Outside, the city is bathed in inky darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’re the last two left, like always. I tell Francis to go home every night around seven, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am. I let her take every Friday afternoon off to pick up her grandson from school so they can spend time together, but that doesn’t make up for the hours she puts in. I make a mental note to write her a cheque this week as a thank-you.
Sighing, I pack up my laptop. I’ll spend another hour on the computer sifting through emails when I go home. I’m on pins and needles while we wait for results of a gene therapy trial that’s running currently, so it’s not like I’m going to sleep properly anyway. I head out of the office and stand by Francis’s desk, making sure she packs up, too.
Outside, I walk as though my body is being drawn by some magnetic force. The second I think about setting foot in my apartment, my mind drifts to Blondie. Knowing she’s on the other side of the wall is the purest of tortures.
I’ve never met a woman like her before—not one who was so daring and who didn’t give a crap what I thought about her. It’s refreshing, frankly, because most people are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.
I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.
I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.
I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.
I pull it out.
Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.
D. I wonder what her name is.
I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.
I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.
I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.
No casual sex. That’s the rule.
But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.
Blondie picks up on the third ring.
CHAPTER SIX
Drew
“YOU SAID TO call when it was late.”
I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.
“What time is it?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.
“Twelve thirty,” he says.
“Did you just get home?”
“I did.”
“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.
“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.
“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”
“Is it so bad to watch?”
The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”
When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?
“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.
“Who said we’re having sex?”
“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.
&nbs
p; “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.
“Do you like to be taken from behind?” he asks, his breath sharp and quick.
“Yes,” I hiss, fighting the urge to touch myself. I’m going to need one hell of a cold shower after this is all done.
“You want to feel my hands on your hips as I push my hard cock into you? I bet you’d look like a goddess with all that gorgeous hair tangled and running down your back.”
“I’d ask you to pull it, Mr. Suit. I like it a little rough.” I can hear that he’s close now. Just like I was last night as I touched myself in front of him. So close. “I’d want to feel that last hard thrust before you came, calling my name so loud the whole building could hear.”
“Blondie.”
There’s a groan and I feel the pleasure of it all the way down to my toes. He curses again and the sound is pure. Raw. I wish for a second that I’d gone to knock on his door instead of leaving a note—so that I could be wrapped in his arms. So that I could feel the hot press of his body and the warmth of his lips against my skin. The fullness of him inside me.
There’s a keening sound on the other end of the line and I know it’s over. For him, at least. Frustrated energy makes me squirm on the couch and I have to force myself not to go to him. He had his chance—this is simply fun and games.
“Was it good, Mr. Suit?” My voice is rough with desire and my body is coiled tighter than a spring.
“Not as good as if you were here.” His breath is starting to even out. “Not even close.”
“You had your chance,” I tease. “Good night, Mr. Suit.”
“Good night, Blondie.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drew
SATURDAY MORNING IS the final fitting for the bridesmaid dresses, and I am living my worst nightmare. I promised myself that I wouldn’t say one negative thing today—not about the other bridesmaids, not about the fanfare, not about the fact I feel like I’ve stepped out of a Barbie display.
The dresses are pink, of course. With these off-the-shoulder sleeves and delicate line of beading at the waist, floor-length skirts and bodices fit for Grecian princesses. Apparently, I was supposed to bring a pair of high heels to wear with the dress, but I must have missed that memo. Maybe it was in one of Sherilee’s forty-five footnotes.
Ha. Footnotes...get it?
My guess is they wouldn’t, so I keep my mouth shut.
“How’s everything going with the Jack and Jill party?” Annaleigh asks as we stand around while the dressmaker pins the hems. I get a grunt of disapproval from the older woman when she spies my Doc Martens peeking out from under the frothy pink fabric.
“Just peachy. Everything is fine.”
It’s a total lie and Presley shoots me a look across the room. She’ll try on her dress after the bridesmaids are done, so she’s still wearing her blue skinny jeans and a cream silk blouse. I’d told her all about the GPITA—Giant Pain in the Ass—who is the best man.
“Why do I not feel confident about that?” Annaleigh asks with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I wave a hand and get a slap on the thigh from the dressmaker, who tells me to stand still. “We’re currently...aligning our approach for the party.”
“He’s being a disagreeable bastard,” Presley chimes in, and I snort. It’s funny hearing my sister swear in public, since she always seems so prim and proper unless it’s only the two of us.
“I’ll work it out,” I reassure the other women. “I don’t care if I have to track the guy down personally and beat him over the head. We’re going to have the costume party.”
“I thought it was such a fun idea,” Sherilee says. I’m surprised I have her support. Something told me the Stepford bridesmaids wouldn’t be into dress-up parties, but Presley and I lived for them as kids. It’s a nostalgic thing. “The wedding itself will be very formal and we can all get our party dresses out for the hen’s night. This is a chance to do something different. It’s a good idea, Drew.”
My heart warms for a second at Sherilee’s firm nod of approval, her expression serious as always. “Thanks.”
“Ugh, men. I swear to God, they’re terrible at organising anything until we do something they don’t like and then all of a sudden they want to be hands-on.” Pauline snorts. “Typical.”
“Who is the best man, anyway?” I ask. “One of Mike’s friends?”
“His cousin, actually. Some corporate bigwig.” Presley shrugs. “I’ve never met him.”
“You’ve never met him?” I blink. “Does he live in another country?”
“No.” My sister shifts her position, turning away ever so slightly so I can’t see her whole expression. A bad feeling settles in
my gut—we’ve never been the kind of twins who had that whole “twintuition” thing, but I know her. Better than anyone. Something is off. “He lives in Melbourne.”
“How come you’ve never met him?” I ask.
There’s an awkward silence in the room now—so thick it’s like soup. Hot, awkward, gross soup. “Mike’s family has a lot of drama. I’ve never met his stepbrother, either. They’re...estranged, I guess you could say.”
I raise a brow. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah. His parents had a nasty split years ago and it made things super uncomfortable for the family business—Mike works so hard but he’s constantly stressed that his stepbrother is going to come home one day and take the company from him, because he’s the ‘real’ son.” She shakes her head. “And I think he asked his cousin to be his best man because he wanted someone from the family to stand next to him, but he doesn’t want his stepbrother there.”
“That’s sad,” Sherilee murmurs.
I have to agree. My family is far from perfect. It was just Presley and me and our mum growing up because our dad was never in the picture. Who has twins off a random one-night stand? Talk about bad luck. So our mum was young and she probably wasn’t very well equipped, and our grandparents didn’t speak to her for a long time after it happened. They only came back into our lives when we were in high school. There’s still tension and hurt there. But we make do. They’re all coming to the wedding, because our family rallies, even if it takes them a while.
“Yeah. I guess it’s that whole thing about money not buying happiness.” She sighs. Her fiancé’s family are rich—proper rich. And we grew up aspiring for middle class. But Presley has worked hard in her career, as I’ve done in mine. We take care of our mum as best we can and we’re happy. Mostly. “They seemed so perfect the first time I met them, but it was like an onion of drama. Every time you peeled back another layer there were more family secrets. More scandals or affairs or feuds.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Presley is a lover, not a fighter—she’s sweet and liked by all and I can’t see her being happy in a family like that. But I bite back the urge to say so, because ultimately who she marries is her decision. Maybe she won’t end up having much to do with his family.
The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 4
