10 Rules to Sex Up a Blind Date

by Heidi Rice

  A high, fluttering laugh floated out of Tally’s mouth that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. ‘Sam, you’re hired.’

  ‘Awesome.’ Resting an elbow on the bar, he flicked a finger at the barman, who trotted over like a trained pony.

  ‘A beer for me and another daiquiri for the lady,’ Sam ordered while the barman beamed at him like a long-lost lover. Clearly the barman’s gaydar was a lot better than Melody’s. Or hers.

  Sam’s gaze lingered for a second on the barman’s tight ass as he headed off to fetch their order. ‘Right, let’s figure out how to hook you guys up without Brent knowing it’s a set-up.’

  ‘Why can’t it be a set-up?’

  ‘Because that’s way too cute.’ Sam’s condescension somehow managed to be charming instead of, well, condescending. ‘Brent’s a wolf in geek’s clothing. A type-A guy who gets off on the hunt. Which means this’ll work a whole lot better if we let him think it was all his idea.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Tally’s feminist outrage tumbled out. ‘He sounds like a sexist jerk.’ Heartless was doable. Misogyny not so much. She had to be able to talk to this guy, at least a little bit.

  ‘Hey, I’m working with your wish list here. Not mine.’ Sam threw up his hands in exaggerated dismay. ‘You wanna get laid by a guy who’s hung like a horse and has made it his life’s work to turn giving head into an art form, then Brent’s your guy. But he’s a hard-ass when it comes to women—ever since his divorce. No argument there. So if you’re looking for more than a casual hook-up, we’re going to have to look elsewhere.’

  ‘Forget I said anything.’ Tally capitulated, her feminist outrage drowned out by the reminder of Brent’s expert lip-service. She propped her own elbows on the bar and smiled encouragingly at her matchmaker. ‘This isn’t a forever deal. At all.’ She did a zipping motion over her lips. ‘I’ll shut up now and let you do your job.’

  When it came to Project Get Laid, surely she could suck up her feminist principles for a night? Plus Brent the Clitoris Junkie got points for letting his shortcomings show—unlike Henry the Metrosexual Rat. At least women knew to approach Brent at their peril. She’d just have to cut the talking portion of the evening short if his alpha-jerk tendencies came to the fore.

  ‘Cool.’ Sam lifted his bottle to take a fortifying swallow of his Bud.

  ‘But before we get down to business.’ Tally fluttered her eyelashes outrageously. ‘Do you think you could describe Brent’s hard ass in more detail?’

  Sam clinked his bottle to her glass, a slow conspiratorial smile spreading across his face. ‘Sure. I’ve written a couple of songs about Brent’s hard ass.’ He winked. ‘It’s kind of inspirational.’

  ‘Fabulous.’ Tally licked dry lips, already composing tomorrow morning’s tweet to the insistent rhythm of her throbbing clit. ‘Inspirational is just what I’m looking for.’

  Chapter Three

  #NewRule: 2 Wear or Not 2 Wear Knickers? Is that the question? Answer: Dress for sex-cess but aim for the #Wow Factor not the #Whoa Factor

  Tally handed her coat to the fresh-faced cloak-room attendant, who sent her a shy smile before his gaze became surgically attached to her cleavage. Her confidence perked up as he handed her the ticket, his cheeks shining like beacons in the club’s half-light. She smoothed her palms down the plush velvet of the vintage minidress she’d found on eBay. Tucking the ticket into her bag, she smiled at the poor kid. Good to know the three hours she’d spent debating her wardrobe options for this evening had not been entirely wasted.

  Her phone pinged and she whipped it out of her bag, grinning when she saw the text pop up from her partner in crime.

  We’re in one of the booths on the left in the American Bar. Hope you’re looking hot because Brent certainly is. S x

  She headed down a wide stairway, the walls expensively upholstered in dark wood and red leather, tapping out a reply while doing her best to ignore the knot in her stomach.

