The Boy Toy

by Nicola Marsh

“Haven’t you heard the quiet ones are the worst?”

  Scooting closer, he snagged her hand and raised it to his lips. Her eyes widened as he pressed a kiss to the back of it, before nibbling on her knuckles, pausing to flick his tongue in the dips between.

  She groaned, and he was on her, pressing her back into the sofa, kissing her with every ounce of pent-up frustration from thinking about her all week.

  Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue searching for his, demanding, commanding. She kissed like she fucked, with wanton abandonment and sheer enjoyment. Like she couldn’t get enough. Like she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Big turn-on. Huge.

  When he covered her body with his, grinding his rigid cock against her sweet spot, she stilled and broke the kiss. Her chest heaved with her rapid breathing, her eyes glazed and wide.

  “The door’s unlocked,” she murmured, placing her hands on his chest to push him away. “I can’t do this; it’s unprofessional.”

  “Yeah, of course, sorry.” He pushed off her and helped her into a sitting position, wishing he hadn’t lost his head but a small part of him not regretting it at all. Guess he’d answered the question of whether he wanted more than the one-night stand. He craved another hot encounter with the sexy brunette so much he’d almost devoured her in her office. “When you say you can’t do this, do you mean here or in general?”

  He saw in her eyes the battle she waged. Lust with sensibility. Desire with logic. But when the corners of her mouth curved in a coy smile, he knew he’d like her answer.

  “Here,” she said, her hand snaking out to take his. “But if you recall, my apartment’s not that far, so why don’t we go have that drink?”

  Rory didn’t have to be asked twice.

  Thirteen

  It had been a long week.

  Samira had treated way too many arthritic backs when she’d anticipated a lot more soft-tissue injuries for hot Aussie rules football players. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time setting up rooms for other allied health professional staff that hadn’t started working at the center yet. And she’d fallen into bed exhausted most nights after dodging her mom’s calls to set up another meeting with Manish.

  Though she’d attributed her ongoing fatigue to residual jet lag, she knew better. Tossing and turning while remembering a scorching one-night stand that had the potential to turn into more wasn’t conducive to good sleep. So when the object of her disrupted slumber knocked on her office door, what was a girl to do other than invite him back to her place, again?

  They barely made it into her apartment before he had her up against the wall, his deliciously hard body pressing against hers, setting alight every nerve ending, making her skin hypersensitive. She wanted to claw off her clothes, and his, her hands plucking ineffectually at his cotton T-shirt because she didn’t know where to grab first.

  “Sexy as fuck,” he murmured against her neck, alternating between gentle bites and sensual sweeps of his tongue, his use of the f-bomb ratcheting up her desire, if that was possible.

  She’d never done the dirty-talk thing, and there was something raw and natural about him that called to her.

  She loved living in LA, but most of the guys she’d dated had been well-groomed, well-spoken, and hooked on the wellness regimen that the beautiful people favored. Many of them had been fake, their obsession with manscaping and fast cars an instant turnoff.

  Rory was so far removed from those guys, she knew that was part of the attraction. The other parts . . . She slid her hand between their bodies to cup his groin, letting out a little squeal when he bit down on her trapezius particularly hard.

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, and she deliberately squeezed him, earning a loud groan.

  “Bedroom?”

  “Here’s fine.” She unzipped him and slid her hand inside, emboldened, eager.

  He returned the favor, unzipping her pants and pushing them down along with her panties, his hands impatient, his fingers plucking at elastic, until she kicked them away and his hands cupped her ass, lifting her slightly.

  She liked that he was a man of few words, and she could tell what he wanted by touch, so she slid her hand inside his jocks, wrapped her hand around velvet hardness, and eased him out.

  “Condom. Wallet. Back pocket,” he said, and she didn’t waste any time in getting him sheathed.

  She’d barely rolled the latex all the way to the base of his penis when he lifted her higher, leaving her no option but to wrap her legs around his waist.

  Her breath hitched as he nudged her entrance, teasing, waiting, until she locked eyes with him, and what he saw must’ve driven him to slide in to the hilt.

  Heat streaked through her at the first thrust, and the next, and the next. Over and over, the exquisite pleasure of having him fill her.

  His lips sought hers, his kisses sensual and soul drugging as he picked up the tempo, angling his hips so each thrust grazed her clit.

  Considering her raunchy memories of their one night together, it didn’t take long for her to cling to him, whispering “more” as a monumental orgasm clawed at her.

  With another thrust, she came so hard she bit into his shoulder, and he followed a second later on a low, guttural groan that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  She’d never had this kind of sex before, had never been so horny for a guy, and as he gently lowered her and her feet touched the ground, she wondered about the prudence of turning a one-night stand into two . . . but with him still inside her and the aftershocks of her pulsating muscles setting up a delicious heat between them, she didn’t particularly care.

  * * *

  * * *

  Rory didn’t do this.

  He didn’t linger after sex with a woman he barely knew, and he certainly didn’t stand in her kitchen chopping onions for scrambled eggs. Yet there he was, in Samira’s apartment, doing exactly that. It should’ve given him hives. Instead, the repetitive soothing action of the sharp knife dicing through the layers calmed him.

