Hers for the Evening

by Jasmine Haynes

  Surrender To Me

  contractors didn’t have the proper asbestos licensing, which gave Foster-Ventura a leg up on the competition. As for Haley’s schedule, it was year-end for them and all the accounting work that went with it. She’d always been a hard worker, something he’d admired from the moment she came to work for the partnership twelve years ago. He should have snapped her up right away, but he hadn’t even thought about settling down back then. So he missed his chance. Because Artie was ready for her.

  Water under the bridge. He climbed out of the truck, slammed the door, and took the three steps to the front entrance in a single bound. The door was locked—kinda strange—and the front office was empty. He rounded Haley’s desk. She’d refused to move into Artie’s vacant office, preferring to stay out front. Simon figured she didn’t want any more reminders than necessary. Artie’s office was strictly storage space now. Colored fish swam across her computer monitor. A quick glance into the break room showed she wasn’t there, either. She must have run across the street to the Starbucks. He only had a couple of things he wanted to check, so instead of booting up his own machine—in his office—he tapped Haley’s keyboard. She wouldn’t mind. They had a LAN and shared files.

  She had a spreadsheet up, but he popped over to her open Internet window. It took long moments for his brain to catch up with his eyes. Mostly because he couldn’t imagine Haley looking at . . . ads for casual sex?

  No way, that wasn’t her. She was a sexy lady, but sort of prudish. Simon had closed his ears to the stuff Artie said. He’d refused to discuss their sex life. As a couple, they’d been his best friends. At one time. Before Artie starting cheating. And Artie’s excuse? Because Haley wasn’t a firecracker in bed. Didn’t want to be. It even embarrassed her.

  The ad’s subject line emblazoning the screen wasn’t prudish at all. You know you want to be my sex slave.

  Holy hell. She was into bondage?

  He couldn’t help reading, mesmerized. It wasn’t a coarse, crass advertisement for dirty sex. It was a story. He read as if he were seeing straight into the deepest, darkest corner of her heart and soul.

  Be prepared. You will do whatever I say and love it. I call as I am walking to your door. Unlocking it, you wait for me. On your knees . . . wearing nothing but 176

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  a pair of sexy high heels. I close the door, stand in front of you, and undo my jeans. Taking my cock out, you slip the head into your mouth. I run my fingers through your hair as I caress your throat with my cock. Your tongue is all over the shaft and head and it keeps me hard. Finally I pull out and order you to give me your hands. I shackle you with wrist cuffs, pull you close, and place a thin leather collar around your neck. With my finger through the ring in your collar, I lead you to your bed, sit you on it, and fasten both wrists to the headboard. You belong to me now. I kiss your lovely neck, lick your abundant breasts, and suck on your luscious nipples. You feel my hard cock between your gorgeous, sexy legs. I pinch your pretty skin, leaving a few nice red marks so you can remember me after I’m gone. Something you can look at in the mirror the next few mornings when you finish your shower. Kissing and licking my way to your hips, I move between your legs, placing my mouth over your beautiful pussy lips. You shudder with delight. I suck on the inside of your thigh. I love the taste of you. Holding your chin in my hand, you are my captive, my slave, and I remind you that it is the weekend. No one is expecting to hear from you until Monday. You are mine to do with as I wish for days.

  Do you like this fantasy so far? Do you need to hear more? Do you want to meet me and be my slave?

  Simon’s cock pulsed as if it had a life of its own. And fuck, it wanted Haley. If she’d been standing in front of him, he’d have bent her over the desk and taken her hard and fast. Maybe he would have tied her hands first. Christ, maybe he’d have tied himself up in her long, silky, touchable chestnut hair. Flipping to her Internet history, he checked out the other ads she’d viewed on the site. Three of them, all submissive or bondage stuff from being cuffed or tied to spanking, phrased eloquently enough that it didn’t seem a man could have written them. Or they were written by men who understood how to tap into the feminine psyche. Sexy and titillating without being crude and obscene, they appealed to a woman’s need for fantasy. He was about to click into her e-mail to see if she’d answered any when he caught himself. What the hell was he doing?

