Yep, she was going to hell. Or it was possible she was already there. Khloe felt her face flame. She imagined it was probably a bright, fire-engine red, given the direction of her thoughts. She stole a peek at him over her shoulder and he was looking right at her.
A hot awareness slipped over her like a demon lover, making her nipples tighten and that hot, slick channel between her thighs ache with need. She'd be surprised if she hadn't stuck to the chair like an industrial suction cup.
She wondered if he was thinking the same things she was and if he was aware it was totally unacceptable and there was no way she would just fall on her back like a turtle.
He stuck his dark head out of his office. “You've done a really great job today, Khloe."
"Thank you.” She waited to see if that was it.
"So, I have this fundraiser tonight...” he began.
Oh, no, no, no, and hell no! Her expression must have been one of indignation, because he smiled.
"I need a guest. No strings.” He held up his hands as if she could see there really weren't any strings attached.
"The ‘no strings’ is my problem.” Had she really just said that? It didn't sound like what she'd meant. Khloe meant she wasn't there for sex with him—meaningless or otherwise.
"Khloe, I just need a guest. Not a passenger on my anaconda,” he said kindly.
He has an anaconda? She coloured at the visual.
"I don't have anything to wear.” What? No. That was not the right answer. The right answer was, Thank you, but no. I have plans. Yeah, she had plans all right. Plans to jill-off to her sexy boss, wishing she had the guts to ride his ‘anaconda’ like a merry-go-round.
He dropped a credit card on her desk. “Buy something nice. And before you carry on about how expensive it is, don't worry about it. You can return it tomorrow."
Not what she'd thought he was going to say. He was supposed to give her that boyish grin and tell her he could afford it. Even though she'd been going to refuse on the very grounds it was too expensive.
"Meet me back here in three hours. I trust that is enough time to shop and—dear God, woman—get your hair done."
Khloe didn't know if she should be insulted or not. She didn't like it, but how could she refuse a spa day on his credit card? A part of her brain told her this was where the road to hell began. It would start out with something small like this and, next thing she knew, she'd be on her face with her ass in the air and he'd be pulling out a saddle...
Of course there was the other part of her brain telling that one to shut the hell up because this was exactly what she wanted and if voice number one messed it up for the rest of them, there would be hell to pay.
Then there was the matter that should be addressed with antipsychotics, because not only did she have voices in her head, but they were arguing.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Two
Dancing With Georgette
* * * *
It was a crush, as Georgette Heyer would say. There were people everywhere in beautiful dresses and tuxedos. The coat check room was a field of long gloves, top hats and fur coats. Her first thought on seeing all the frippery associated with the rich was a fervent prayer the coats were synthetic.
Her second thought was a quick thanks to the universe she hadn't been stubborn about using Reed's credit card to buy a dress and another thank you for the woman at Saks who'd known precisely the sort of gown she needed for this particular event.
The night seemed to flash by in a rush of colours. Khloe couldn't remember what had been served for dinner, or the names of any of the people to whom she'd been introduced. All she knew was that she was dancing.
"See, now? This hasn't been so painful. I haven't stepped on your foot once,” Reed whispered against the shell of her ear.
Not painful for whom? It had definitely been painful for her. Khloe was so repressed she was sure if he touched her in just the right way she would explode into a pitiful little puddle on the floor. Just dancing with him was sheer torture she wasn't sure she deserved.
"You don't seem to agree, Ms Bell.” His soft voice was a warm breath across her skin.
"You dance divinely, Mr Rothington.” You look divine, too, with those broad shoulders filling out that Armani.
"And yet, I hear some sarcasm in your voice,” he tossed back.
"I was just thinking back to this afternoon when you felt you needed to convince me this was not, in fact, a Regency romance."
She was thankful she hadn't been using her outside voice because, just as she said that, the orchestra stopped.
"I see.” He released her to grab some champagne from a passing tray and handed her a delicate flute.
The glass seemed very breakable in her hand, so Khloe decided the best course of action was to either put it down or drink it all. She'd taken a big gulp of the golden, bubbly goodness when he decided to speak again.
"You know,” he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Heyer would never have subjected her heroines to something like this."
Her eyes grew wide and it was a struggle to keep the champagne in her mouth. She tightened her lips, but the force of her snort was either going to send it flying out of her mouth like a spray from a whale's blow hole or it was going to go the other way, which would involve the same humiliation, only out of her nose. She knew from experience that bubbles out of the nose burned like scratching a yeast infection.
The man had read Georgette Heyer! That was spit-worthy in itself, but he'd referenced it as if she was the heroine! If she was the heroine, he must be the hero. And if Reed was the hero, he had to seduce her. She didn't know if she should be frightened, excited or fall over in a dead faint. She'd never had a man as chastity-belt-melting as Reed Rothington chasing her knickers. Unless he didn't follow the rules of Romancelandia?
She still had her cheeks packed with champagne like a starving chipmunk and the contents were definitely under pressure!
The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk when he saw her distress, though he galloped to her rescue. Or her damnation, depending on how one saw it.
