Booty Call

by Ainsley Booth

“You think I can stay gone?”

  “That’s not my problem if you can’t.”

  “Coming in is a bad idea.”

  “So is stringing each other along.”

  “That was never my intention.”

  “What was your intention?”

  “You’re young—”

  “Not that young.”

  “Innocent.”

  “Not that innocent.”

  “Maybe I want you to be.” His breath brushes against my ear as he presses his front to my back. “Because if you aren’t innocent, then you’re just as complicit in being a tease as I am.”

  My pulse pounds in my neck. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He slides one arm around my waist, banding me to him tightly. The other brushes my hair out of the way and he nips my neck. “Open the door, Ali.”

  This is happening.

  I turn the handle and we shove inside. My backpack tumbles to the floor as Scott’s arms tighten around me.

  “I’m not teasing you,” I whisper in the quiet. “I promise. We can do anything you want.”

  “Jesus,” he rasps.

  “Nobody needs to know, right?” I press back against him, wanting to feel him grind his erection against my bottom.

  His breath slides hot and fast against my neck as he holds me tight. “That’s right. This is our secret.”

  I spread my legs, rocking my ass back against his thighs. I wish I was taller. Maybe if I’d worn fuck-me boots, my legs would be long enough to get my cheeks at the right height to roll against his cock. But I can feel it, a heavy, hot brand in the small of my back, and just as telling, his hand presses firm against my belly.

  I love the wrap of his arm around me. He’s big, all of his muscles solid and bulging, but there’s more to it than that—when Scott’s holding me, I feel safe. Like he’d never let anything happen to me.

  Nothing bad, anyway.

  Would he ever let me fly? Let me be myself?

  Let me be his?

  “What do you want, Ali?” The rough, whispered nickname that only he uses makes me whimper. I want him to call me that when he’s buried deep inside me. When he’s lost control and taken me, hard and fast, and my name spills out of him because he just can’t help it.

  “I want to have sex with you.”

  He laughs in my ear. “Not going to happen.”

  “Who’s the tease now?”

  “We’re not going to have sex.”

  “Then go away.” I don’t mean it, but what did he think I’d want?

  “But I can make you come.” The promise pulses through me like pure electricity. It burns so bright it hurts. “You want to come on my fingers, Ali?”

  I nod.

  “Turn around.”

  Legs shaking, I peel myself out from the curve of his warm, hard body and turn on the spot. He cups my face in his hands and crushes his mouth against mine, his kiss hungry and hard. He kisses me until we’re both breathing hard and my lips are swollen, and then he licks his way out of my mouth, making me moan at the loss of his taste.

  “Shh… I’m going to make you feel so good. Back against the wall. Hands…good girl. No touching me.”

  “Why not?” I want to touch him. I want to hold on to his arms and feel his biceps work as he pistons his fingers in and out of me. I want to run my fingertips over his mouth and feel his breath, hot and desperate, as he watches me come. And more than anything, I want to squeeze his cock and make him wish he didn’t have this ridiculous boundary between us.

  Okay, so I know why not.

  He just laughs as he tugs my skirt up.

  I shudder as his fingers graze my belly. He plays there for a minute, back and forth, working my skin into a maze of goosebumps. Then he tugs at the elastic waistband of my panties and slips his hand inside.

  I gasp as he cups my entire sex in his hand. His fingers cover the space between my thighs, touching me everywhere, and I have a moment of feeling faint—hell, why do I want him to fuck me? His fingers alone feel too big to be inside me.

  “You wet for me, Ali?”

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  He squeezes me gently, then not so gently. Good, because I’m not a china doll.

  Then he rocks his hand against me hard enough to push me against the wall. Even better. I shudder as he pulls away, but his next touch is the tip of his fingers right up my slit, and he growls as he discovers I wasn’t lying about being wet.

  I’m soaked for him and he slides right up to my clit, circling it quickly before delving deeper. Up and down he works me, teasing my entrance with his fingertips at first, then the barest insertion, up to his first knuckle, but always back to my clit.

  His touch sends a riot of feelings through my body. Hot and cold prickles dance beneath my skin and my face flames bright, because nobody has done this to me before and that’s both a crying shame—because it’s oh my God so good—and amazing, too, because I’m pretty sure nobody else would know to walk the line between pleasure and pain for me.

  Nobody else would know that while I may be a virgin, I don’t want to be treated like a delicate flower.

  I want—ahhhh—yes. One thick finger sliding inside me. I want the extra push at the end that makes me squeak, and then I want another finger added before I’m fully ready for it.

  I want to be stroked with such confidence that I thump my head back against the wall to keep from falling forward against him.

  I want everything Scott is doing to me, exactly the way he’s doing it.

  “Yes,” I breathe. “Oh, God, yes. Just like that.”

  “Just like that?” He laughs a little as he scissors his fingers inside me. “You don’t want me to go harder?”

  I curse under my breath. “Yes, please.”

  “Tell me you want to come. Let me hear some dirty words drip off your beautiful lips.”

