Sexy Shorts

by Kathryn Nolan

  “It’s hard for me to focus sometimes,” he admitted. “Because my coworker wears these pencil skirts that are quite distracting.”

  I grinned at that. “I wear them on purpose. To tempt you.”

  Another swipe of his thumb across my lips. I knew he was going to kiss me.

  Oh God did I want him to kiss me.

  “I know,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  His fingers curled in the strands of my hair at the base of my neck. “Because I see you, Delilah.”

  It was the easiest thing in the world for me to fuse our lips together. Gentle at first, an exquisite exploration of his soft, full mouth. Finally feeling his skin beneath my fingertips, sliding up his chest. This kiss was sweetness and light, and when I pulled back, Henry’s heated gaze remained on my lips.

  “What do you see now?” I asked.

  His rough palm slid down my spine. A pull, and my body was dragged hard into his.

  “I see a woman that tastes like starlight,” he said, and then he captured my mouth with a raw ferocity that made my head spin. Quiet, intellectual Henry—the dashing librarian of my dreams—was claiming my lips with a hungered need that had my fingers twisting in the lapels of his jacket. When I parted my lips on a soft moan, his tongue slid between them, kissing me thoroughly. Firmly. Ravenously. His mouth was an assault on my senses, and like everything else Henry did, he’d studied me as meticulously as he’d studied our stolen manuscripts. His lips left mine, re-discovering the sensitive shell of my ear, and my head fell back on a long, gratified sigh. My ear, the spot just below my ear, the column of my throat, my shoulder. Henry’s lips divined a sensual path as pleasure set fire to my senses. He was so good. And when his strong fingers landed on my knee, my legs parted easily. Henry’s teeth grazed my neck, and his fingers slid beneath my skirt, gliding along the soft skin of my inner thighs. Inch by tantalizing inch—his fingers were deliberate and sure, drawing intricate circles. I moaned, canting my hips forward, desperate for his touch as his teeth scraped my ear.

  I felt seconds away from levitation… and then both of our phones went off in a riot of chimes.

  We jumped a foot in the air, pulling back from our steamy kiss with swollen lips and shaky breath. I glanced down at my phone first, which was either the stupidest thing I’ve ever done or the smartest.

  It was a text from our boss.

  Abraham: Nice job, you two. You make quite the team. Christopher will be by in a few days to pick up the manuscript. He’s very pleased with our work. Get some rest. I’ll see you at 8:00 am tomorrow morning.

  My limbs were still entwined with Henry’s, and as I slowly untangled us, reality snaked in, clearing my lust-filled senses.

  “Fuck fuck fuck,” I said, letting my phone drop, avoiding eye contact with Henry. One look, and I’d be straddling his lap in the middle of this tavern. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said. “I got a bit… swept away.”

  I bit my lip, the glare from my phone mocking me. Abe’s text was a shining example of why Cipher had such a strongly enforced policy. Our jobs were about focus and stealth. Henry and I had indulged in a couple drinks at midnight and had ended up kissing like teenagers in the back of a movie theater.

  “Probably for the best, right?” I said, shifting uneasily, sliding further down the booth. Away from Henry’s alluring fingers and skilled lips.

  “Right,” he said. “I mean, we don’t want to get fired. And we would definitely get—”

  “Fired,” I said, standing up on shaky legs. “So I should go, I think.”

  “Or I should go,” he said, fixing his collar. “Can I walk you?”

  We were a mess of anxious limbs and stumbling words—and I was so turned on I could barely stand up straight.

  “No, it’s fine; why don’t—”

  Our phones rang out again in the quiet tavern, and we both cursed. Henry pulled out his phone, grimaced. He turned the screen around for me to see the second text from Abe.

  Abraham: Just kidding. I need you and Delilah here at 7:30 am. Something big just came in.

  If you enjoyed that sexy sneak-peek of Henry and Delilah. Their story is coming in 2019…

  Did you enjoy Sexy Shorts (Volume 1)? Check out a preview chapter of Kathryn’s latest sexy release, STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL…

  STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL

  ROXY

  It was nearing midnight, and the slightly shabby tattoo parlor that I owned was dead yet again.

