouldn’t get used to this. It wouldn’t last. But for now he’d enjoy it.

  “You’re good for my ego,” he said, scooting up into a sitting position and accepting the glass of water she held out to him. “And I hate to pick you up on a technicality, but I think you were moaning my name rather than screaming.”

  “I’ll save that for the next round.” She smiled and clinked glasses as she slid back into bed beside him. “If only all Monday afternoons could be this good.”

  “You didn’t have any patients booked in today?”

  She shook her head. “I had a busy morning but blocked out the afternoon to catch up on paperwork.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  She ogled his chest in blatant appreciation. “Freaking great.”

  He chuckled, loving the banter between them.

  “How was your morning?”

  He gulped the water, draining the glass, giving himself time to compose an answer. While he couldn’t tell her the whole truth about why the speech therapy program was so important to him, he could give her a snippet or two.

  “I hang out with some kids at the housing commission flats in Carlton sometimes. They have tough lives, and it’s good for them to have a mentor.”

  Her eyebrows rose, her eyes glittering with admiration. “That’s pretty cool.”

  He shrugged, like it meant little, when nothing could be further from the truth; helping those kids master their speech meant everything to him. “I was lucky enough to have a privileged upbringing, so it’s good to give something back. That’s why I want to nail the upcoming audition too, so I can help fund some programs for them.”

  She eyed him like he was too good to be true, and increasingly uncomfortable under her obvious admiration, he changed the subject. “I also got a call that turned my morning to crap.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know how my agent referred me for dialect coaching for the big role I’m up for? Well, Benedict Dixon is up for it too.”

  She screwed up her nose. “He sounds familiar.”

  “He’s hosted a couple of big reality shows.”

  “Ah . . . so he’s got the edge on you?”

  “Shit yeah.” Rory sighed. “But I need this role, and I’ll do anything I can to score it.”

  “Things going okay with Pia?”

  He nodded, glad they weren’t discussing him. Pia had assured him about client confidentiality, but they were cousins and he’d wondered. “She’s great. But a million things can go wrong on the day, and I might screw up the audition.”

  Namely, by his nerves getting the better of him and turning him into a stuttering mess.

  “For what it’s worth, I have full confidence in you,” she said, leaning over to brush a kiss across his lips. “You are amazing.”

  Feeling ten feet tall with this woman, he said, “Pity I can’t audition my prowess.”

  “Yeah, pity,” she murmured, trailing a fingernail from his sternum to his belly button. “Speaking about prowess . . .”

  As she tugged the sheet off and slid lower, Rory knew a little afternoon delight was just what he needed to shake off this funk.

  * * *

  * * *

  For a guy who looked like a movie star and had a body she couldn’t get enough of, Rory’s insecurities surprised Samira. He rarely talked about his work. Then again, he didn’t talk much at all, and she’d dominated their conversations the last two times they’d been together.

  As for wanting to help out those kids, if she didn’t already like him more than was good for her, a glimpse of his altruism would’ve tipped her over the edge. Like he just had with his tongue. And his very talented appendage.

  “What are you thinking about?” He traced the gap between her brows with a fingertip, where she often glimpsed the start of frown lines. They made her self-conscious. With him, he made her feel so beautiful she didn’t care.

  “You and your many talents.” She wiggled her eyebrows and he chuckled.

  “We’re pretty great together.”

  “Yeah,” she said, wondering if he meant out of the bedroom too. She didn’t want a full-blown relationship, but grabbing coffee with Manny earlier had cemented one thing. She really liked Rory and wanted to spend more time with him. “Speaking of being together, I know neither of us is wanting anything long-term, but how about hanging out?”

  “Dating, you mean?”

  Loath to make it official but knowing she had to acknowledge they’d be more than “hanging out,” she nodded. “Yeah, though I have to warn you, my mom’s trying to match me with this Indian doctor, and while we’re nothing more than friends, we might cross paths occasionally.”

  Rather than her declaration intimidating him, an eyebrow arched in amusement. “Sounds like you’ve already seen him?”

