His Little Black Book

by Thea Devine

  His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re pretty up front. Good. Let’s say I hope something will happen, but I’d never press the issue. I mean, you’re gorgeous. You could have anyone here.”

  “You’re pretty honest, too,” Delia said. “But I wasn’t really looking.”

  She liked his style, though—low-key, complimentary, not too fast and rushed. She picked up her coat and handed it to him. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s have that drink. I’d like to see what goodies you have up there.”

  She was floating. The box was cantilevered out from the ceiling so that everything fell away and the only thing visible was the rink. Everything above them was dark, everything below lit by a penetrating bright white light.

  In the box, the lighting was smoky soft and low, the furniture plush, the mood lush and sensual. In the anteroom, a chef was just finishing laying out a selection of hors d’oeuvres; he withdrew as Delia settled herself on the sofa and calculated the cost of doing anything with this man.

  He’s probably married, she thought. He’s probably some highly placed executive in his company because he did have the key, and the chef knew him. He probably comes here solely to fuck—it’s his clandestine hideaway, but he doesn’t pick up the tab. He’s probably fucked everyone from here to Park Avenue, so this isn’t going to lead anywhere. And men don’t make mistresses out of random fucks at a hockey game, anyway.

  Those were the negatives.

  She took the glass of wine he handed her and considered the positives. She was on his turf. He had approached her. He wanted her because something about her appealed to him.

  But the question was, did she want to risk fucking a stranger and liking it too much, knowing she’d never see him again?

  “Delia,” he said softly, “why don’t you take off your jacket?”

  Move number one. Why not? She was wearing a satin blouse, sensuous to the touch, and no bra because she loved the feel of satin against her nipples.

  And here she was, with a well-heeled and good-looking guy who was staring at her tautly peaked nipples like they were all-day suckers.

  She leaned back against the sofa and let him look at the whole package—the tits, the curve of her body, her hips, her legs—while she sipped her wine.

  It gave her time to think, to strategize.

  God, she was beginning to think like Brooke.

  The kiss would come next, and a lot would depend on how he kissed and what he made her feel.

  Right now, she felt like a box of candy he wanted to rip open and devour.

  The idea of it made her juices flow. She wondered if he had X-ray vision, if he knew she wasn’t wearing underwear, either.

  He set aside his wine and sat down next to her. “I don’t want a drink. I’ll have you…on my rocks.” He kissed her, swooping over her body and into her mouth, his demanding tongue softening against hers as he found her willing, as she melted into the kiss, into his tongue, into his hand as he felt her nipples through the satin.

  He was a good kisser, just enough wet and heat to make her body twinge with need. He had a way with a nipple, too—his fingers were expert at nipping the hard tip in a way that left her panting to feel more.

  “I didn’t know,” he murmured against her lips, “when I saw you…”

  “I’m not lost anymore,” she whispered and took his tongue in a long, lingering kiss that was punctuated by the streaming pleasure of his tweaking her nipple until she almost came.

  He knew it, too—too much power in his hands, she thought dimly, as she gave herself to his tongue, which she loved. He clearly loved to kiss and probably had kissed a hundred women just like that.

  But she didn’t care. She missed kissing, she missed a man’s fingers playing with her nipples, she missed everything—this was the reward for all her hard work.

  “Delia—”

  She made an instant decision. “Let me.” She pushed him down on the couch, she pulled his pants open, she reached for his long, thick, scorching-hot shaft, and enfolded it in her hands as if she were worshipping it.

  “Let me do this,” she whispered. “Let me, please let me…”

  “But—”

  She licked the engorged tip and then suckled it, tonguing the precious slit. “You have to let me.”

  “I want your tits…”

  “Have them.” He immediately started unbuttoning her blouse. “But let me…” She nipped the head with her teeth, jolting him. “I need it…I need to do this…”

  She loved to do this. To feed off of his pleasure, to do it for him—any him—something that would be so memorable, so prolonged and so pleasurable—for her even more than for him.

  And he would remember her, would remember the night; how he met her, wanted her, kissed her; the way she begged, the feel of her nipples, her kiss, the fact that she put his pleasure above her own…

  What better investment could she make tonight with this man and his sex? And even better than that, Brooke would so approve—because she was on his turf, because he wanted her there, spending his capital, pumping his penis, both getting off and giving.

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, God, you had sex.” MJ sighed in envy. It was the next meeting of the Mistress Club and they had settled in at what was now their restaurant. Brooke had paved the way, tipping the maître d’ lavishly the first couple of times they’d come, and now he knew them and nearly always remembered their names.

  “No, I gave sex,” Delia said. “Way different. And better than that, I was on his turf, and I was in control, and I walked away, not him, after a very pleasurable evening. So I’d say that I got.”

  “Exactly,” Brooke agreed.

  “Did he ask for your number?” MJ demanded almost simultaneously.

  “Oh, he asked. I refused. I followed the Mistress Club rules almost to the letter: I was elusive and mysterious, dressed to kill, on his turf, and now he’ll have to figure out how to find me—if he’s interested.”

