by Roz Lee
He lifted his hand to his face and sniffed. Heaven scented his fingers. He rubbed his thumb over the pads of his first three fingers, recalling the feel of her tight channel. His fingers curled in, stroked his palm. Man, she fit so perfectly in his hand. He could still feel her clit grinding against his palm, her soft, bare pussy weeping for his touch.
Shit. He exited the freeway and came to a stop for the red light at the end of the ramp. He had no idea why she’d cried afterwards. He’d never made a woman cry before, and he didn’t have a clue what to say or do for her. Maybe he should have stayed with her.
The light turned green, and he accelerated through the intersection. Damn, her tears twisted up his gut.
Clare wasn’t like other women he knew. She was intelligent and strong. Her breakdown meant something—he just didn’t know what. But he was damned sure going to find out.
He made his way to his hotel, dropped his new SUV with the valet, and made a beeline to his suite. Standing in the shower, letting the cold water work its magic, he contemplated his next move. Thanksgiving was coming up. He’d find some way to get her alone so he could talk to her, show her the surprise he’d bought for her.
* * *
Another bouquet of red roses atop her desk greeted Clare the next morning. She dropped her briefcase on the floor and pulled her chair from the kneehole. She smiled at the small stuffed toy tucked into the bouquet. Pink bunny ears flopped over the card it held in its furry paws.
“Who are they from?” Laura stepped into the office. “Same guy as before?”
Clare nodded. “Same guy.”
“Wow. Must be getting serious.” Her friend put her nose to the bouquet, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “What’s with the rabbit?”
“I don’t know.” She carefully removed the bunny. What had happened the night before between her and Antonio was somehow too private to discuss with anyone else. The feelings he’d stirred up in her were too new, and she needed to hold them close a while longer. At least until she understood them better. “Maybe the florist was out of teddy bears.”
Laura shrugged and plopped into a visitor’s chair. “So, who is this guy?”
Clare sat, opened the drawer where she kept miscellaneous stuff, and dropped the stuffed animal inside. “Antonio Ramirez,” she said, carefully tucking floppy ears down so they wouldn’t get stuck when she closed the drawer.
“Baseball player?”
She sighed. “Yep. One of the best.” At all sorts of things.
Her friend studied the flowers. Clare rocked back in her chair and closed her eyes. Blessed silence descended on the room.
“You aren’t just talking about baseball, are you?”
She sat up. “No. He’s amazing.”
“And he sends flowers the day after.”
No sense denying it. The truth was probably written all over her face anyway. “Yes, he does.”
“He isn’t apologizing, is he?”
“No. Antonio has nothing to apologize for, and he knows it.”
“Arrogant.”
“Confident,” she countered.
“A keeper?”
“It can’t last, Laura.”
“Why, in Heaven’s name, not?”
“He’s new to the team, and he needs a friend right now. As soon as the season begins, he’ll have women all over him, and he won’t need or want me anymore.”
“Hon, have you lost your ever-loving mind?” She scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned over the desk. “Men don’t send flowers like this,” she said and cocked her head in the direction of the bouquet, “unless they’re apologizing or begging.”
“Maybe he’s just being nice.”
“Nice, my ass. He wants you. Nice is a mixed bouquet. Something seasonal. Red roses represent blood. His. Either he’s bleeding to show how sorry he is, or his blood is running hot for you.”
Clare stood. She’d heard enough. “You are way off base, my friend. I’ve got a class in ten minutes.”
Laura took the hint. At the door, she paused. “I’ll see if I can find a geranium for you while you’re out.”
“Why a geranium?”
“They represent true friendship as well as stupidity. I’m your friend, no matter what, but you’re stupid if you believe that man doesn’t want you.”
She stared at the empty doorway long after the other woman left, her parting words running an endless loop through her brain. She made it through her early class and cancelled her later one. Her brain refused to think about any kind of theory other than the one Laura had proposed. Was she underestimating Antonio’s feelings for her?
She pulled the stuffed rabbit out of her drawer and set it, facing her, in the middle of her desk. Laura had to be wrong. All that mumbo jumbo about the meaning of certain flowers was something only a woman would know. There wasn’t a man on the planet who knew the difference between a rose and a daisy. Antonio had simply called the florist and ordered the most expensive flowers available. The floppy-eared bunny was evidence enough the flowers were thoughtful and nothing more.