  It helped that she didn’t mind talking enough for the both of them.

  “Once those onions are done, dice the tomato next, then the cilantro, and you’re ready to learn the art of creating the best Punjabi scrambled eggs you’ve ever tasted.”

  She brought her fingertips to her lips and kissed them with a flourish, making him laugh. She had this way about her, an easygoing lack of self-consciousness that he admired yet envied.

  What would it be like to feel that comfortable in your own skin? To appear completely at ease standing in a kitchen wearing a long T-shirt over knickers while beating eggs with a fork? To make conversation without having to overthink every goddamn word? To share an impromptu dinner after great sex and not feel the slightest bit awkward?

  If he ever broke his relationship rule, she’d be a primary candidate. Then again, what was the point? She’d be leaving at the end of her six-month stint at the health center, and the last thing he needed was to let down his guard for the first time in his life, fall for her, only to be left broken when she headed back to LA. He was many things; a masochist wasn’t one of them.

  “You really are a man of few words,” she said, picking up a dishcloth. “I’m hoping it’s you being an introvert and not because you find me a boring conversationalist.”

  “You’re fantastic, and I think I demonstrated fifteen minutes ago exactly how stimulating I find you.”

  She blushed the same shade as the tomato in her hand, which she tossed him and he caught. “That’s sex, and yes, I think we’ve established how good we are at that.”

  “Just good, huh?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Great. Amazing. Stupendous. Better?”

  “Getting there.” He winked, tossed the tomato, and caught it. “Yeah, I’m quiet. I prefer to listen.”

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you
real or some superhuman male deposited here from another planet?”

  “Some parts of me are superhuman, if your moans of approval are any indication,” he deadpanned, earning a flick of the dishcloth on his ass.

  “Just chop,” she said, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. “For what it’s worth, I don’t reveal the secret of my Punjabi scrambled eggs to just anybody.”

  “So I guess that means you like me for more than my superhuman co—”

  “Dice,” she said, pointing at the tomato, her blush intensifying as she turned the stove knob to light the gas.

  Grinning, he focused on the task at hand so he wouldn’t dice a fingertip along with the tomato. She had that effect on him, her sense of humor as beguiling as the rest of her. And even though they’d only hooked up twice, and she was transient, and he couldn’t afford to get too distracted from nailing the Renegades audition, he couldn’t help but wish they could do this for longer.

  “Why is someone like you single?”

  Fuck, the question popped out before he could get his brain into gear, something that never happened.

  She paused, pouring oil into a frying pan and adding a dob of ghee, before answering. “I could ask you the same question.”

  “That’s easy. I’m not a relationship kind of guy. I live in a tiny flat, my work is intermittent, and I travel around a lot for it.” He shrugged. “Not exactly stable material.”

  She whirled the pan in circular motions to spread the oil and ghee while eyeing him speculatively. “I was married, once, many years ago. It lasted eighteen months. When the divorce came through, I moved to the US because my dad’s from there, so I got a green card, started working, and never looked back.”

  Her admission surprised him. She didn’t sound bitter. In fact, she sounded almost blasé, like it meant nothing. While he’d never contemplated marriage and never would, he was pretty sure if his imploded, he’d be more cut up. Then again, she’d said many years ago . . .

  “You must’ve been a child bride.”

  “Something like that,” she said, turning away to focus on the stove. “Can I have the onion please?”

  Nice deflection, and he didn’t push for answers, no matter how curious. He handed her the saucer with diced onions and watched as she tipped the onion into the pan, deftly flicking the pieces around with a wooden spoon.

  “Tomato,” she said, and he handed her the next saucer, wishing he hadn’t opened his big mouth and changed the playful mood to wariness.

  With the both of them reverting to silence, the sizzle of frying onion and tomato the only sound in the kitchen, an awkwardness he didn’t like extended between them.

  This was why he shouldn’t speak. On the rare occasions he tried to make conversation, he inevitably screwed up.

  “These eggs are my mom’s recipe,” she said, soft, uncertain. “The guy I married was her choice.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You had an arranged marriage?”

  “Sort of.” She added a pinch of garlic powder to the pan, and half a teaspoon of garam masala. “He was Indian, came from a solid family, had a good job, and was handsome. I was young and craving a fairy tale from watching one too many Bollywood movies, and I ended up falling for him after Mom gave me a none-too-gentle shove in his direction.”

  She poured the eggs into the pan, the wooden spoon moving faster now, stirring around and around. “He cheated on me after a year of marriage.”

  “Bastard.”

  He never understood the whole cheating thing. If you wanted to play the field, why settle down? Easier to stay single than end up hurting someone. The dickhead must’ve been a real prick to do a number on someone like Samira.

  “My sentiments exactly.” She switched off the stove and started dishing the fragrant eggs onto two plates. “I blamed Mom a long time for pushing me toward Avi. I’ve avoided Melbourne for that reason. We’re not as close as we once were, but I’m hoping we can get past it this trip.”