  Stop salivating, he’s my date, not yours. And I’m in ’80s Dior—so let the enslavement begin. T x

  But as she stepped into the darkened bar and walked past the booths, listening for Sam’s greeting, the knot swelled and pushed into her throat. After close to six months of crappy dates, it was incredible she could still feel anything at the prospect of meeting a new guy. So what exactly was this knot about? Because it was getting uncomfortable. Excitement, maybe? After all, this was a date with actual prospects. The anticipation of flesh-to-flesh contact with another human being, and the promised endorphin rush of good hard sweaty sex, had caused her to waste a good hour debating the appropriate knicker etiquette for tonight.

  ‘Hey, Tally, is that you?’

  She stopped dead at the sound of Sam’s deliberately nonchalant tone, her heels sinking into the deep-pile carpet—and eased a breath out of constricted lungs. Pasting on the surprised smile she’d been practising in the mirror all evening, she spotted Sam standing beside one of the booths. She scanned the rest of his booth as discreetly as possible. A pair of muscular forearms rested on the table, but the remainder of Sam’s companion was hidden in the shadows.

  ‘Sam, fancy meeting you here.’ She winced at her overly bright tone.

  ‘Yeah, fancy.’ The twinkle in Sam’s eyes dazzled her with conspiratorial glee. ‘Hey, Brent, this is Tally, a girl I know from way back,’ he added, being deliberately vague about their connection, as they’d arranged. ‘Tally, meet Brent, a pal from my college days.’

  She dragged in air, trying not to hyperventilate as a tall man appeared from the shadows and unfolded himself from the booth.

  Holy shit.

  She sucked in a breath, nearly choking on the drool that collected under her tongue, as he reached out one large tanned hand. ‘Tally, hi.’

  Sam had said his friend was ruggedly handsome. For a gay man into art and design, Sam certainly wasn’t into flamboyant overstatement. Brent O’Neill wasn’t ruggedly handsome. He was ruggedly awesome.

  Firm fingers folded over hers as her gaze met eyes so blue they were almost translucent, the brilliant aquamarine reminiscent of a Caribbean tourist brochure. She stood momentarily transfixed, the calluses on his palm sending goose bumps sprinting up her arm, as she noticed the bold angles and contours of his face.

  Muscular shoulders stretched the seams of a white shirt and tapered down to the lean waist of his charcoal-grey suit trousers. Despite wearing the standard uniform of a well-heeled office worker, with his height—he towered over her even in her heels—and those mile-wide shoulders, he had the aura of a navy SEAL rather than a tech geek.

  The brutal buzz cut added to the impression of raw, all-American masculinity, accentuating his blunt features and making her fingers itch to caress the soft spikes of hair covering his scalp. Goodness. He certainly had a physique better suited to hand-to-hand combat in a war zone than booting up a hard drive in Mayfair.

  She struggled to re-inflate her lungs, before they collapsed entirely, and say something that didn’t involve whimpering, but then his deep unfathomable gaze roamed down to her cleavage, insolent and entitled—and the supply of oxygen to her brain cut off entirely.

  Given that her bust was clad in sequined velvet precisely for the purpose of drawing the male gaze, she couldn’t exactly be outraged by the bold assessment, but that didn’t stop heat flaring across her chest as the knowledge in his eyes made her wonder if Sam had managed to keep his mouth shut about her intentions.

  ‘Great to meet you. Why don’t you join us?’ His wide, sensual mouth quirked on one side and he gave her hand a gentle tug.

  She cleared her throat. That was supposed to have been Sam’s line.

  ‘Um, thanks.’ She went to slide into the booth next to Sam, but Brent the Magnificent’s large hand touched her hip, sending a jolt of shock and awe up her spine. And stopped her in her tracks.
‘Take my seat. I was heading to the bar. What’s your poison?’

  ‘A daiquiri.’ He brushed past her, the spicy scent of clean male sending her senses into overdrive as his hand slid off her hip. The familiarity unsettled her a little. Either the guy was super-tactile or he was already staking a claim. And while her nipples weren’t objecting, the rest of her felt a bit dazed. After two years without a ride of any description, maybe she’d overestimated her ability to jump back on the horse—or rather, the stallion—this quickly.

  Had she actually requested a huge dick? What had seemed hopelessly arousing in the cab on the way over now seemed overwhelming. Why the heck hadn’t she thought this through a lot more carefully?

