Love Is In the Air Volume 1

by Susan Stoker

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, hoping he won’t point out that I did indeed follow him to this table of my own free will.

  “Having dinner with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to be moderately sober.”

  “For what?”

  “For dessert.” He leans back in his seat, all casual and relaxed, but the look on his face is intense as he studies mine. I can’t even begin to imagine what he sees there but he just nods like he’s figured something out and he’s satisfied with his conclusion.

  “What’s for dessert?” I’m half-afraid to hear the answer but there’s another part of me that’s nervous with excitement and anticipation.

  What if... no. No way. I’m not going there.

  With his eyes still locked on mine, he reaches under the table and lifts my foot into his lap. And when he removes my shoe and drops it to the floor, I’m starting to think that he might just live up to the nickname Magic. He holds my foot in his calloused, rough, magic hands and kneads it, hitting all the pressure points. Maybe I moan. Maybe I sigh. I don’t even know what I do. Little sparks of electricity zing through my body and I feel like I’m lit up from the inside.

  “Me,” he answers finally. “I’m your dessert.”

  3

  Asher

  “You think I’m easy, don’t you?” Sienna asks as we hang a right on First Avenue. She’s buzzed, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, but I don’t think she’s drunk.

  Earlier, when I told Sienna I was going to be her dessert, I expected her to reach across the table and slap me. Or jam her foot into my balls. Neither would have surprised me. The girl has a lot of fire in her. I was almost disappointed when she hadn’t put up a fight.

  But easy is not the word I’d ever use for Sienna Woods. I’m sure there’s a lot more to her than meets the eye, but quite frankly, I have no interest in peeling back the layers to discover what really lays underneath her perfect exterior. I’m not a shrink. I’m not looking for anything deep or meaningful. I left that behind when I walked away from my old life. It’s why I chose the profession I’m in. Number one. I’m good at it. Number two. It’s something I do for fun, and even though I take it seriously and put a lot of hard work into it, it’s not rocket science. When the show’s over, I can go home, and I don’t have to think about it anymore.

  “My opinion of you won’t change after we have sex, Cruella.” And that is the God’s honest truth. I love sex. Sex is great. Why not enjoy it?

  When we get into the elevator I cage her in my arms and lean in close.

  “I’m not going to kiss you,” she reminds me. Only her body is betraying her words and I can tell by the way her breathing quickens that she’s tempted.

  “And I’m not going to kiss you. Not on the mouth, anyway.”

  I skim my hand up her thigh, bringing the material of her full, just-above-the knee skirt with it. It’s white with big black flowers on it and cinched around her waist with a thick black belt. Her breath hitches when I trace the outline of her lace panties with my fingertips.

  Sienna looks like an angel, but she doesn’t try to hide the fact that she’s not, and I respect that about her. A California dream girl with a bit of Grace Kelly thrown into the mix, she’s an icy blond with big baby blues and a perfect pout, always Instagram-ready. She looks rich and expensive and when I dip my head to kiss the crook of her neck, I inhale her scent. Citrus and flowers. The scent is too innocent for her, yet it suits her perfectly. When I rip the strip of lace off her body, her eyes drift shut and her bee-stung lips part.

  The girl is fucking beautiful, and she knows it. But right now, she’s putty in my hands.

  The elevator pings at the eleventh floor so I stuff her underwear in my back pocket and usher her out with my hand on her lower back. In heels, she’s only a few inches shorter than my six foot three with toned legs that go on for miles. I’m imagining those legs wrapped around my waist, my cock buried deep inside her. Despite the fact that she worked a high-powered corporate job, surrounded by stiffs in suits—Ella is a font of information—Sienna doesn’t fit the profile. She looks like she belongs in the fashion world or as one of those lifestyle influencers on social media.

  “My place or yours?”

  “Mine. At least I know my sheets are clean.”

  I laugh, not the least bit offended, and wait outside her door while she digs her keys out of that ridiculous crocodile handbag. When we get inside, she hits the dimmer switch on the wall then steps out of her shoes and drops her bag next to a light pink velvet chair where she takes a seat. Crossing her legs, she drums her fingers on the arm of the chair and looks at me expectantly. “I’m ready for the show, Magic Mike.”

  I give her a slow grin. “You sure you can handle it?”

  Her gaze drops to my crotch. “You’d be surprised how much I can handle.” She loops her fingers around my belt loop and yanks me toward her. For now, I’ll let her call the shots. I’m interested to see where she’s going with this. She unbuckles my belt and pulls it out of the loops, making a big show of inspecting it. “Hmm. Real leather. It seems we have a hypocrite in our midst.”

  “A cow didn’t die for that belt.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, baby.” She cracks the belt against the parquet floor like a whip and I’m thinking that this night has just gotten a whole lot more interesting. The only reason I ended up at Rock Candy Lounge tonight was because of her. I was passing by the window and saw her sitting at the bar alone. Unlike her usual resting bitch face, she looked vulnerable. Sad, even.

  “Show time,” she says with a smile.

  I’m tempted to crush her mouth to mine and kiss her until it sucks all the oxygen from her lungs. But I won’t. That wasn’t our deal. Besides, it’s more fun if she makes me work for it.

