“Anytime,” he replies, then stops himself, shaking his head. “Although, of course, I hope you never have to deal with a piece of shit like that guy ever again.”
I laugh. “Here’s hoping.”
“Yes,” he agrees, eyes suddenly sincere again, locked on me. “Here’s hoping.”
With that, I leave him to his front desk duties. I wipe my palms on my jeans as I go. Ignore the fresh sparking in my nerve endings. This time, I definitely can’t blame it on adrenaline or fear. This time, I know exactly what’s causing it.
But that’s the worst possible idea. If I hooked up with Zayne and things went sour, they’d go really sour.
So, I push my floor in the elevator, let the doors close behind me, and try not to think about the insanely hot man I just discovered hiding behind my doorman’s uniform.
2
Midnight. I still can’t sleep. Turns out adrenaline plus a healthy dose of flirting makes for one long, sleepless kind of night.
I pull out my phone and flip through my messages. I filled in my BFFs at work about the date already, blowing up our group text with details. They are appropriately shocked and appalled on my behalf. Andy even promises to buy my first round at our standing team happy hour on Thursday.
But by now, everyone’s long asleep. Well, except for Celeste, who’s out celebrating her boyfriend’s birthday, but I don’t want to bother her with more bored whining about how I’m still awake because dammit, I can’t stop thinking about tonight.
You’d think it would be the stalker distracting me, keeping me up. Instead, it’s images of Zayne. His piercing blue eyes as he looked me over, made sure I was okay after that attack. The flirty glint in those same eyes when he told me I needed a man who treats me right. Someone who will give me whatever I desire.
I shiver and roll back over in bed. Tap on the little icon for the dating app. If nothing else, it will occupy my mind. Distract me from thinking thoughts I should definitely not be thinking about my doorman.
Like what those strong arms would feel like wrapped around me, or what his lips would taste like on mine. Not to mention, judging by the size of his hands, he’s got to be packing a pretty nice package in those uniform pants…
I scold myself internally and focus on the app. Don’t think about him.
I try to force him out. Try to focus on the guys scrolling past on my screen instead. But staring at boring finance bro after boring finance bro gets old. They all have the same photos on their profiles, I swear. Shirtless pic to display their no doubt carefully gym-cultivated abs, another pic of them drinking beer with their bros to prove they have friends, one carefully cropped photo with their arm around someone not in the image, to prove that they’ve dated chicks before (or at least known them long enough to trick them into taking a photo together), and one definitely posed headshot that shows off their cheekbones at the best possible angle. The latter may or may not be heavily edited—it varies by dude.
None of them add much detail to their profiles beyond that. They’re all full of one-line quotes, usually from action movies. That, or witticisms such as “I’m the one you’ve been looking for.” Very convincing.
I swipe left through at least a dozen profiles, and I’m debating giving up and just rolling back over to try and sleep when a different image pops up. Unlike most of the other guys, this photo appears to be a candid one, un-posed. He’s looking past the photographer, at something in the background. He’s standing on a street corner I recognize, just a few blocks away, outside my favorite deli. He probably took this on a lunch run, or maybe before his shift started.
I can guess, because I know the guy.
It’s Zayne.
I tap open his profile. There are only three photos. The first one, the candid, shows off his cheekbones at just the right angle, not to mention really accentuates his sharp blue eyes catching the Manhattan sunlight so they seem to glow in the photo. Then there’s another picture of him indoors—his apartment maybe? I spot a cozy-looking striped blanket and a cat curled up on his lap, though he’s not posing with it, just kind of reclining and letting the cat chill there. This one isn’t a candid—he’s smiling at whoever’s taking it. The effect is that it looks like he’s gazing straight out of my phone at me. I feel two things simultaneously—a red-hot fire in the pit of my belly and an equally strong and startling sensation of jealousy. Whoever took this photo, I hate them. For no other reason than that Zayne was smiling at them like that.
Damn.
Calm down, Clove, I scold myself.