Reed touched his fingers to her cheek and traced the pad of his thumb over her struggling lips. “Swallow for me,” he said quietly.
Her slit clenched because she could see herself lapping at his ‘anaconda’ like a ten-dollar whore in the back seat of a Nova. Who knew that Khloe Bell liked dirty? Certainly not her.
"That's it, honey. Swallow.” Reed touched her face again to soothe her.
She was surprised she didn't spit it out all over him. He was a brave soul, or perhaps he just wasn't fully acquainted with her repertoire of klutz yet—it was a vast savannah of dangerous predators who ruined her day whenever they had the chance.
"That's a good girl,” he said. “Are you okay? I wasn't trying to commit tempicide. I thought you'd laugh."
Khloe took a deep breath. “It was funny, but funny and champagne do not mix well in my mouth."
Which could have opened up for conversation what exactly did mix well in the aforementioned orifice. Khloe clamped her hand over her mouth in case biting her tongue didn't keep that little nugget of a thought hidden safely away.
"You're not going to hurl, are you?” He eyed her carefully and took a step back.
She shook her head and wished she could just disappear.
"So obviously you read Heyer. What's your favourite?” he asked casually.
"Are you trying to kill me?” she spluttered.
"What? No. Why would you ask that?"
"You're Reed Rothington. You read Heyer."
"Of course I do. How else do you think I got into so many panties in prep school? Never underestimate Georgette. Or Barbara Cartland.” He winked at her.
"The Foundling. And you, my lord?” Khloe was saucy. It was her only defence against the near disaster then the clit-cruncher that she would forever refer to as the “swallowing incident".
"Bath Tangle,” he said with a straight f
ace.
"You just like that one because it sounds dirty.” Khloe raised a disapproving eyebrow at him.
"No.” He smirked. “Even though it does. It's because it was the first one I read."
"Balls,” Khloe muttered.
"Pardon me?” Reed looked startled.
"I said, ‘balls'. I still don't believe you."
"So I wouldn't make a dashing Rotherham?” He was still smirking. Damn if it wasn't made of sex appeal.
"No.” Yes. If the man was any hotter, she'd burn up to a little crisp.
"Miss Bell, the colour in your cheeks says otherwise."
"You're a cad for noticing,” she managed.
"Indeed I am.” He played along.
"You know what happens next, don't you?” Khloe said casually.
"Why don't you tell me?"
"You must live up to your rakehell reputation and kiss me with desperate abandon.” She batted her eyelashes in an exaggerated motion.
"Who am I to argue with literary genius?"
Khloe heard the words, but the translation seemed to have got stuck somewhere between her ears and her brain. It didn't compute. The space between them was now nothing more than a memory and his arms were around her and his mouth—that sinfully sculpted work of divine art—was crashing into hers.
He was performing Olympic Romance Novel Kissing and Khloe would be happy to give him a gold medal. Reed had bent her back over his arm in true Ro-Novel form and he moved his mouth over hers with a practiced precision.
It was Reed who broke the kiss and whispered, “Let's get out of here."
All Khloe could do was nod.
With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her through the crowd. His touch burned and she wanted that hand to move lower, or higher—it didn't matter. She just wanted to feel it moving over her body.
So much for not sleeping with him.
Well, if she wanted to be specific, she was sure that there would be no sleeping. Just lots of...
"I'm sorry about that, Khloe. I don't know what came over me.” His tone was apologetic.
Sorry? He's sorry? “Oh, now you get to be the reluctant heroine?"
"I never said I was recalcitrant. I shouldn't have done that in public,” Reed said.
"So, you're embarrassed to be seen kissing me in public?” She crossed her arms over her sizeable bosom, which was conveniently heaving in the sequined bodice of her evening gown.
"This is why I don't date the smart ones. They over-think everything.” Reed held out her coat and eased it onto her shoulders.
"Whoever said we were going to date?” Khloe said, needing to feel in control of the situation.
"Uh..."
"Cat got your tongue?"
"Not yet.” He looked at her pointedly, with a lascivious up and down motion.
Score, round one to Reed's talent as a cunning linguist, with Khloe's snark coming in last with a zero.
Khloe had finally met a man who could match her verbosity and wit. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not. Well, not that she'd been very witty lately, but usually she was right on her game. Reed was smart. Damn it, she found that even more attractive than his Atlas-like biceps or sinful mouth.
She'd not been paying attention to where he'd led her and next thing she knew they were in the plush back seat of a Mercedes and he was handing her another glass of champagne.
Khloe could never refuse champagne.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Maybe."
"I think people who use that as an excuse to fuck and deny it later are weak.” Holy Balls! Had that really just come out of her mouth? Was she already drunk? She took mental inventory of herself and, no, she didn't feel intoxicated, not that it was an excuse she'd use anyway.
But something was wrong. Something had happened to that filter between her brain and her tongue. Reed had probably eaten it when he'd kissed her. Now, that was her story and she was sticking to it. Khloe found she rather liked herself without a filter. From now on, she was going to say everything that popped into her head. Well...maybe not everything.
Again, she thought he really must live at the gym. He hauled her around as if she weighed nothing. She knew for a fact that wasn't true, because she'd eaten a whole cheesecake before coming to this thing. Her nerves had been shot.