  “Give me your phone.” I wiggle my fingers for her to turn it over.

  She arches her brows. “Why?”

  “I need music.”

  Sienna fishes her phone out of her bag and unlocks it before she hands it to me. It’s already opened to Spotify, so I type in the name of one of my playlists and hit play then crank up the volume. “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd blasts from her surround sound speakers. I toss her phone across the room, and it lands on the gray sofa, unharmed.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “This is a private show. For your eyes only. And one more thing... grab hold of the arms of your chair.”

  “Why? Do you think I’m a flight risk, Captain Mike?”

  She’s funny and clever and I wish she’d call me by my name, but she never has. “You’re going to need something to hold onto.” She rolls her eyes like I’m being ridiculous. “No matter how much you might be tempted... and I can guarantee you will be, you’re not allowed to touch yourself. Or me.”

  She scoffs. “Trust me. I won’t be tempted. You’re not that irresistible.”

  Guess we’d see about that.

  Let the games begin.

  4

  Sienna

  God, I need a cigarette. I’m blaming it on the seduction playlist. He rips open his black button-up and the buttons go flying across the room, exposing his chest and chiseled abs. He’s a clean canvas, no ink, and I want to lick his bronzed skin, slide my tongue over his ripped muscles. Asher slides his shirt off and spins it over his head, his hips swiveling to the beat of the thumping bass that reverberates through my core. His hand glides down his chest, then lower and lower until he’s cupping his junk and thrusting his hips. The shirt lands in my lap and I resist the urge to gather it in my hands and hold it to my nose, so I can inhale his scent.

  With his eyes on mine, he drops to the floor in front of me and does these sexy one-armed push-ups, thrusting against the floor like he’s humping it. Say what you will about Asher, the guy knows how to move his body.

  I uncross my legs and cross them again, squeezing my thighs together. I’m so wet I can feel it dripping down my inner thighs and my
hands are white-knuckling the arms of the chair.

  He’s on his knees in front of me, and my chest is heaving, my nipples straining against the confines of my lacy bra. I want to touch myself. I want to spread my legs, push up my skirt and sink my fingers into my pussy.

  I don’t know how he does it, but he even makes it look sexy when he toes off his black high tops and as if by magic his socks disappear and he’s barefoot and shirtless, his body moving in a slow, sensual way, his back turned to me, and he’s watching me over his shoulder. I thought by now I’d be laughing my ass off at the cheesiness of a male striptease show. But I’m not laughing. I can’t even poke fun at him. Not even a little bit.

  I can see how he would fulfill women’s fantasies. That’s what it’s all about, right? It’s his job and he’s good at it.

  His hands move to the button of his jeans and he slides them down, exposing his ass covered in black boxer briefs. I want to take a bite out of that ass. My nails dig into the palms of my hands that are balled into fists and if the music wasn’t pumping, he’d be able to hear my ragged breaths. I clench my core muscles and sit up straighter in my chair, trying my best to be lowkey about the fact that I’m rocking in my seat, trying to hump an inanimate object.

  My God, fuck me already and put me out of my misery. I’m ready to tell him to stop dancing. To stop gyrating his body and teasing me and just stick that cock inside me. The cock I haven’t even seen yet.

  His jeans come off and so do his boxer briefs and I’m seriously starting to think that everything he does is freaking magic. And this is it. The big moment. He turns around so he’s facing me, and my eyes roam down and over his Adonis belt and to his erection.

  Holy Mother of God. It’s big and it’s beautiful and he’s pierced. I’ve run out of patience. He hasn’t even touched me. Not once. But my clit is throbbing, and I need him so badly, I’m not above begging for it.

  I unbuckle my belt and slide it off then fling it at him and get to my feet. Unzipping my skirt, I let it fall to the floor and step out of it. “I’m not touching myself. Or you.”

  I take a step closer to him, and lift the hem of my stretchy black top, sliding the material up my body and over my head. I take another step closer. I’m only wearing a bra now.

  “Turn around.”

  I do as he says and give him my back. “Don’t move.” He unclasps my bra and slides it off one shoulder, his hand coasting down my arm and then he removes the other strap and I force myself to stand still. I’m barely breathing. He takes my hands in his and pulls them behind my back, binding them together at the wrists.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how adventurous are you?” he asks, his soft breath on my neck sending delicious chills up and down my spine.

  “I’m not into BDSM. No anal.” I’m not afraid of him. But it dawns on me that this guy is a virtual stranger. For all I know, he could be a serial killer. He could murder me in my own apartment. But I’m so turned on that my body is calling the shots and my brain isn’t sending the right signals to tell me to stop.

  This is how people end up dead, Sienna. But oh, what a way to go.

  Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.

  From behind, he fists my hair in his hand and yanks on it, so my neck is arched and exposed. His lips are soft against my skin as they brush, not kiss, over my shoulder and up the side of my neck. My eyes close and a moan escapes my lips when his big hand cups my breast and he pinches and twists the nipple between his fingers, a mixture of pain and pleasure shooting straight to my core.