  Outside, the new sign I’d installed six months ago flashed, cheerfully soldiering on even though half the bulbs were burned out. It was supposed to say ‘Roxy’s’, but the mismatched bulbs made the sign look like ancient runes instead of letters.

  We were dead, and that was a problem. The second problem was the chart I was staring at.

  “Tell me what these squiggles mean,” Mack said, sitting on a bar stool with a cup of chamomile tea. Mack, short for ‘Machete,’ was one of my oldest friends. Huge, bald, covered in tattoos on every spare inch of his body, including his face. He gave off a terrifying first impression, until you got to know him and he started talking to you about the importance of yoga and meditation.

  “Well,” I said with a sigh. “This squiggle is revenue. This one is profit. This one is expenses.”

  Mack rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and pointed to the ‘profit’ line. “Then shouldn’t this squiggle be higher?”

  I bit my lip. “Yes. Yes, it should.”

  My laptop sat on a large stack of papers and books – research to finish a paper I had due in two days. I was six months away from finishing my MBA, but so far the fifteen hours a week I spent in classes didn’t seem to be helping the actual small business I owned.

  “It’ll grow, Roxy. You’ll see. The only way out is through,” Mack said, sipping his tea. Mack was the only person in my life who could spout that nonsense at me.

  “What way is that?” I asked, smiling grimly and shutting my laptop. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the exhaustion of three tattoo clients, class, and hours of studying settle over my body.

  “Oh, sorry. I was just reading the quote on my tea bag,” Mack said, flipping it over so I could see.

  I laughed, and Mack pulled me in for a hug. “Listen, I hate to run, but Rita expected me home hours ago. Is it okay if I…?”

  I gave him a shove. “Go home to your beautiful wife and beautiful children. We’re basically cleaned up. It’ll take me an hour, tops.”

  Mack slid his leather jacket on, grabbed his motorcycle helmet. “And you feel okay, locking up on your own?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Of course. It’s just me and the hipsters across the street.”

  Mack opened the door, giving me a mock salute before leaving. I could see a long line of people waiting for the new artisanal ice cream parlor that had opened across the street. Next to it was a new brunch spot and next to that was a pet store that specialized in organic treats.

  Five years ago, this block of Washington Heights, a historically Dominican neighborhood, was mostly older homes, families, and bodegas. But the neighborhood was growing more expensive by the day.

  I let out another sigh. Before I’d purchased this parlor, it had been called ‘Skull and Bones’ and had been run by a real piece of shit named Arrow. It’d been around since the seventies, thriving during New York’s seediest years, specializing in vintage sailor tattoos. I’d always admired it, and after finishing my tattoo apprenticeship, I’d applied to be an artist there. I’d been thrilled when Arrow hired me.

  And that’s when the problems began.

  Because Arrow ran a bad shop. It was unclean. Managed poorly. And, worst of all, he treated his customers like shit. It was immediately obvious, within the first few weeks of working there, that ‘Skull and Bones’ was a sinking ship.

  So I’d done something that I now feared was monumentally stupid: I bought it from him. It hadn’t been worth much, but it still cost me a small business loan fr
om the bank (and an interest-free loan from my parents). Arrow had been happy to have it off his hands, and now I understood why.

  Beyond the utter awfulness of how he’d run his business, there was the cold, hard fact that our block was becoming exponentially trendier. We didn’t have succulents in our windows or serve cappuccinos to our waiting customers. We didn’t specialize in the hip, new tattoo styles, and we’d been so broke I hadn’t been able to afford to change anything inside with the exception of reinstating levels of cleanliness that should have been standard practice for our industry.

  But none of that mattered because we couldn’t get any customers to come in. Customers were heading toward the newer, nicer shops. A small, rational part of my brain knew that owning a small business (with absolutely no expertise) would be an uphill battle. And I’d happily accepted the challenge.