  “Please make me come.” I pant as he thrusts into me again, harder this time. I press up onto my toes, but he keeps going, reaching deep inside me to find that spot that made me go all frantic. “I want to come on your hand,” I add, my words getting twisted by a groan as he adds his thumb lazily into the mix, stroking back and forth over the top of my clit. “Ohmygod. No. Yes. Oh, yes.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” he mutters, pressing closer. His hand gets trapped between our bodies and I can feel his breath on my lips. “The most beautiful woman in the world. And one day soon, I’m going to fuck you into oblivion.”

  I cry out, the promise of him taking my virginity all that I need to fly apart. My entire body overheats and I shudder, over and over again, as he kisses and strokes and holds me through it.

  Holy shit.

  There are orgasms, and then there’s getting finger-banged by Scott Mayfair in the dark of my living room. I let go of the wall and wrap my arms around his neck.

  “I’ve got you,” he says quietly as he lifts me into his arms and carries me toward my room.

  “How do you know where my bed is?” I murmur into his shoulder.

  He laughs. “One room place, Ali. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist. Would you rather I’d stalked you?”

  “Safest stalker ever.”

  He puts me down on the bed and climbs over me, tugging me against him.

  We’re cuddling.

  I just came all over his hands and probably need to clean up or something, and his erection is hard and throbbing against my hip, and he’s just…cuddling me.

  “We should—”

  “Nope,” he says roughly. “You should go to sleep, study-girl.”

  “I want to make you come, too.” I wiggle closer, reaching for him. “Don’t you want to…”

  But it doesn’t take much for him to divert my wiggling fingers and tug my hands up to his chest. “Shhhh.”

  We go back and forth like that a few more times, my words getting more sluggish as his warmth gets under my skin and lulls me into dreamland.

  —twelve—

  Scott

  The nex
t morning Ali sends me a text first thing.

  A: I had the best dream last night.

  S: Tell me about it.

  A: This hot guy I’ve been trying to hook up with for like, forever, came over…

  S: Lucky guy

  A: I was the lucky one

  S: Tell me about it

  A: Maybe you should come over again tonight

  Maybe I should. I don’t have a great reason to say no. But the next time we hook-up, it won’t just be my fingers that feel her coming apart. Next time, I won’t be able to keep my dick out of her, I’m afraid, and while I know she’s fine with that…I’m still wrapping my head around it.

  She’s twenty.

  An adult.

  But just barely.

  When I first went to war, she was in elementary school.

  My phone chirps again.

  A: Stop thinking so hard about it

  S: Oh, I’m hard all right

  A: That’s better. Just a booty call. Don’t worry, k?

  But I am worried, in a way I’ve never been about a woman before. I need to blow something up to clear my mind. I swing by The Horus Group offices to see if anyone wants to hit a range with me. Cole and Jason are out, but their receptionist points me toward Wilson’s office.

  “It would be good to get him out, he’s been locked in there for like thirty hours,” she whispers.

  “I have not,” he calls out, and I’m still laughing when I prop myself against the door frame of his office.

  I stop when I see what he’s doing. On the six monitors in front of me are different camera angles inside a home. The occupants are home, and…busy. “Wow, man.”

  He glances over his shoulder. “Ah. Sorry. You can wait out there if you want.”

  “What the hell…who are you watching?” On the screen there were four people having sex. And one person was watching, curled up on a couch against the wall. There was something about her that was familiar. Long red hair, pale skin… “Is that…?”

  He jams his finger against the keyboard and all the windows flip to his desktop. “Never mind.”

  “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  He shrugs. “We do crazy things for love, man.”

  “Speaking of crazy, I’m in the mood to shoot, you interested?”

  “Sure.”

  We’re all members of an indoor range below an office building on K Street. Officially, there aren’t any indoor ranges in the District of Columbia. Unofficially, this one is close and convenient and very protective of its members’ privacy.

  Only the Secret Service has a better deal, and that’s because their ammo is free.

  Sometimes we get creative, but today I just want to unload my Browning High-Power a few hundred times. Wilson surprises me by pulling out a light Ruger SR22.

  “Doing some plinking?” I ask as he shoots me the finger.

  “It’s a gift,” he mutters.

  “For the redhead?” It’s still bugging me how familiar she looked.

  “Forget you saw her.”

  “Deal.” I don’t need to worry about his woman problems. I’ve got my own. “You wrapped up in her?”

  “Yeah. It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  He blinks at me. “Is it?”

  “Has been for me.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never…done this before.”

  I don’t think he’s talking about stalking a woman and sending her a gun. For Wilson Carter, that’s probably a textbook definition of romance right there.

  “I have. Fucked up my entire life. I’m pretty adamant about not doing it again.”

  “That why we’re shooting today?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Who is she?”

  I could tell him.

  “Nobody needs to know, right?”

  “This is our secret.”

  No, I couldn’t. “Someone I met at Georgetown.”

  “A student?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gives me a look that says everything I’ve been thinking. I’m fifteen years past the point of dating co-eds. But one in particular has dragged me back into the land of flirting and teasing and hook-ups just for fun.

