by Donna Alam
‘About that,’ Kallie says suddenly. ‘I have a sort of backup plan.’
My eyes snap back to the phone. ‘Backup . . . what?’
‘Plan,’ she repeats as though I have a hearing problem.
‘No, I mean, back up and explain. You’re rubbing your ear.’ Anxiety flickers in my chest. ‘You always rub your ear when you’ve done something shady.’
‘Shady?’ she repeats as though finding the word so disgusting, she’d hold it at arm’s length. ‘When was the last time I did something shady? And to you?’
My reply is short. Two words, in fact. No explanation necessary. ‘Blind date. The one you set me up on.’ Okay, so it’s more than two.
‘How is it my fault you took home a man with questionable interests?’
‘I didn’t take him home. He invited himself in for coffee.’
‘You’re too nice for your own good.’
‘Not so nice that I’d extend the invitation to access of my closet or to masturbate on my shoes!’
‘It’s a very sexy shoe collection,’ she says, chuckling. ‘How could I have ever guessed his secret fetishes? He works in IT, for goodness’ sake! How boring is that? Look at it this way, tonight’s blind date can only be an improvement on the experience.’
‘But it’s not a blind date,’ I scoff. ‘Remember the whole meet-cute airport story that’s had you drooling for weeks?’ There’s that flicker of anxiety again.
‘Oh, no.’ I bring my fingers to my gloss slicked lips. ‘What have you done now?’
‘Remember that study I told you about? The one with the titi monkeys?’
‘Yes,’ I answer cautiously. ‘The one about jealousy.’
‘It wasn’t jealousy, per se. More a study into the cingulate cortex, which, in humans, is the area of the brain associated with social pain.’
‘Get to the point, please!’
‘I didn’t want you to feel any of that. So as well as engaging someone to walk in with you tonight, I thought a little potential primate jealousy might work in your favour. A little testosterone-fuelled action—a guns blazing at midnight, sort of thing. Only the other sort of guns. Not the weaponry kind.’
‘I don’t follow.’ Because she really can’t mean—
‘I’ve arranged for someone to take you to the party.’
‘A date,’ I answer flatly. ‘You’ve arranged for me to take a date?’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. For a super bright woman, sometimes Kallie can be so ridiculous.
‘I wouldn’t say a date, exactly.’ Her lips sort of twist, and though it’s hard to make sense of her expression, it’s easy to tell she’s been up to no good as she begins to rub her ear again.
‘So I’m going to a party to see if I can reconnect to Julian. Tell me how the whole taking a date thing works? You know, me turning up with another man.’
‘Men like a little competition,’ she answers mulishly. ‘It’s a primal thing. It might help.’
‘Or it might not!’ My delivery of the words is quick, my tone incredulous. ‘What if he thinks I’m with the date? With-with, Kallie?’
‘I’m sure you could enlighten him. Use your feminine wiles.’
‘And what about my date, huh? Don’t you think it’s a little cruel to take a man to a party only to ditch him?’ I do a double take as Sir Lancelot, a behemoth of a dog, lifts his bulk from his antique daybed, the kind that looks as though it was once housed in an Edwardian opium den. The dog and the apartment came as a package deal. In other words, I’m dog sitting in exchange for accommodation. As a lowly teacher, my alternative would’ve been much more basic. Like hostel basic. London summer prices are astronomical.
‘Faint heart never won fair Julian. You need to be more open to new experiences—to say yes more. You might even find you have fun.’
‘Besides—’ Kallie’s reply is cut off by the doorbell, the noise quickly followed by Sir Lancelot’s pounding feet and his deep and deafening barking.
‘You said he was a poodle cross,’ I complain as he almost knocks me over in his quest to get to the door.
‘He is,’ she answers. ‘Poodle cross wolf hound, I think. Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘Open the door to my date, you mean?’
‘Hmm. Like I said, sweets, he’s not a date exactly. More a . . . service provider.’