  I was Roxy Fucking Quinn. I ate uphill battles for breakfast. Stomped on problems with my combat boots while shaving my head for the hundredth time.

  Except… that profit squiggle was declining. Sharply. Persistently.

  And so I’d grimly enrolled in CUNY’s Executive MBA program—one year, ten hours of classes a week—thinking it would magically fix all of my problems.

  It hadn’t.

  I turned on an old Misfits album as I wiped down the black leather chairs and cleaned the tattoo guns. Confirmed a few appointments for tomorrow and straightened my desk. Swept the floors and double-checked our inventory of ink. Tried to quiet my anxious thoughts with repetitive motions and loud punk.

  Because even with all its problems, I loved this little shop as shabby as it was. It wasn’t as brightly lit or cheerful as the newer places, but once I took over I’d filled the walls with black-and-white photos of my favorite musicians and old snapshots of New York City. I hung my art on the walls next to Mack’s and Scarlett’s, my other artists. It was a hodge-podge of vintage sailor designs (my specialty), surreal landscapes, and intricate black-and-white portraits. It wasn’t overly inviting… but we were friendly.

  We just didn’t look it.

  And now I was up to my eyeballs in school debt and business debt, and even worse, I’d convinced Mack and Scarlett to come over from other shops. We’d been friends for years, and they trusted me to keep them safe. They relied on me for their paychecks, their reputation, their livelihood.

  And I was squandering that trust away.

  Exhausted, I hauled my books and papers into my bag and flipped off the music. I was just turning off the lights when the bell rang over the door.

  “We’re closed,” I called over my shoulder although technically we were open for another hour. But I just wanted to kick off my combat boots and crawl into bed.

  “Please don’t be closed,” the customer said, and I turned at the sound of his refined English accent. I narrowed my eyes at his appearance: three-piece, striped suit. Tie only slightly askew. Hair immaculate. Shoes a gleaming crimson.

  “We’re closed,” I repeated. “And I think you’ve got the wrong place.”

  The man sighed. “I don’t think that I do, actually.”

  I popped a hand on my hip, smirking. “Yeah, the bank is that way.”

  I muttered corporate asshole under my breath as I gathered the rest of my things and pondered pepper-spraying the man in the bespoke suit and shiny shoes.

  “Interestingly, I’m not looking for a bank. I’m looking for a willing tattoo artist to place permanent ink on my body that will help me forget the fact that I was just spectacularly dumped. In public. By my girlfriend of two years.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Noticed that he was listing, just slightly, against the doorway. My eyes narrowed further, raking over his form. Tall and almost graceful, his broad shoulders also hinted at powerful muscle beneath those fancy threads.

  I dropped my bag.

  “Huh,” I said, sauntering towards him. I didn’t miss the way his eyes snagged on my hips. “Let me guess. You’re drunk?”

  He blushed just slightly. “Let just say I’m not sober. Five strong drinks in. Drunk enough to make a decision I’ll regret the rest of my life. Not drunk enough to not want to do it. Does that make sense?”

  His accent was doing things to me. Things I’d rather it not do.

  “I don’t ink drunk dudes,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Even if you’re only not not drunk. This might look like a piece-of-shit establishment, but I take it seriously. This is my business.”

  The man held his palms up. “Not looking for a fight, um, ma’am? I’m sorry, are you a ma’am? Or a… a miss?” He wasn’t joking, but he was adorable, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  He noticed.

  I wondered what else he was noticing or judging: my heavily tattooed skin, bleached-white hair shaved on the sides, septum ring and nipple rings (not that he could see those). I looked like Trouble.

  He looked like Wall Street.

  A slightly flushed English Wall Street.

  “Neither,” I said. “I’m Roxy.”

  “Roxy?” His eyebrows arched.

  “That’s my name,” I said. “Why, what’s yours? Something dignified like Dilbert?”

  He snorted, eyes crinkling at the sides, and my belly tightened. “Good one. I expected something crasser, but Dilbert is good. And no, it’s Edward.”