  Spying on her. Invading her privacy.

  Simon had never done that. Never gossiped, never spied, never stuck his nose in someone else’s business. That code had ruined his relationship with Haley. As much as he’d thought Artie was an ass for cheating, he’d never felt it 177

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  was his right to tell Haley. Somehow, because of his feelings for her, to tell felt self-serving.

  Yet here he was, spying on the very woman whose trust he hoped to regain. It was a momentary lapse into thinking with his dick. He was better now. Simon shut down all the windows he’d clicked on and maximized the spreadsheet file the way she’d had it.

  Fuck. No little fishies swimming back and forth. She’d realize he’d seen something. It couldn’t be helped. He was above changing the screen saver wait time to hide his dirty deeds. However, if they came back on before she returned, he’d call it providence. In the break room, he poured himself a cup of coffee, then headed down the short hall to his office, passing the restroom. And stopped. He’d heard a sound. There it was again, more clearly identifiable as a . . . voice. Inside the restroom. A wave of heat rolled through his body, and the dick he’d gotten under control flared to life, hot, hard, and ready for action.

  She moaned again. Oh yeah, that was a moan and that was Haley. They had a receptionist who came in three times a week, but not on Saturdays. Saskia was a sixty-five-year-old grandmother. He couldn’t picture her locked inside the restroom moaning like that.

  Mother of God, he could picture Haley. He couldn’t stop picturing her. She was masturbating. She’d gotten hot looking at Internet sex ads and run to the restroom to relieve the built-up tension.

  The moans came faster, sharper, louder. She cried out, and there was no mistaking her voice. She came forever. Simon thought his head would explode. Or his dick. His breath caught, his heart pounded, and his palms began to sweat. If he stayed there much longer, he’d start jerking off in the corridor. The break room seemed the only logical place to hide out. If he went to his office, she’d guess he’d heard. His hands were shaking as he added another spoonful of creamer and stirred. The coffee was now milk-white and undrinkable, but he drank anyway to keep himself busy. No woman had ever affected him this way, and he’d had more than his share of ladies. He’d truly cared for a good number of them, too, but only Haley had ever made his heart pound like this. Maybe it was because he’d been her friend without fucking her. She was, in fact, his only female friend. Or at least she had been until Artie’s frantic lover called him to say she thought he’d died in Simon’s bed. Simon had called 911, but Artie was 178

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  already dead from a massive coronary.

  Haley never forgave Simon. As his punishment, he’d started craving her more. Now he had the hot memory of her moans and cries to add to his storehouse.

  He had to make his move soon. What if she answered one of those ads?

  A smile grew on his lips, like the Grinch when he decided to steal Christmas. What if she answered an ad?

  And it was his?

  DAMN, SHE’D NEEDED THAT. WHEN HALEY TURNED FORTY A COUPLE of months ago, her hormones started raging as if she were a teenager. All she thought was sex, sex, sex, cruising personal ads to titillate herself. Pathetically, she’d even started carrying her vibrator in her purse. Haley washed off the instrument of her perversion, put it away, tucked her long-sleeved tee into her jeans, and buckled her belt. She hadn’t been with a man since Artie’d died. He’d destroyed her faith, in men, and worse, in herself. She didn’t want to put herself o
ut there again. Ever. Lord have mercy, though, her libido had gone into hyperdrive. How long till menopause? Didn’t a woman lose sexual desire then?

  She’d lingered this morning, longer than her usual quickie, but it had felt so good, and she’d needed the multiple orgasms badly. Might have been better to be more quiet about it, too, but letting go made the climax that much harder. It was Saturday, she had her privacy. Throwing away the paper towel and slinging her purse over her shoulder, she opened the door. Now that she’d satisfied one urge, she needed a mocha in the worst way.