She found herself in his lap—or, rather, straddling it.
"You were saying?” he drawled.
"That I already told you this wasn't going to happen.” Ha! That's where her spine had gone. A hard cock and a pretty smile weren't enough to sway her morals.
"I see.” His voice was the ghost of a touch on her skin.
Apparently he didn't see—because his fingers were on her inner thigh. Then they were tracing the silky contours of her damp panties, which were clinging to her ready cunt. When they moved inside her panties, she gasped.
He eased one finger inside her and stroked lazy circles over her clit with his thumb. She felt the rush of fluid that coated his fingers and he pushed deeper inside, easing another finger into her wet sheath.
"Do you like that, Khloe? Tell me.” His voice was husky and low.
She couldn't make a sound and she was thankful the privacy glass was up between the back and the driver.
"Tell me, Khloe. Or I'll stop. Is that what you want? Do you want me to stop?"
"No, please.” She rocked her hips, pushing herself closer to his ministrations.
"Say the words. Tell me that you want to come."
"I want to come,” she cried out, grinding against him and digging her nails into his shoulders.
He pulled his hand from between them and she whimpered in protest, but he replaced it with the other.
"Taste yourself,” he demanded as he pushed the two fingers that had been in her cunt against her lips.
Khloe did as he demanded. It felt so naughty to taste her own honey—it was indeed sweet. She stroked her tongue up and down his fingers and it was his turn to cry out.
"Khloe.” It was a jagged whisper.
She sucked his fingers with more intensity, sliding her tongue between the digits and drawing whorls on the pads of them as she would the head of his cock. Her hips bucked and she found herself trying not to scream as the orgasm took her and the car pulled to a stop.
Reed gave her a light slap on the ass and adjusted her dress. “Perfect timing."
The driver opened the door when they were in front of Khloe's apartment.
She was still straddling Reed, but she didn't want to move. She'd just had a better orgasm than what even Walter, the amazing masturbating shower head, could give her. Was she just supposed to dismount and go inside? She reluctantly slid from his lap.
Didn't he want to get off? Khloe thought vaguely about inviting him inside, but decided if he hadn't made a move to come with, then that was his loss. Pun intended. She wasn't going to get all clingy and needy just because he'd got her off.
"Thanks for the lovely evening,” she said, on auto-pilot.
"No, thank you.” He winked at her. “Perhaps we can discuss turn-about and fair play another evening?"
Khloe nodded, still on automatic. Why didn't he want to discuss it tonight? Maybe because Khloe felt bliss like molten gold flowing through her veins and she wouldn't be worth shit for anything but sleep. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she'd make it up to her apartment without assistance. The after-sensation of her orgasm was still shooting tingly fireworks all the way down to her toes.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Three
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's Bree
* * * *
The sharp trill of her cell phone echoed with the Sex Pistols—Bree's ringtone. Did the heifer have no idea what time it was stateside? After fumbling for it for a couple of agonising Friggin’ In the Riggin', Johnny Rotten seconds, she held it up to her ear.
"I waited up for you to call me. I hung out on G-Chat, too. Just where the hell were you? You'd better have been doin
g something naughty."
"You cow,” Khloe said affectionately.
"I'm the cow? You're the one sleeping nice and tight. Unless you have a bedbug. Could it be? Is Reed Rothington in your bed right now? Lemme talk to him."
"No,” Khloe said around a yawn.
"No, I can't talk to him or no, he's not in your bed?” Bree demanded.
"No to both.” She stretched and rolled over.
"Well, if you're not going to ride the rides in the amusement park, why did you go?” Bree said, exasperated.
"Because you asked me to."
"Oh, right. I thought you'd have some fun while you were there, though,” she admonished.
"He fingered me to orgasm after the charity dinner,” Khloe offered helpfully.
"Lovely. In the flat? Details, tart."
"No, in the back of a Mercedes."
"Did you shag him?"
"No."
"Do you want to?” Bree whispered the last as if it would be a great secret.
"Maybe."
"I can live with that."
"Oh, can you?” Khloe drawled.
"I can,” Bree sighed. “I don't know about Mum, though. She thinks you need some excitement."
Khloe sighed. “How's your mum?"
"Mum is balls.” Bree sounded defeated.
"I don't think she'd appreciate..."
"Eh, she said it herself when I got here. We've gone wig shopping and she picked out a purple one. I'm taking her to the disco later. She says neither the cancer nor the chemo is going to keep her down."
"I don't think your mum is balls, I think she has them. Big enough to haul around in a dump truck."
"I don't know what I'm going to do without her,” Bree said softly.
"Good thing you aren't going to have to find out, then. She's so tough and gristly, she'll be around forever. Next time the cancer bites her, I bet she bites it back."
Bree gave a sniffle-laugh. “I know, you're probably right. I love you, tart."
"I love you too, hooker. Now shut up so I can get some sleep. I'll never draw Reed into my sticky web if I go into work with these ugly bags under my eyes."
"Oh, shite, you're right. Call me tomorrow, though."
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