  “Beautiful,” Brooke approved. “Nothing like making a man work for his pleasure—any way you can. But what about the skybox set? Possible?”

  “If you could get into the exclusive parties they hold up there during the big games,” Delia said. “That’s CEO territory. They like luxury. Bill just happened to get lucky that night: No one was using the company box, and I was at the game. Those ice-side seats are all about client entertaining and not nearly on the level of the private boxes. And frankly, there are women everywhere and the guys are just as ready and willing. The competition in the seats is fierce.”

  MJ looked askance.

  “The players. The bench babes. The fan clubs. The locker lays. Bill told me all about it. Who knew?”

  “You were perfect,” Brooke said. “You did everything exactly right. You weren’t desperate. You were gorgeous, discriminating, and available when the moment was right. You explored new territory for the Mistress Club, and we now can eliminate the sports arenas as a venue for finding the kind of man we’re targeting.”

  “Maybe not wholly,” Delia said slowly. “I mean, those men are there; we just need to find a way to meet them.”

  “Point noted,” Brooke said, pulling out her leather notecase and writing something down.

  “Ladies?” The waiter was beside them, poised to take their orders, which never varied: fish, salad, fruit, coffee. They never looked at the menus, as he was coming to know, and he deftly removed them as he made note of their orders and withdrew.

  “Guys like Bill aren’t in a position to make anyone an offer,” Delia went on. “He just doesn’t make that kind of money. At least that was my impression.”

  “What would you do if he’s able to locate you?” MJ asked curiously.

  “Well, it would mean he went to some trouble to do it,” Delia said brightly. “That should count for something.”

  “And that’s your call,” Brooke said. “But keep reminding yourselves that we’re not desperate, we’re not out to grab the first likely candidate, and m
ost important, we’re not comparing ourselves to anyone else. We are gorgeous, gainfully employed, available, and particular, and we want to find a potential lover as discriminating and meticulous as we are. And that doesn’t happen in a week or a month. Maybe not even a year. But I guarantee you, it will happen.”

  “Guarantee?” MJ said skeptically. “How?”

  “Because that fastidiousness is one of the most important things that will set us apart from the crowd. You have to be as mysterious and unobtainable as a noire heroine. Particular isn’t the word for it.”

  “So you call Delia’s encounter being particular?”

  “No. That was Delia assessing the situation and deciding if she had something to gain. And she did. She got a luxury seat for the event, upscale food, great wine, and good company; she was in control; she was where he wanted her to be; and best of all, she left him wanting more without giving up her phone number and giving him the advantage. She gave up nothing, but he gave it up. Didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Delia sighed. “And he had a lot to give, too…Oh! Our meal’s here.”

  “Thank you so much.” Brooke smiled at the waiter. “It looks lovely.” She flaked off a forkful of salmon. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

  After a couple of minutes, Delia pointed her fork at Brooke. “You could network an invitation to one of those fancy skybox events. Some guest at the hotel, perhaps, who’s an avid sports fan? Or…oh, I don’t know…just a thought.”

  “You just want to go back there and see if Bill comes looking for you,” MJ teased.

  “Oh, I think he will,” Delia said confidently.

  Brooke was amazed at how far she’d come in such a short time. All she’d needed was some structure within which she could pursue what she had always most wanted: a sex life where she had some control.

  Theoretically, the rules were meant to supply that, but Brooke saw them as a moral touchstone as well. Perhaps it had initially been an intellectual exercise for her, but she saw no reason why those guidelines wouldn’t eventually get them everything they wanted.

  Delia was proof of that right here, right now—glowing and beautiful, no longer sad and downtrodden. She was confident now of her appeal, her value, and of the goal of their quest.

  If MJ was still a little cynical, well, she had come along anyway because she couldn’t stay away. Eventually, after enough trial and error and bad bed, she’d see the big picture with more clarity.

  Just the fact they were here, in this lavish high-end restaurant, able to afford a pricey lunch, looking as glamorous as any model, was proof they could do anything, if they had a plan.

  And Brooke prided herself on the fact she always had a plan.

  But she had no plan for the day he walked into her life. She was enjoying that life too much. Her apartment had taken shape nicely with the help of some savvy thrift store shopping, and she liked her job enormously.

  A bustling hotel was the perfect place for someone who was as brazen, organized, and curious as she was a woman of mystery and discretion.

  Brooke was in heaven. Spring was coming, and there was that certain earthiness in the air. The new crop of college graduates would soon descend on the city, and everything would be fresh and blooming—including love and possibilities and her certainty that they were streetwise enough to handle any sensual situation.

  So when he approached her desk that afternoon when she was busy coordinating a theater trip, Brooke was utterly unprepared for the shock of recognition and need that zinged through her body.

  And then he was looming over her, impeccable in a Savoy suit, Thomas Pink shirt, Burberry tie, Chopard watch—and she wasn’t just impressed by the labels. It was him, the entire package—his height, his elegance, his utter comfort in his skin. He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense, but he knew who he was and that he commanded attention, and he had the confidence, impeccable manners, and cool grace to wait until she had finished her task before he spoke.