The third photo is at a beach somewhere. There’s a few guys in the photo, but unlike most dudes’ profiles, I can pick Zayne out immediately. He stands out like that, impossible to look away from. He’s in the middle of a volleyball game, mid-jump in fact, and goddamn, does it make his body stand out. He’s in swimming trunks of course, and it highlights perfectly the washboard cut of his abs, straight down to the muscular V pointing down to his groin.
I swallow hard and find myself wishing that my phone had a higher resolution display. I’d like to zoom in on this photo, see exactly where that V is pointing, if you can see the outline of him through those trunks…
I shake myself. Tap back on his profile page.
“The only people for me are the mad ones.”
I grin. Okay, sure, maybe an On the Road quote is a little bit cliché, but there’s something almost adorable about it here.
Plus, he reads. That’s a bonus.
And, I have to laugh at his username. AtYourService. Fitting for a doorman.
I hesitate, finger hovering over the screen. I remember the stern talking-to I gave myself in the lobby earlier tonight. This is a bad idea.
But I rarely ever listen to myself. Especially not when confronted with a guy like Zayne. So I slide my thumb right, and hit yes on him.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
You have a new match!
He already swiped right on me too.
I lick my lips. Open the chat window that’s popped up. My fingers hover over the keys. What do I say? Thanks again for saving my ass tonight? You look better without the uniform?
Then again, he looks pretty damn good in the uniform, too.
My phone buzzes once more. Looks like he spared me the trouble of figuring out an opening line.
Trouble sleeping? his message reads.
I glance at my bedside clock and my eyes widen. Shit. It’s almost 1am already. When did that happen?
I peer back at the app.
CallMeClove: Eventful night. I’m finding it pretty hard to doze off now, yeah.
AtYourService: Me too. I keep thinking about this beautiful woman who I had to save from a raving madman.
CallMeClove: Sounds exciting. What happened next, did you sweep her off her feet?
AtYourService: Believe me, I wanted to. Sadly, I think she only sees me as an employee. Bodyguard, maybe.
CallMeClove: I find that hard to believe. You seem like you have a lot more than just one side to you, under that uniform.
AtYourService: Trust me, there’s a lot more than you see under this uniform.
CallMeClove: Don’t tease me.
AtYourService: You mean like this?
That last message comes with a photo attached. I recognize the background—wow, our doormen have long shifts. He’s downstairs, in the mail room, which I’ve only ever seen from the other side of the counter. He’s leaning back on a stool, his shirt untucked, his pants hanging loosely on his hips.
I swallow hard.
CallMeClove: Exactly like that.
I hold my breath when I hit send on this. The alarm bells are still ringing in my head, bad idea, bad idea, but it’s late and I’m getting punch drunk on exhaustion, not to mention my hormones are still raging from earlier.
AtYourService: So you don’t want to see what’s underneath?
Another picture comes through. In this one, he’s pulled his shirt up, just far enough to show his washboard abs an
d the waistband of his boxers. Goddamn. His stomach is flat, rippling, and looks even more delicious close-up than it did in that beach photo. I want to run my hands over those abs. Trace that glorious V-line straight down into those boxers and…
Argh.
CallMeClove: I thought I said don’t tease me…
AtYourService: My bad. In that case, are you allowed to tease me instead? Because I have to admit, I’ve spent all night wondering what was underneath my damsel in distress’s clothes…
I shiver. Cast a glance down at myself. I’m in PJs now, and they’re not exactly sexy. Just a baggy T-shirt and my gym shorts. But my dresser is within reach, and inside it, the lacy lingerie that I reserve for special occasions.
I take a deep breath. What could it hurt? Just one picture. It’s only polite after all. He sent me one first.
I pull off my T-shirt, slip on the lingerie and arrange it so it doesn’t actually show anything—not my face and not anything completely untoward either. The result is sexier than I expected, to be honest. It’s all black lace and a hint of cleavage, and when I hit send, I’m actually not even embarrassed. Because hell yeah, I look hot.