  Brent lifted a finger to Sam. ‘Another Bud, buddy?’

  Sam glanced at his watch, not at all subtly. ‘Actually I’ve gotta shoot.’ He gave Tally a peck on the cheek, as if they were old buddies. The faker. ‘Real sorry not to get the chance to catch up.’ He patted her waist. ‘You wanna hang out with Brent for a while?’

  The knot in her throat grew into a boulder.

  ‘You’re leaving already?’ She glared at her now ex-new best friend. What was he playing at? He might as well have put up a sign saying “woman in need of shagging, this way.” And while it was clearly true on a physical level—given the way her clitoris was throbbing in time with her frantic pulse—she hadn’t planned on being quite this obvious. Yet.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got tickets for the theatre.’ He winked. He actually winked at her. ‘I give you guys full permission to talk trash about me behind my back.’

  Talk trash about him? She was going to eviscerate him.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said dryly, trying to stem the panic and convey her displeasure. She needed to ease into this. Not get kicked into the deep end. ‘That should take all night, given the amount of dirt I have on you,’ she added, in case Sam hadn’t got the message that she was not pleased with his sudden deviation from their carefully worked out plan.

  Brent’s gruff chuckle rolled up her spine like warm chocolate sauce—decadent and scarily delicious. ‘Great, I’m always looking for more dirt on Sam,’ he murmured. ‘One daiquiri coming up.’

  As soon as Brent was out of earshot, she grasped Sam’s upper arm. ‘Are you bloody nuts?’ she whispered furiously. ‘He’ll figure out it’s a set-up.’

  ‘So what?’ Sam’s grin widened. ‘From the way he was checking out your rack, the hunt’s already on.’

  ‘Yes, but...’ But what? She glanced over her shoulder to watch Brent the Magnificent stroll to the bar. He was precisely what she’d ordered. So why the heck was she panicking?

  But then she watched him draw the barman’s attention away from the other patrons waiting to get served with a lift of his index finger. And a tremor went through her sex-starved body. A weird combination of arousal, anticipation and extreme terror.

  Brent wasn’t an alpha male, he was an alpha wolf—and for all her big talk last week, she was completely out of practise at handling one of those. Because the last time she’d hooked up with one, he’d ended up ripping her to shreds.

  Was there such a thing as a too-hot date?

  ‘Hey, relax.’ Sam touched her nose, drawing her attention back to him. ‘Flirt with Brent, have some fun. If you don’t want to jump him, give him the brush-off. He’s a big guy. He can take it. He won’t push—trust me, I wouldn’t hook you up with that kind of guy.’

  ‘Okay...’ she said, quelling the sudden urge to ask exactly how big a guy Brent was. That kind of speculation had gotten her into this fix in the first place. ‘I guess I’m not worried about his control...’ She sighed. ‘I’m more worried about my own. I don’t want any emotional fall-out from this.’ While she’d been ready to get back on the sexy-go-round for a while, she was so not ready for the emotional rollercoaster that had gone with it last time. The fact was that her instant, over the top reaction to Brent was reminiscent of her first response to Henry. But more so. Even Henry hadn’t drained the blood from her brain to her clit in ten seconds flat.

  Sam’s eyebrow lifted. ‘Tally, trust me.’ He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. ‘That’s not going to happen. Not with Brent. So control’s got nothing to do with it.’ His gaze drifted past her to the bar. ‘You need to get laid. So go for it. And give me all the details tomorrow.’ The wicked twinkle returned with a vengeance. ‘As payback for all my hard work.’

  She choked out a laugh—the anticipation and arousal finally edging out the terror. She was being ridiculous. Fine, she was hopelessly rusty when it came to flirting with someone she actually fancied. But surely riding stallions was the same as riding a bike—once you knew how, the skill would come back naturally as soon as you got back in the saddle. And given that she was already clear that if anything happened between her and Brent it would simply be sex, and only sex—what could possibly go wrong?

  ‘Cheers, Sam.’ She squeezed his fingers, stupidly grateful not only for the pep talk, but for the fact that her new bestie had apparently delivered the perfect guy to blast her libido out of mothballs without causing any collateral damage. ‘I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account tomorrow.’