  An embarrassed blush flushed her cheeks. “Mom invited him to my welcome-home party, where I told him I wasn’t interested. Then he referred me a patient today and we caught up for coffee.”

  His other eyebrow rose. “You sure this guy knows you’re not interested and that referral wasn’t just a sneaky way to see you?”

  Flattered by the hint of jealousy in his tone, she shook her head. “I told him I’m seeing someone.” She broached the short distance between them to whisper in his ear, “That someone is you.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” he said, flipping her onto her back so quickly she squealed.

  His hands were everywhere, stroking and caressing, his mouth hot and frantic as it claimed hers, and for the third time since he’d arrived on her doorstep, he pleasured her until she could focus on nothing but him.

  When he shifted his weight off her, she rolled onto her side to face him. “I like being with you. A lot.”

  Too much too soon? Maybe, but he cupped her cheek, his palm warm, while his steady gaze tried to convey a message she hoped she read correctly.

  “Same here.” He hesitated, as if wanting to say more, before giving a little shake of his head. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  He pointed to the condom and dropped a lingering kiss on her lips before getting out of bed and striding into the bathroom. The sight of his taut, bare butt had her itching to crawl all over him again once he took care of practicalities.

  She’d barely had time to snuggle under the sheets, close her eyes, and replay their last sensual encounter in every glorious detail when his loud “fuck” had her sitting bolt upright at the urgency in his tone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She wrapped a sheet around her and followed him into the bathroom, grateful he’d turned on the muted mirror lights and not the all-too-illuminating fluorescents. She may be comfortable with him in bed, but she didn’t think either of them was quite ready for her thirty-seven-year-old body in the harshest unflattering light.

  “Condom broke.” He pointed to the discarded rubber in the trash, panic paling his cheeks, accentuating his vulnerability, his age.

  “Don’t worry.” It wasn’t like she could get pregnant or anything. “I’m clean and it’s not the right time of my cycle.”

  She actually needed to have a cycle for that to happen.

  “I’m clean too,” he said, his relief obvious by the return of his trademark smile, the one that made her realize he was naked, they were in a bathroom, and the marble-and-glass double shower stall was less than two feet away.

  “We could get cleaner.” She sent a pointed look at the shower.

  “Great idea.”

  He whipped the sheet out of her hands before she could blink, bundled her into the shower, and turned the jets to warm.

  Make that hot, very hot, as his hands and mouth played her body for all it was worth.

  Nineteen

  Expanding her physical thera
py practice in LA to include alternative therapies had been a goal of Samira’s from day one. Her interest in dialect coaching had come from a conversation with Pia years ago, and she’d run with it. She’d had several clients over the last eighteen months, actors and actresses wanting an extra boost for competitive Hollywood roles.

  She knew it was a fairly new field in Australia, one that physical therapists were rarely involved in, so when she spied a new referral for a client requiring dialect coaching first thing on Tuesday morning, she was ecstatic. Pity her first referral hadn’t worked out. Then again, she’d rather have Rory in her bed than in her office.

  Until she glimpsed the name and realized the implications of helping this particular client.

  Benedict Dixon.

  Well-known host of reality TV shows.

  And Rory’s biggest rival for the audition he wanted to nail to help those poor kids financially.

  Crap.

  However, she was a professional, and as she spent the next hour honing Benedict’s diaphragmatic breathing and demonstrating techniques using a strong core for voice projection, she focused solely on the job at hand. It wasn’t until he’d left her office with a sheet of exercises and another appointment that the guilt set in.

  Stupid, because she had nothing to feel guilty about. He’d been referred to her; she had to do her job. Worse, she couldn’t tell Rory about it because of therapist-patient confidentiality, and she would never betray her code of ethics. Instead, she had an odd feeling she was betraying Rory.

  Needing to off-load to Pia, she stepped out of her office and strode toward the foyer. Only to find Rory and Benedict in some weird standoff, their buffed bodies radiating tension as they acknowledged each other with a tense nod before shifting away.

  Samira breathed a sigh of relief when Benedict left, short-lived relief when Rory fixed an accusing gaze on her.

  He strode toward her, purpose in his step, thunder in his eyes. “You’re coaching that dickhead?”