He replies almost instantly. There’s no message this time, just a photo of him standing beside the stool in the mail room now, his boxers on full display. And through them, I can already make out the outline of his hard cock, straining against the fabric. I trace my fingers along my phone screen, and I’m surprised to find a trickle of sweat inching between my breasts. Because goddamn, I want to touch him. Feel that cock with my own hands.
AtYourService: Still want me to quit teasing, naughty girl?
CallMeClove: I might be coming around to it. I’d need one more photo to be sure…
He doesn’t disappoint. I open the next picture with a skip in my breath. Holy hell. He’s huge.
His cock is thick, swollen with lust, and wrapped in his strong fist. To judge by him, they aren’t kidding when they say large hands equal large everything else. He’s glorious, long and curved slightly upward, with thick veins that stand.
More than anything, I want to taste him. Lick along his length, swirl my tongue around the tip of him, then slowly take him into my mouth… Would he even fit?
I want to find out.
CallMeClove: Should you be undressing like this at work? Seems very unprofessional of you.
AtYourService: Going to lodge a complaint? ;)
CallMeClove: Oh, definitely not.
AtYourService: That’s good. Because it’s your fault, you know.
CallMeClove: My fault? How so? I am perfectly innocent here.
AtYourService: That lacy nightgown says otherwise. And now you’ve gone and made me rock-hard just thinking about peeling it off of you…
CallMeClove: Well, you’re the one who started it. Now I’m getting wet just looking at how hard you are.
AtYourService: Definitely seems like you’re the one doing the teasing. Because now I’m thinking about spreading your thighs and tasting exactly how wet you are. I bet you have a tight little pussy, don’t you, naughty girl?
I slide my hand under the covers. Touch myself as I respond one-handed.
CallMeClove: So tight. I wonder if your thick cock would fit inside me…
AtYourService: I’d go nice and slow. Lick you until you couldn’t stand it anymore, until you were begging for me, and then I’d push into you slowly, an inch at a time…
I spread my pussy lips and swirl my finger through the thick juices accumulating there, all the while imagining it’s him. His finger, his strong, capable hand down my panties. My hand trembles as I type out my reply.
CallMeClove: I’d be so tight and hot and wet around you, and when you finally slid all the way inside me, I’d wrap my legs around your waist, let you fuck me however you want.
AtYourService: I’d fuck you all night, Clove. Every way you want. Hard and rough enough that you wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day.
CallMeClove: Fuck yes, Zayne. That’s what I want you to do to me.
I barely manage to finish typing the last sentence. I’m too concentrated on my pussy, sliding my fingers in and out of myself, while I press down hard on my clit with the heel of my hand, rubbing it at the same time.
AtYourService: I’m fisting my cock right now, thinking about you. Are you touching yourself? Please tell me you’re touching that sweet little pussy of yours, Clove.
That reply is enough to send me over the edge. My body shakes as I come, and I let out a faint cry, alone in the darkness of my apartment.
But now that I have, and the hormones still continue to rage, as frustrated as I am, I grimace. What am I doing? Exactly what I promised myself I shouldn’t.
Seeing my name on the screen next to his makes me realize just what a terrible idea this is. I love this apartment. It’s my home. I can’t risk it for a fling, even if it is with a hottie like Zayne.
CallMeClove: I have to go. I’m sorry.
I log out of the app before I can give into temptation any more. When I roll over to shut off my light, I squint at the time and grimace even harder. Shit. Past two in the morning.
Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.
3
“Good morning, Ms. Walker.”
The usual morning doorman, Paul, waves at me as I exit the building. Meanwhile, I’m suppressing a mixture of frustration and relief. Half of me wanted to see Zayne this morning. Catch one more glimpse of his sexy grin, his piercing blue eyes.
The other half is relieved that I don’t have to walk past him right away. Not after last night. And especially not with how I’m looking this morning—like I just rolled out of the wrong side of the bed and face-first into a pot of coffee. There are bags under my eyes that my makeup is straining to conceal, and my hair is a mess because I didn’t have time to shower.