‘What does that even mean?’ I grumble, my annoyance quickly ramping from slow simmer to rapid boil. It’s probably this anger which powers me to pull Sir Lancelot away from the door by his collar. It’s the first time I’ve been able to make him go anywhere he doesn’t want to since I’d arrived. The spoiled curly lump must weigh at least a hundred pounds.
‘Mean?’ she asks benignly.
‘Stop repeating me and tell me exactly what you’ve done!’ I yank open the door, dog collar, curly fur, and phone all grasped in the other hand. ‘Down, Sir Lancelot!’ I yell, using my weight as a counterbalance to his bulk.
Dark, shiny shoes. Expensive looking. My gaze travels up. An undoubtedly tailored dark suit. A sharp jawline—clean shaven. Broad shoulders. Dirty blond hair. Brilliant blue eyes. Pillowy lips that are just an invitation to kiss. Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.
But I can’t quite fully appreciate the sight as Kallie replies.
‘I hired you a male escort.’
Chapter 3
WILL
‘Y-you did what?’ she stammers, and though her question is directed to her phone, her eyes remain on me.
‘A male escort,’ comes the loud-speaker reply. ‘I know that’s why you’re stammering. He’s arrived, hasn’t he?’ With each statement, her companion’s tone becomes more gleeful. ‘Come on, give me a look!’
‘I can’t believe you.’ Her whisper sounds awe filled and not in a good way.
‘Give the lady a look at her goods,’ I find myself suggesting. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ And not sorry the actual escort screwed up. Or is late.
The girl’s eyes rise immediately to my face—which serves to prove they’d dropped to the vicinity of my junk—her dark lashed eyes blinking rapidly. She’s striking. An unusual combination of light hair and dark eyes.
Her phone giggles—or her caller does. ‘Yes, the least you can do is let me see what I paid for, especially as I won’t be sampling.’
‘I can’t do that,’ she almost whispers.
‘Spoilsport,’ comes the voice from the phone. ‘Just a quick glance, come on.’
‘No, I really can’t,’ she replies, tugging on Sir Lancelot’s collar to prevent him from greeting me in a most discourteous way. Bloody ridiculous name for a dog, especially one as ill-mannered as he is. It’s not only the ladies who love my junk . . .
‘The damn dog,’ she complains, fighting his bulk as he strains ahead.
‘Watch me.’ I pitch my voice low and firm—a command, if you will. While I’m familiar with dog handling, what I hadn’t expected were two spines snapping to attention, two beings awaiting my command.
‘Drop,’ I say firmly, ignoring the instant image of her doing the same. Dropping to her knees, her fingers reaching for my zipper as she licks her pretty plum lips.
Sir Lancelot follows my order immediately, almost dragging his damsel with him.
‘Oh!’ I catch her elbow before she lands in a heap, the phone slipping from her hand.
‘Hello.’ I smile into the camera thinking that the woman on the other end of this call is more likely the connection to Mo. Dark hair and café au lait skin, she pushes the mass of tangles away from her face almost disconcerted.
‘Oh, hello!’ Her accent is mostly Brit with a transatlantic hint. Probably a recent transplant.
‘You wanted to see the goods,’ I purr, holding the phone at an angle and at arm’s length. ‘Do you think your friend got your money’s worth?’
‘I’d say she’d be mad not to,’ she replies.
‘Kallie!’ Her friend gasps, colour flooding her cheeks.
‘Your photo online really doesn’t do y
ou justice,’ Kallie says, her eyes roaming my face. ‘Do you act?’
‘No.’ My response is more chuckle than word. I’m sure my father would just love that.
‘You totally should. You’ve got that whole James Bond thing going on.’
‘That’s quite a compliment.’
‘One you deserve. And I should warn you, that posh boy accent? Totes our girl’s thing.’
‘I’d like my phone back please.’ “Our girl” holds out her hand, brows furrowed.
‘Awww,’ Kallie complains. ‘We were just getting to know one another.’
‘Then maybe you can book him for yourself next time you visit your parents.’ Arm straighter, her hand is almost under my face. ‘My phone, thank you.’