  ‘A blow-by-blow, huh?’ Sam laughed, saluting her as he walked backwards. ‘Cool.’

  She settled into the booth once Sam was gone, and admired Brent’s ass as he pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. While he was handling the drinks, she let out a careful breath, the swelling in her throat now accompanied by a delicious swelling in her clit. Lifting her iPhone off the table, she snapped a photo of him to keep her fingers busy. Rubbing her thighs together to stop the persistent hum of arousal, she felt the gusset of her thong rub against her engorged clit.

  Bugger, maybe commando was the correct knicker etiquette for tonight after all.

  * * *

  Sam has totally set me up, the son of a bitch.

  Brent eyed the girl perched on the edge of the booth as he toted their drinks back towards her. She crossed her long legs at the knee, the sequins on her magnificent rack sparkling in the candlelight, and he felt the inevitable tug of response.

  Problem was, he didn’t know whether to go punch his friend’s lights out or give the guy a kiss.

  He felt the tension in his shoulders ease as she sent him a sultry smile.

  Christ, she was a stunner. But not in an obvious way. If he was being entirely objective, he guessed her mouth was kind of wide, her nose had a cute little wonky thing going on and those eyes were unusual, with their cat-like slant and that deep indigo shade so dark it was almost purple. No, she wasn’t conventionally pretty, but the combination was exotic, arresting. And then there was that tony British accent, kind of smoky and slick all at the same time. And to top it off, that mind-blowing figure, which looked round and soft in all the right places.

  Get your mind off her ass, man. She’s not a piece of meat.

  He shook his head to break the spell before he ended up with a boner he couldn’t control. And felt the prickle of shame that had followed him round ever since his divorce. It had gotten really bad a couple of months ago. That morning he’d woken up in a boutique hotel in Chelsea, almost exactly three years to the day since his divorce had become final, and discovered a pretty auburn-haired girl cuddled under his arm—whose face and name he couldn’t put together.

  Was it Sally? Or Suzy? Or Samantha?

  He’d spent five minutes watching her sleep and raking through his memory of the previous night—which hadn’t proven to be particularly memorable. Because all he could recall was how much she’d talked about what a dick her ex-boyfriend was, even while they were making love. Once he’d conceded defeat with the name game, he’d slipped out of the room, feeling like the worse kind of asshole. How could he have banged her and not cared enough about her to remember who the hell she was? Maybe because he was exactly what Del had once a
ccused him of being: a good guy to have in the sack and a shit-heel out of it.

  So he’d sworn off casual sex for a couple of months, his confidence shot. Maybe he wasn’t anyone’s idea of a dream date, but he could sure aim for a few rungs above shit-heel territory.

  At least that had been the plan, until Sam had set him up with a woman who was hot enough to melt all his working brain cells. Of course, Sam had no idea he’d had a self-imposed dry spell for four months. So maybe Sam hadn’t set him up and Tally really was just a happy accident—who’d come along precisely when he was ready to get back in the game.

  He placed the drinks on the table and slipped into the booth. ‘Sam beat it already?’ he asked, deciding to scope the situation out before his cock got in the way.

  ‘Afraid so,’ she murmured, not looking all that heartbroken.

  His knee nudged her leg under the table and she blinked, but didn’t shift back. He stretched out, letting his calf slide past hers. She still didn’t budge.

  Interesting.

  ‘So how long have you known Sam?’ he asked—because he didn’t plan to get played, any more than he planned to get led around by his cock.

  She glanced down, the powder on her lids glittering in the flicker of light from the candle, then reached for her glass. She caressed the stem between her thumb and forefinger and he felt the phantom stroke on his cock—which was getting harder by the second.

  ‘Not long.’ She took a sip of the fruity cocktail.

  His gaze snagged on the sheen of moisture on her lips as she lowered the glass and those indigo eyes met his. She lifted the strawberry off the side of the glass, let her tongue swirl around the tip, then bit off the end with even white teeth.

  A shot of adrenaline kicked him full in the crotch.

  Jesus, who is this woman, the cock whisperer?

  He shifted in his seat to ease the pressure on his fly. ‘That’s weird, I thought Sam said you were old buddies?’