As it is, I just wave back at Paul as I jog out the door, hurrying toward the train in my flats, because no way can I run as fast as I’ll need to in heels.
Half an hour later, I roll into my office five minutes before our first meeting is set to begin. Just enough time to pour myself a large cup of black coffee in the break room before I sidle up to the office where we meet every Friday morning to review our campaigns from last week and plan for the next.
One girl at the back of the room, a new hire I don’t know very well, Hannah-something, is staring at me blatantly. I do a quick check, but no, I remembered to button all my buttons. Huh. Weird.
I shake my head and zone back into the meeting.
Even though it’s business as usual, it’s still impossible to concentrate. I stare blankly at my manager, my mind still stuck on my text exchange with Zayne last night. The image of his cock, the knowledge that he was touching himself, masturbating in the break room thinking about me.
Before long, I have to cross my legs and clench them tight, my panties already feeling worryingly damp.
Naturally, that’s the moment when my boss calls my name. I focus on her, then the PowerPoint slide on the wall behind her. But it doesn’t help me figure out what she just said.
“Sorry, what was that?” I wince.
My boss’s annoyed stare says it all. Normally she and I are on good terms, but the rest of the day pretty much goes like that. No matter what she asks, I need her to repeat it multiple times because I can’t keep my head on straight.
Then a few of the results from previous campaigns come in abysmally low, coupled with one of our vendors trying to renegotiate a contract we’d already signed, and by the end of my very long Friday, I am in desperate need of a stiff drink.
To top it all off, none of my usual post-work happy hour buddies are free tonight. Andy has a hot date with this new guy she’s been flirting with nonstop all week, and Celeste has some birthday party for her aunt to go to. Which leaves me stranded in midtown with nowhere to go.
I heave a sigh and start heading for the train when my phone buzzes. Another message on the app. I hesitate for a fraction
of a second before I tap it open.
It’s Zayne.
My stomach flips, the sensation both nervous and pleasant at once. I open our conversation, my face flushing as I remember just how hot and heated this got last time.
But if I’m expecting just another sext, that’s not what I find.
AtYourService: Hope I didn’t keep you up too late last night. How’s your Friday going?
CallMeClove: To be honest, not great. Work was pretty shitty. All kinds of projects exploding at once.
AtYourService: Would coffee cheer you up? I know a great little place not far from the building, over on Madison. And I happen to be free this evening.
I smile. Sure, the bad idea alarms are still going off, but they’re buried deep in the back of my mind now, under a few layers of my crappy workday, my friends all being busy, and, admittedly, my hormones still in full-on raging after last night’s photo exchange.
CallMeClove: Actually, yeah, coffee sounds great. Meet you there?
He sends me the address and I get onto the subway train with a renewed pep in my step. I check myself out in the mirror and fix my hair, add a touch of lipstick. My favorite distraction when I feel tired—bright red lipstick because then people won’t notice your other flaws.
I actually don’t look too bad by the time I step off the train at the other end. I guess an overdose of coffee and stress is a decent remedy for sleepless bedhead after all.
The coffee shop Zayne picked turns out to be a cute place a few blocks from my apartment that I’ve been eyeballing for months. It opened last summer but I hadn’t made it over here yet. It’s funny how you get set in your routines. You don’t even know that they need breaking until someone comes along and smashes them.
And hell if Zayne isn’t doing a damn good job of that right now. The moment I step through the front doors into the cozy little café, I spot him. He’s impossible to miss now that I’ve finally tuned into his frequency. His eyes catch me from across the room and nearly pin me to my spot in the doorway. My heartbeat speeds up and suddenly it’s hard to focus on anything but the extremely hot man standing up, drawing out a chair for me, eyes locked on mine all the while. In the warm café lighting, his cheekbones stand out sharper than ever. He looks sexy as hell in jeans and a T-shirt, relaxed and off duty, like a completely different person from the uniformed hottie who saved me last night.
Big Bad Boys: A Romance Collection Page 43