  Surprised she continued to share private revelations, he asked, “How often do you come home?”

  “The last time was five years ago, for my dad’s funeral.”

  She handed him a plate, picked up the other, and gestured to the small dining table in the corner. “So now that you know why I prefer to stay single, let’s eat.”

  He could’ve left it at that, but he wanted to know more, against his better judgment.

  “Sorry about your dad. But one jerk shouldn’t taint your view of relationships.” He picked up his fork and stabbed at a piece of egg. “You’re spectacular and deserve to be happy.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Phil,” she said, raising a glass of water in his direction, and he chuckled.

  “On that note, I’ll shut my mouth, revert to that silence you love so much, and eat.”

  As he lifted the fork to his mouth and got his first taste of Punjabi eggs, he hoped his eyes didn’t roll back in his head. The incredible combination of sautéed onion, tomato, and cilantro along with the eggs and spices burst on his tongue, and he moaned in appreciation.

  “This is fantastic,” he said, shoveling another two forkfuls into his mouth in quick succession.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She smiled at his compliment and proceeded to eat as fast as he did. A woman with healthy appetites. He loved it.

  When he regretfully pushed his empty plate away, he patted his stomach. “Thank you. That was absolutely delicious. You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

  “Sure.” She winked. “But then I’ll have to kill you, and if I don’t, my mom will.”

  “But she’ll never know.”

  The cheeky glint in her eyes faded, and he instantly knew he’d said the wrong thing again.

  He wasn’t a “meet the parents” type of guy, especially when they weren’t even dating, but by her reaction, he got the distinct impression she was either ashamed of him or had major hang-ups with her mother beyond blaming her for choosing a shitty husband for her.

  Inwardly cursing his never-ending ability to get words wrong even when he was so sure they were right, he stood and started clearing the table. As he reached for her plate, she covered his hand with hers.

  “Leave it. We can do the dishes later.”

  He dragged his gaze from her hand to her eyes, her somberness not encouraging. “Later?”

  “Don’t you want seconds?”

  “But there aren’t any eggs left—”

  “Exactly.”

  She stood, intertwined her fingers with his, and eyeballed him with an unspoken challenge he was all too willing to accept as they headed for the bedroom.

  Fourteen

  This time, when Rory woke in Samira’s bed, he didn’t slink away. Not that he wasn’t tempted, considering she captivated him just as much when she slept, with small puffs of air blowing out of pursed lips and her eyeballs’ rapid movement making her lids quiver, but they’d connected beyond the sex last night when she’d revealed all that stuff about being married, and slipping away would be a shitty thing to do.

  But staying around until she woke and agreeing to brunch were poles apart. Saturday mornings were reserved for mega workouts and studying the requirements on stunt jobs for next week. But his schedule was annoyingly clear considering he needed the money, and he could always hit the gym later. Besides, he’d had a good cardio workout several times last night, three to be precise, and there was nothing like sex with Samira to get his heart pumping.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  He grinned at her from across a small table in an Indian café off the main drag in Dandenong. “Do you really want to know?”

  She held up her hand, her eyes glittering with remembrance. “You don’t have to spell it out.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Because I spent a great night with a hot guy and I’m in a ch
eeky mood, so sue me.”

  He laughed and she joined in, and he wished he could attribute the weird feeling in his chest to heartburn, but they hadn’t eaten yet.

  When he’d turned up at her office last night, he hadn’t expected to connect this way. The sex had been as good as he remembered, and it should’ve ended there. But with cooking dinner together, spending the night, and sharing this late breakfast, Rory knew they’d moved beyond the “just screwing” phase into something . . . more. He didn’t know what it was, and he had no idea how to label it, but they were in some weird dating limbo land where he wanted to see her again but was terrified by the urge.

  “So you think I’m hot, huh?”

  “Like you need the validation.” She rolled her eyes. “You asked me last night why I was single, and I asked you the same.” She poked him in the biceps. “So what gives? You mentioned all that stuff about your job and small apartment, but what’s the real reason?”

  No way in hell would he tell her why he steered clear of relationships, so he deflected by pointing at his chest and pulling his shoulders back. “Why would I deprive so many women of this by taking myself off the market?”

  She laughed as he’d intended, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She’d already mentioned he was a man of few words, and he didn’t need her knowing why. Though interestingly, sitting across from her at the dining table last night and now, he realized he hadn’t been so self-conscious. He wasn’t weighing every word carefully before speaking or tensing in case he slipped up. She made him feel at ease in a way he hadn’t experienced since . . . well, ever.

  Thankfully, their order arrived and prevented her from asking any more questions he’d rather not answer. He’d never heard of Indian dishes like upma and idlis, being a chicken tikka and rogan josh man, but they smelled delicious, and he was looking forward to trying his first vegetarian South Indian breakfast.

  “Would you like a little of everything?”

  He nodded and held out his plate, watching as Samira placed two white saucerlike cakes and a spoonful of chutney on it, along with several large spoonfuls of a grainy concoction.