‘A pleasure speaking with you, Kallie. Look me up when you’re in town next.’
Her frown deepens as she takes her phone, but it’s a little late to explain I wasn’t offering a mate’s rate booty call—that I’m just a little too friendly for my own good.
‘Oh, don’t let her drink hard liquor,’ Kallie calls. ‘It brings the devil out in her. And also, you’re there as a decoy unless she says otherwise!’
‘That’s enough from you.’ Prodding the screen of her phone, she brings it to her ear. ‘Really, Kallie?’ she hisses, turning away. ‘An escort? Are you kidding me!’
Walking deeper into the apartment, I find the sway of her hips deeply arousing, the rear view as delicious as the front. Her dress dips low like a silken peep show, the delicate fabric gliding over her arse and hips, and hinting at what lies beneath. So much pale, smooth skin exposed and just begging to be kissed. In fact, the whole outfit seems to have been constructed to taunt and tease.
‘Come,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘You will later,’ I mutter, stepping over the threshold. ‘At least, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’ Yes, I know. She was talking to the dog, but he’s currently waiting on my command. He lifts his head as I pass, jumping to his feet at my instruction as I close the front door and follow her down the hall.
‘Yes. Kallie, okay. Yes!’ I can almost hear her rolling her eyes as she speaks with her friend even though her back is still to me. ‘I will. As soon as I get in. Yeah, that’s not happening. No, not a consolation prize, you right . . . Yes. I have eyes!’
Sweetheart, you have eyes and arse and tits enough to drive any man wild.
‘Okay . . . goodbye . . . bye. Bye . . . ’
Why does it take women an age to end a phone call? ‘Hanging up now!’ she sings. Yeah, any minute. ‘Bye!’
Her shoulders sag like she has the weight of the world balanced there. At least, until Sir Lancelot sticks his wet nose against her backside, and she jumps.
‘Stop that, you horrible hound!’
‘He’s not actually a hound.’ Technically, he’s a Komondor; a Hungarian sheep dog. Gladly, Mo keeps his fur shorn short or else he’d look a lot like a large dreadlocked mop.
She jumps at the sound of my voice. ‘W-what?’
‘His name is a bit of a misnomer, too.’ Sliding my hand from my pants pocket, I rub my chin. She looks back at me as though I’m speaking in tongues. I’d like to have her on my tongue, but I don’t think that’s the same.
‘If he has any manners, they’re all bad. Not a very chivalrous chap.’
‘Says the man who’s standing in my home, uninvited.’
At her pointed reply, I can’t help but grin. I’m not sure what the deal is, but there’s no way Mo has moved out without taking his beloved mutt or his awful furniture. Okay, it’s not really awful, just really kitsch, even if it is the perfect setting for him to theatrically swan around in his vintage kaftans, gin and tonic in hand.
Also, no way he’s rented his five-million-pound home out through Airbnb.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Me? Nothing.’ Nothing at all, apart from the fact that tonight, I think I will indulge in a spot of acting. I slide my both hands back into my pockets this time, rocking back on my heels.
‘And why are you here?’ she asks annoyed.
‘You told me to come in,’ I answer evenly.
‘I was talking to the dog. Anyway, how do you know his name?’ Her gaze hardens. ‘I don’t remember saying it at the door.’
‘True, but you did yell it before you opened the door. You’ve a rare set of lungs on you.’
‘Oh.’ Her expression clouds as she processes what may or may not be true. Who can recall? Then her gaze rises again. ‘Well, you can go now. Please. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘But I do mind.’
‘What?’
‘I do mind. I’ve been booked to meet your every whim tonight.’ Act or overact? It must be the setting.
‘Oh, but . . .’
I shoot her a cheeky grin—all the girls love cheeky Will. And sure enough, heat hits her cheeks immediately. I wonder how deep the blush grows. I don’t mean in colour but rather area space. Along with how long it’ll take me to find out tonight.