  She almost screamed when Simon ran into her coming out of the break room. He was so big, he dwarfed her, tall compared to her five two, with big shoulders and a wide chest. He smelled good, like hot, sweaty sex.

  “How long have you been here?” Her skin flushed from head to toe. She’d been so loud in the restroom.

  He held up his mug. “Long enough for coffee.”

  She glanced around the doorjamb to the back of her monitor. She couldn’t remember what she’d left up on her computer desktop. Not that Simon would bother looking at her PC, but it still left her flustered. She’d been reading and getting hotter and wetter and hornier, then she’d grabbed her purse, with only 179

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  enough presence of mind to lock the front door, and practically ran to the bathroom.

  She backed off to scan Simon’s face. Same laugh lines and silver eyes that matched his hair. She’d always thought him handsome. They’d been friends a long time ago.

  Then Artie died, and she saw how she’d been lied to. Why the hell couldn’t she let go of the bitterness?

  “I’m making myself a mocha. You want one?” she offered. She might be an angry, bitter bitch but she tried to be civil. They owned the business together. Simon had never offered to buy her out, and no way could she afford to buy him out. Artie had left her with a load of debt, credit cards she’d known nothing about. She’d finally gotten a handle on her finances, consolidating, securing a second mortgage on the house to take advantage of the lower interest rate. At least she could sleep at night now. Hmm. Her lower stress level could be another reason her libido had resurfaced.

  “Yeah, thanks, a mocha would be great,” Simon answered, but didn’t move aside. Was there something in that silver-eyed gaze?

  Please don’t let him have heard.

  Finally he backed off, letting her pass.

  She shoved her purse far back on the countertop, making sure it was latched shut. Wouldn’t do for Simon to see what was inside. Pulling the coffee from the freezer, she then retrieved the milk from the fridge. Odd how she felt about Simon. Artie was the one who cheated, yet she’d felt the betrayal so much more keenly over Simon. He was her friend, he knew about Artie and that woman, yet he’d never told her.

  She heated the milk and hot chocolate in the microwave, otherwise the mocha chilled too fast. Steaming wasn’t enough.

  “Want me to tamp the coffee?” Simon said, almost at her ear. She gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “Sorry.” A smile lurked. More often than not, Simon was laughing at something. Always good-humored, Simon never seemed to get down or depressed. He took the coffee from her hand. The muscles of his arms bulged as he compressed the espresso grind. She had to admit that with his superior strength, he could pack it harder, which allowed her to steam longer. Why did that sound sexual?

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  Her clitoris throbbed. Her breath seemed shallower. Simon was so . . . male. He’d always had this physical effect on her. She might have acted on those feelings way back when, but Artie had warned her, citing a laundry list of reasons. Simon wasn’t the settling kind; he thought of women as sex objects; he wanted variety. Simon was a horn dog, as much now as when they’d first met. The difference between him and Artie was that Simon never professed to be anything else. He’d always treated her with respect, too. Artie had been the charmer—or the snake oil salesman depending on how you looked at it. He brought in the new customers with his fancy talk, but it was Simon who produced the repeat business. He was more low-key, sure, but he got the company into demolition work and on the approved vendor list for insurance companies. That’s what saved the firm when the economy tanked. Though she’d only begun to comprehend all these things months after Artie’s death.

  She’d allowed Artie to charm her the same as he did everyone else. She’d believed him when he claimed he was the settling kind. Sometimes Haley wished she could have talked to Simon about it all. The debts. The other woman. How long had Artie been cheating? Right from the beginning or . . . later? After all the fights about money, after the accusations that she was trying to control him? When?

  But Simon had deceived her by omission. She’d lost both her husband and her best friend on the same day, and she could never forgive Simon for betraying her that way.