  Oh God. I want more. I want to touch him. Grind my body against him to release the ache between my thighs. But my hands are tied. His chest is pressed against my back and his hard length is prodding my ass cheeks. I push back against him. He pinches my other nipple then his hand coasts downward, over my stomach. I’m panting so hard and thrusting my hips backward, trying to drive him as crazy as he’s driving me. My tied hands reach for him but before I can touch his cock, he yanks on my hair again.

  And finally, finally, his hand moves lower and his fingers glide between my slick folds, his thumb pressing against the tight bundle of nerves. My body jerks and I feel like I’m about to detonate. My legs are shaking so badly, I can barely stand.

  “What do you want, Sienna?”

  “I want you. Inside me,” I grit out, frustrated with this slow, gentle assault that brings me no relief. “I’m tired of this game.”

  “You want to quit now?”

  “No. I just want you to fuck me.”

  He spins me around to face him and it’s like I’ve forgotten what he looks like. I don’t know how I never noticed how gorgeous he is. Probably because we were always so busy insulting each other. Or because of all the times I saw him with his arm wrapped around a different girl. But now I see him. The stubble on his chiseled jaw. Straight nose and eyes so green they look like they’ve been Photoshopped.

  And I’m just a girl standing in front of a hot, naked guy with her freaking hands tied behind her back with the underwear he ripped off my body in the elevator.

  “I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.” I struggle against the ties binding my wrists and hear the material rip. They weren’t tied that tightly, so I break free and I have the use of my hands now. “I don’t like being told what to do or what not to do. You can leave now.”

  Without looking to see what he does, I march into my bedroom and slam the door shut. Grabbing a short silky robe from the hook inside my en suite I slide my arms into it and tie it tightly around my waist. Then I throw myself onto the bed and stare at the ceiling while I wait for him to leave. Tears of frustration sting my eyes and I squeeze them shut to keep them from falling. I’m so angry with myself. So angry for falling for his bullshit. I’m trying to be stronger. Trying to be a girl who takes charge of her own life. And what did I do? I let some guy mess with my head. Again.

  A minute, or two, goes by before there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door and Asher walks in, fully dressed. His shirt is hanging open because the buttons are scattered across my living room floor. And all I can think is that he ruined a shirt for me.

  When he sits on the edge of the mattress, it dips under his weight. I’m waiting for him to call me a spoiled princess or to get angry and call me a bitch or a tease and not in a joking way. But he doesn’t.

  “Come here.” He pats the mattress next to him and I laugh harshly.

  “I’m not a puppy dog. I don’t do as you say.”

  “I want to give you a parting gift. It’s the least I can do.”

  I push myself up on my elbows and narrow my eyes on him. “What kind of parting gift? An STD? No thanks.”

  He laughs. “There’s my Cruella. No. I’m going to use my tongue and hands and mouth to make you orgasm so hard you’ll be screaming my name. It’s not Mike.”

  “I can do it for myself. I don’t need you to give me an orgasm, Mike.” I love sparring with him and I love it that he doesn’t get all offended and slam the door on his way out.

  “Should have known you were a control freak,” he says. “No wonder you never get laid.”

  He flops back on the bed and tucks his hands under his head like he’s just hanging out, contemplating life. I scoot back on the bed and shove his shoulder with my foot but it’s more of a playful gesture than one designed to hurt him. “Did you ever stop to consider that not every woman wants you?” He rolls onto his side so he’s facing me and props his head on his hand. “I have high standards and you don’t even come close to meeting them.”

  His laugh is low and sexy. Like him. But that’s all he is. A walking, talking sex machine. Over the past six months since he moved in next door, I’ve seen him with enough women to know he’s a man-whore.

  “What’s your criteria? A big bank account and a stiff in a suit? A guy with a good pedigree and an Ivy league degree? Is that what you’re looking for, Cruella?”

  I have no idea what I’m looking for. I was engaged to a stiff in a suit who was load
ed with money. He had an undergraduate degree from Stanford and an MBA from Wharton. That didn’t make me happy. And Dylan... he was the opposite. He grew up with nothing. A bad boy who made good because he used that big brain of his to build his own empire. So, I have no idea what kind of man I need.

  “How old are you, anyway?” I ask him.

  “Twenty-seven. You?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “So, who was he?” Asher asks.

  “Who was what?”

  “Who was the guy who fucked you up?”

  I laugh but it doesn’t sound happy. The first guy who fucked me up was my dad. The next one was Tristan Hart. Then came Dylan. After him was Chase. But I don’t want to talk about any of this with Asher. The men from my past were all volatile or manipulative in different ways. Tristan bullied me. Dylan used to punch walls when I made him angry. Chase was a pro at gaslighting. He had this way of making me feel like I was never good enough. It was emotional abuse, I know that now, but at the time I thought it was what I deserved. And thinking about it now just depresses me.

  “You should go now.”

  “Is that what you want? Do you want me to leave?”

  It’s been so long since someone asked me what I want that I have to stop and think about it. It isn’t what I want. I want to hang out with him and dress like a slob. Watch a movie and eat ice cream from the carton. And yeah, I want to have sex with him but right now, I just feel too raw and vulnerable.