  “If I may…?” His voice was rich, fluid, infusing her senses.

  She gathered her wits. “Of course. How can I help you?” At that instant, between them, it was a leading question and she knew it—and so did he.

  He smiled and she smiled back, happy as a child.

  “Hello,” he murmured. “Well, it seems I need tickets.”

  “I’ll be happy to see what I can do,” she said, and even that common response seemed double-edged. “Tickets for…?”

  He consulted a notepad. “Spamalot, party of four.”

  It didn’t even sound incongruous spoken in that ineffably elegant accent. She made a note, her hand shaking. “Any preference for a date?”

  Oh, God, had she said for a date?

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” She couldn’t look at him. She had to ask his name, but the words stuck in her throat. She felt as awkward as a teenager and it utterly threw her because it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. “Your room…number?”

  He handed her his card after he added that information.

  “Mr. Steffen,” she murmured. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Then he was gone, without prolonging the exchange, which to her now felt stilted, prosaic, and commonplace.

  And yet—

  Under the surface, it felt like her life was about to change, and she hated that it had sounded like the opening of a bad confession story.

  Mr. Steffen…Hugh Steffen.

  His elegant vellum card held only minimal contact information. British, by the sound of him. Oh, God. He’d be out the door and back in London before she knew it.

  Where was her grand plan now? I need some rules.

  She hadn’t expected this. She hated this feeling of wanting to tell everyone she’d met someone, the one. Well, maybe the one…whom she couldn’t wait to see again.

  So obviously, she must not see him again.

  She could delegate the tickets. No, she was the keeper of the secret black book. She’d get the tickets and have someone else deliver them. Cool, calm, and removed, that would be her ticket. He was probably here for only a day or two. He could be leaving tomorrow, which would be perfect.

  Or here for weeks.

  She was falling to pieces in the blink of an eye. She felt giddy and light-headed at the thought of seeing this man again, even from a distance. She’d go anywhere with him if he asked, even into the nearest closet for a wham-bam moment. Anything…

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be the one who was above it all. The one with style, sense, and the skeptically skewed view of men and mating. The one who always had a plan.

  And now she could plan nothing. Now she felt no more sophisticated than a horny girl grasping for the one unexpected moment she might see him—even at a distance—who had to restrain every impulse to be someplace where he might see her.

  I need to formulate some rules of engagement.

  No—I don’t care…

  This was insane. She’d never gone over the edge like this before. And he wasn’t even remotely a contender for a penthouse, pearls, and a life devoted to his pleasure.

  What am I thinking?

  Later that day her secret source came through with the tickets; she had them in her hand late that afternoon.

  Don’t do it…

  He won’t be in his room. He will be out doing things with whoever will be sharing these tickets. He’s at a business meeting. He’s at an elegant lunch at the Gotham. He’s…

  She stopped just short of leaving her office. She forced herself to ring for the bell captain instead, handed him the envelope with the tickets and Hugh Steffen’s card, and watched him walk out the door while she suppressed every instinct to call him back.

  Be elusive and mysterious…Follow the rules…

  This was ridiculous. She was as fluttery as a hummingbird just thinking about him. She was the very embodiment of the Mistress Code, and she had to fight to regain that calm center.

  Do not not no
t fall in love…

  …at first sight.

  She couldn’t tell anyone. It was her secret, her vice, to want him so ferociously in the face of everything she had ever said.

  Dear Lord, let him come…

  At this moment, nothing else mattered.

  Her sanity returned once she was back in the safe haven of her apartment. Okay, it had been a lightning-bolt attraction, but lightning was evanescent. She’d thought she was impervious to visceral instantaneous attraction, but she wasn’t. So she had to be on her guard, because capitulation to sexual hunger would destroy every plan, wipe away every goal, and leave her out of control and alone.

  The last thing she could bear was to be out of control. She’d had enough of that in her life, between her feckless mother and vindictive father and their years of trying to best each other after their divorce.

  She didn’t mind being alone, but it was important to be aware of her direction, her choices, her feelings.

  Today was the first time ever she had wanted just to chuck everything with no thought other than to make a man notice her, desire her, and come after her.

  I have to stop this. I will be completely ineffective if I let myself drown in this swamp of lust.

  Her cell rang. Him?

  “Hey, Brooke.”

  MJ. “Hey yourself.” She did not want to talk to MJ right now. “What’s up?”

  “I need some advice…”

  Oh, shit. Brooke felt that caving that told her this was going to be about a man—and she didn’t want to talk about some stupid man, and she couldn’t share anything about Hugh Steffen because she’d sound like a fool after all her careful rules.

  She was a fool.

  “Shoot,” she managed to say. But she knew what MJ was going to say: Someone had come into the store, someone whose eyes met hers, and lightning crackled and—

  “What color is his credit card?” Brooke interrupted MJ’s breathless narrative.

  “Platinum. He’s been back a couple of times. We’ve talked. He asked if he could see me.”

  One up on me…

  “See you how?” Brooke asked, feeling envious. “Naked? For fast food and a fly-by fuck? For his convenience and your need? For ever and always?”