‘Do you think I dress like this for a trip to Waitrose?’
‘I’m sorry, where?’ she asks.
‘The supermarket, love. You know, grocery shopping? I’m all decked out, and I’m raring to go.’ Literally. Gagging for a go.
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry, but I’m not. That is, I’m not going out tonight.’ I take a step forward when she holds up her hand. ‘I-I’ve just changed my mind.’
‘Looks like we’re staying in then,’ I say, beginning to slide my jacket from my shoulders.
‘What? No! We’re not staying in. I am, alone.’
‘Look, if I don’t deliver the hours allotted to our . . . appointment, my agency will hold back my fee.’ The cogs begin to spin as I warm to my ridiculous theme. ‘I could’ve had other bookings tonight. I’m in high demand, you know. Women to wine, dine, and make feel fine all over the city.’
‘I’m sorry, mister . . .’
Honestly, I catch myself right before saying, “Baby, my name’s whatever you want it to be.” Yeah, like a total cock.
‘Will works just fine,’ I say instead.
‘I’m sorry, Will, but I just can’t—’
‘Can I say, just for the record, you could just about do anything in that dress.’ She ducks her head, shy for a moment. But as I step closer, her head comes up fast. ‘Seriously, if world peace is on your agenda tonight, in that dress? It’s a done deal.’
‘It did cost me an awful lot of money,’ she murmurs, self-consciously threading a lock of artfully curled hair behind her ear.
‘Worth every penny,’ I reply. I bite my tongue against the notion of offering to buy it from her, delivery to take place right here and right now. One thing’s for sure, a dress that fine doesn’t allow for undergarments of any kind. Not a bra. Not even a thong. How perfect is that?
We’re almost toe to toe when I gently move her fingers away from her ear, pulling the ringlet back in place. ‘I’m happy to curl up on the sofa this evening,’ I add softly. ‘Maybe watch a film?’ My thumb brushes her cheek, my expression sincere, though contradicting the tightening of my pants. ‘I give a mean foot massage.’ This, at least, is true. It’s part of a little game I like to play called “parting a girl from her knickers”.
Not that I’m certain she’s wearing any as my hand ghosts her hip.
‘You really are too beautiful.’
Her lashes cast dark half-moons against her rosy cheeks for a moment before she raises her chin. And her eyes aren’t blue, I realise, but perhaps more green.
‘You really think I look beautiful?’ I nod, not quite realising I’d said so out loud, but it is another truth. ‘It would be a shame to waste this dress and this evening,’ she murmurs.
Looks like we could be culminating the evening with a little hallway sex, I think as her phone buzzes with a text.
‘That’s my cab.’
‘Then we have a date,’ I say, holding out the crook of my arm in invitation. ‘Yours for the n
ight, bought and paid for.’
She looks a little stunned.
Smooth move, dick head.
So I might not be a dial-a-dick who’s paid by the hour. I’m more a dial-a-dick who’s free. I love women. I’m good to them. I’m also usually honest. Mostly. I’m not interested in relationships, the future, or settling down, and I say so up front. Usually. Okay, so I might not say so immediately up front. I might not even say so before we seal the deal. I’m a man—haven’t you heard we can be a little shitty?
And everyone lies a little in the quest to get laid. E-v-e-r-y-one.
But none of that matters right now. I’ve had a monumentally crappy day, so I’m in need of a distraction, and this beauty needs a date. Win-win. And if I can get her out of the door before the real dial-a-dick turns up, I think I’ll have done us both a favour tonight.
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to my family. And the usual subjects including, though not limited to Natasha, Aimee, Lisa, Elizabeth, and the Lambs, Michelle for keeping the Lambs ticking over, and my readers!
About the Author
www.DonnaAlam.com
Donna writes dirty stories, according to her family. She hopes you find them funny, too. When not bashing away at a keyboard, she can usually be found hiding from her family and responsibilities with a good book in her hand and a dog that looks like a mop by her feet. She likes her humour and wine dry, her mojitos sweet, and her language salty.
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