  Edward. He looked like an Edward. Gentle and polite. Certainly not the kind of man I was typically attracted to—dirty in all the ways that counted. Hard and muscled and silent—the kind of man that liked fucking me in front of my mirror.

  Edward looked like the kind of man who would break for tea halfway through.

  He plopped down on one of the leather tattoo chairs. “And you haven’t asked me about my very recent break-up. Recent as in three hours before I came in here.”

  “And you haven’t told me what kind of tattoo you thought would obliterate the pain of heartbreak,” I said dryly since I’d seen it all before. Had tattooed hearts and names and then inked them over when things went south.

  Edward shrugged, lips quirking up. He tried to catch my eye, but I turned away quickly. “I’ll tell you my story if you recommend a tattoo.”

  “That I’m not giving you now, are we clear on that?” I asked.

  “Yes… ma’am,” he finally said with a slight rasp to his voice that had the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  “Okay, then,” I said, sitting primly in the chair next to him. I crossed my legs, and his eyes trailed up my torn fishnet stockings. “Hello?” I snapped, even though I kind of liked the feel of it—a polite perusal.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking genuinely apologetic. “What you should know is that while I am a corporate asshole, I’m quite a nice one.”

  I opened my mouth. Shut it.

  “I have excellent hearing, Roxy,” he said. My toes curled in my boots. I shifted in my chair, shaking the feeling away. “I come from a long line of corporate assholes. Actually, that’s not entirely true. My family comes from old money in England. We own The Cartwright Hotel chain.”

  The air rushed out of my lungs.

  “You’re familiar?” he asked.

  “You know I am,” I drawled, trying to mentally guess how much he was worth. The Cartwright Hotel chain was famously lavish and exorbitantly priced, catering to the mega-wealthy all across the world.

  “So, yes, we’re both corporate assholes and old money. The very worst combination,” he said, smiling now.

  “Okay, I get it. Don’t judge a book by its cover or whatever,” I said.

  He chuckled in appreciation. “Unfortunately, I do not own The Cartwright Hotel in Manhattan. My parents do. I have managed it for them for the past decade. My younger siblings both own their own Cartwrights in various locations.”

  “They own their own hotels, but you just manage yours?” I asked, catching his clarification.

  “Yes,” he said, cheeks flushing slightly. “A vital aspect of this rubbish story. My parents, like most people i
n their extremely privileged position, are maniacally concerned with their legacy. Ownership of our own hotels is written into our private trust funds. And that ownership is contingent upon marriage to a suitable partner. Suitable meaning a partner they approve of. And of course, a partner with whom we will reproduce, thereby joyously continuing their legacy.”

  I snorted—I couldn’t help it. “That sounds like a business arrangement, Dilbert. Not a family.”

  Edward opened his palms face-up with a look of gratitude. “Ah, you understand. It is a business arrangement, and as I love The Cartwright Hotel, I’m more than ready to marry an approved partner and receive ownership. Was ready to marry, for example, the woman who just terminated our relationship at Le Bernardin.”

  “That’s a fancy place to have your heart smashed in. And a very corporate vision of marriage,” I said.

  “I am a Cavendish, after all,” he sighed. “But I don’t want it to seem like Emily and I, over these past two years, didn’t… didn’t care for each other. Even though, and I can admit this to myself now,” he said, sliding a hand through his hair and mussing it slightly, “she was likely a she-devil parading around on this earth as a human woman.”

  “She-devil,” I smirked. “Explain.”

  “Well, she bloody broke up with me at a restaurant and wouldn’t even let me get bloody angry as she ripped my heart out and stomped on it.” He let out a long exhale, and for the first time I saw pain, not levity, in his gaze. I turned around and fired up the coffee pot behind me, pulling out two mugs.

  Edward’s brow lifted.

  “Is this one of those new-fangled tattoo machines?”

  “Har har,” I said. “It’s a coffee pot. Because at some point, after you’ve bored me with this story of corporate asshole-ry, you’re going to need to be sober enough to leave me alone.” I nodded towards him. “So, please continue. You were getting to the good part.”