  No drama, no worries.

  “She’s good for me,” I finally say, loading my pistol. “Now let’s see how many paper bad guys we can kill.”

  —thirteen—

  Alison

  Scott didn’t come over last night.

  That should be fine, because I promised him—and myself—that we were just having fun. No expectations.

  But I’m still bummed.

  So when my phone vibrates at my feet, ten minutes into my Research Methods class, I try to ignore it.

  I try hard.

  I last twenty seconds, tops, before I drop my pen and lean over to “pick it up,” sneaking a glance at my phone in the process.

  S: Sorry I went radio silent yesterday. Something came up. Heading to New York for a few days.

  I stare at the screen, considering my options for responding. Really, there’s only one thing to say.

  A: No prob. Travel safe. Text when back.

  My instructor’s voice jerks me back to the class. “Ms. Reid, does whoever you’re texting have something to share on this subject matter?”

  I shove my phone in my bag, my cheeks flaming red as I straighten up. “I’m sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t. And what assessment issues do you see in this particular example?”

  I blink at the white board. Shit. In front of me, Corey clears his throat and taps on his notebook. In big, block letters, he’s written objectives=measurement=assessment. A wave of relief rolls over me.

  “They could correlate more closely to the objectives. It’s not necessarily a fair measurement tool.”

  The instructor narrows her eyes at me, but then nods and moves on. I ignore my bag for the remainder of the class, and sag in relief when we’re released.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, leaning over Corey’s shoulder. “You just saved my butt.”

  “It’s a butt worth saving,” he teases, turning his head to look at me. I give him a reproachful look. “I know, and it’s not a butt that’s interested in me at all.”

  “And we don’t talk about that, right?” It’s too weird, how Corey brings that up from time to time. I lust after Scott incessantly, painfully, and I almost never bring it up with him.

  Okay, maybe I’m being too hard on Corey.

  So when he laughs and stands up, I stand up, too. We’re friends.

  And when he says, “You can make it up to me by coming to the casual mixer on Friday night,” I say yes, because we’re friends.

  I’m not going to sleep with Corey, but I can hang out with him.

  I sling my arm around his waist. “We’ll find you a nice girl on Friday night. Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  If only Scott were this easy to handle.

  — —

  No more texts from Scott the rest of the week means that come Friday, I’m ready to party—as hard as senior level poli sci nerds go, which isn’t that hard.

  I get to McAllister Lounge shortly after eight, armed with bourbon and Coke and a jumbo bag of party mix. The social space on the top floor is unofficially reserved for upper years, and tonight someone has paid for a bouncer who is checking ID.

  That’s a problem.

  I linger toward the back of the line, waiting for a glimpse of Corey. I might be the only senior who’s not legal yet, and I don’t want to put the bouncer in the awkward position of kicking me out if it can be avoided.

  A girl three people ahead of me in line doesn’t have her wallet. “Seriously?” she protests, hands on her hips. Tits out. Not a bad plan. “I walked over from my dorm.” She waved her lanyard at him. “Anyone here can vouch for me. I take Modern International Relations with Saxon. Sax! Bud!”

  It totally works. Saxon comes over
and flashes his “my daddy’s a senator” smile, and the girl is in. Anabeth? Anabelle? Whatever, she’s in, it worked for her, I’m totally trying it. I shove my wallet deep into a skinny pocket inside my backpack, beneath the package of tampons I keep there, and hope that if Bouncer Guy decides to look inside my bag he doesn’t want to dig past the lady supplies.

  Before I get to the head of the line, Corey bounces into my side. “You made it!”

  “Of course I did.”

  “You usually don’t.”

  “But I owed you.” I winked at him.

  “You wound me. That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Since I’m hoping Scott might be back tonight…yeah. “I promise, this is as exciting as my social life gets.”

  He snickers, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “You didn’t get the party gene that your sister got?”

  I stiffen and shrug off his arm. “Leave that alone.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Just…not funny.”

  “Too soon?”

  “Yep.” We’re at the head of the line and I give the bouncer my student card. He looks me up and down. “Driver’s license?”

  “Don’t have one,” I say with a warm, apologetic shrug. “But I promise I’m in my final year. I’ve got the study lines to prove it.” I point at my eyes and squint.

  He snorts and turns to Corey. “ID?”

  Corey hands over his license and we’re waved in. I add my drinks to the communal table and rip open the bag of party mix. Anabeth or Anabelle squeals about how much better pretzels are when they’re mixed in with the other stuff—“‘cause they get the powder on them! Ohmygod!”—and I’m reminded why I don’t usually party hard.

  Or at all.

  I pour a big drink and find a seat in the middle of the room. Trick learned from being raised in a family of extroverts heavily involved in politics: it’s easier to hide in plain sight and let the conversations swirl around you. If you hug the wall, someone well-meaning and totally clueless will try to drag you into a conversation you don’t want to participate in. Or even worse—introduce you to someone they think will be your new bestie.