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  2

  FOR THE TWO HOURS SIMON WAS IN THE OFFICE ON SATURDAY, HE was pleasant, kept out of her hair, busied himself in his office, got her a sandwich from across the street, and ate with her, informing her about events at a couple of the job sites, and generally acting as he always acted. No personal comments or questions. Like her, he was civil. Though she very quickly had come to realize that Simon hadn’t allowed Artie to meet in his house, that Artie used his key without Simon’s knowledge, she still couldn’t forgive Simon for the things he’d kept from her. And Simon had never forgiven her for accusing him of lying and condoning Artie’s actions. They simply didn’t talk about it, and the business went on. They were polite. Like this morning. Haley decided he couldn’t have heard her in the restroom or seen the personal ads on her computer. He would have had some reaction if he had.

  She did, however, decide it was a bad idea to cruise the Internet at work. The oddest thing happened, though. A day and a half later, when she pulled up one of those naughty ads on her home computer Sunday night, an image of Simon popped into her mind. His arms as he tamped the coffee for her. His ass in khaki work pants as he left to get her sandwich. His deep laugh. His earthy, masculine scent. The heat of his body when he stood beside her. It was her raging hormones making her notice all that stuff. Artie must be rolling over in his grave right about now for all he was missing. He’d once gone so far as to call her frigid. Honestly, it was their timing that was off. He was horniest in the mornings when she had so many things to do before going to work. Now, she wanted it morning, noon, and night. Carrying the laptop to the couch, Haley sat cross-legged. Wearing soft flannel pajamas, she sank into the sofa cushions, a glass of white wine on the side table. She clicked on her favorite personals site, then suddenly hung back. Was she getting obsessive with this? She’d never answered an ad. She enjoyed the titillation. A healthy forty-year-old with normal urges—so there, Artie—and no partner to share them with, what was the harm in looking at some naughty ads?

  She scanned down until she found a heading she liked, then clicked on the link to read the ad.

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  Remember how it felt to have your fanny spanked? How the sensation of warmed flesh and the sound of a nice swat goes right through you and makes you crazy. You miss a good old-fashioned spanking. And you can’t tell your friends because you’re ashamed of your desires. So what is a poor girl to do? Let me help you. If you would like a nice, warm, flesh-arousing spanking, it’s my specialty. I will be completely clothed, you will either be naked from the waist down, or in panties with your bum exposed for me to swat. Afterward, you will be able to walk around the rest of the day with that warm sensation of a nicely spanked ass. I have spanked a good dozen girls over the years. Are you next?

  Her clit throbbed deliciously, and the erotic scent of her arousal rose to her nose. She wasn’t terribly into the spanking ones, but she loved the way this man wrote. He made her feel his hand on her ass. So many of the ads were plain disgusting. She loved the ones where the wri
ter seduced her with his words. The next one she clicked open, the guy wanted to chain her facing a wall while he played with her. She would never call herself submissive, but there was something about those ads. Artie claimed she was controlling, but he spent money as if there was an inexhaustible supply. Even before the whole credit crisis came down, she believed in living debt-free, paying the credit cards off every month.

  When she found all those bills he’d been making minimum payments on, she’d actually hated him. More than for cheating on her. This was a worse cheat. He’d threatened her very security.

  For the last few years of her marriage, she’d craved a real man, not a boy who indulged himself in expensive toys all the time. Part of her wanted to let go and have a man take care of everything, be responsible for everything. She’d felt like she was the parent with Artie, always tugging on his leash. Which was probably why he started applying for credit cards without her knowledge. Somewhere in all her trials and tribulations with Artie was the appeal of the submissive ads. While she had to obey, she was also taken care of and rewarded with more pleasure than she could imagine. All she had to do was let go of her control. In the safety of her living room, she got wet imagining it. She’d never actually do it.

  Her eye fell on one ad way down the list, its subject line provocative. It was 183

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  more than twenty-four hours old, but she didn’t care about that. Surrender to me and I will give you everything you need. She clicked, her skin already heating. She loved the ones with a story format. They hooked her as if a hot sexy voice murmured the story right in her ear.