Still holding the unopened card, she slipped it from the envelope. Expecting a typewritten note, she was startled when she recognized Antonio’s bold scrawl. She amended her earlier thought. He had taken the time to walk into the florist shop and write a personal message.
The next time you wear bunny slippers, we’re going to do what rabbits do best.
See you on the bunny slope.
Bring the rabbit, he has the tickets.
I’ll bring the carrot.
A wave of heat began low in her stomach and rose like the tide at full moon to warm her face and the tops of her ears. She clutched the card against her fluttering stomach.
Wait.
She read the card again. The rabbit has the tickets? Tossing the card aside, she reached for the stuffed toy. A closer examination revealed a zipper running along the bunny’s back. Clare squeezed and, sure enough, caught the sound of crinkling paper. She carefully pulled the zipper down and slipped the folded envelope from the hidden compartment.
Inside were two first-class airline tickets to Aspen for Thanksgiving weekend.
Propping her elbows on the edge of the desk, she dropped her face into her upturned palms and groaned. She’d allowed herself to forget about the one remaining bid item, hoping against hope he would forget about it, too.
No such luck.
Along with the tickets was another handwritten note with every travel detail outlined down to the minute. He’d included a packing list, that if followed to the letter, wouldn’t allow her past the front door of the condo booked for their use, much less onto the bunny slope.
Clearly, he had no intention of skiing.
Her desk phone rang, and she almost jumped out of her skin. It had to be a colleague or one of her students. Everyone else called her on her cell phone. For a half-second, while she stuffed the plane tickets back in their envelope and stowed it in her desk drawer on top of the Bases Loaded charm, she considered not answering the call. But she had a job to do, so she slammed the drawer shut and reached for the phone.
Tony faltered. Clare sounded out of breath, like she’d raced to get the phone before the caller hung up. Or shit…that’s the way she sounded right after she came. The thought rocked him, and it took a second for him to recover his equilibrium.
“Hello?” she repeated. “Is anyone there?”
Get a grip, Ramirez. “Clare. It’s me, Tony. Did you get the flowers?”
A sigh then a creaking sound. Her desk chair. He remembered the noise it made when she’d leaned back in it the day they fucked in her office. He’d gone down on his knees and put his hands on her thighs. As his hands went up her skirt, she’d tilted back a bit. Yeah, that was the same sound.
“Yes, I did. Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
Silence.
“Clare?”
“Please, Antonio. You don’t have to keep doing this.”<
br />
“What? Telling you you’re beautiful or sending you flowers?”
“All of it.”
“No. Unacceptable. What did you think of the bunny? Do you know how hard it is to find one of those this time of year?”
“He’s cute, and I appreciate the thought—”
“Did you find the tickets?”
“I did, but I can’t go with you. I’ve already made plans for Thanksgiving.”
“Cancel them. You said you would do the auction items with me. This is the last one, babe. Spend the weekend with me.”
There was the creaking again. He could imagine her sitting in her office, her skirt hiked up to her hips, stroking herself through her panties.
“What are you wearing,” he asked.
“What?” she shrieked. The chair squeaked again.
“I asked what you’re wearing?”
“Um…a skirt and blouse. Why?”
He wedged his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder, awkwardly standing to open his fly before his jeans strangled him.
“Lock your door.”
“Antonio,” she warned.
“Just do it, okay?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You should. You don’t have another class this morning, do you?”
“No. I had an early class. I need to work on the lesson plans for a new class I’m going to teach next semester.”
“Good. Then do as I say. Lock the door.”
The chair creaked again, and a loud thump came over the line when she dropped the receiver on her desk. He held his breath until she picked the handset up again.
“Okay. Door is locked. What’s this all about?”
“It’s about convincing you to spend Thanksgiving weekend naked with me.”
“And I need the door locked for that?”
“Yes, you do. What kind of skirt are you wearing? One of those loose swirly things or is it tight on your hips?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” she protested.
“You’ll see. What kind of skirt?”
“It’s a pencil skirt,” she said with an exasperated sigh.
“I like those. They show off your ass.”
“Antonio.”
He could see her plain as day. When she lost her patience, her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. Sexy.
“Are you wearing pantyhose?”
“What century do you think this is?”
“I’ll take that as a no. Good. Stand up, pull your skirt up to your waist then sit back down.”
He could hear her breathing on the other end. Good. If he could hear her, then he was getting to her. After a long pause when he wasn’t sure if she might hang up on him or see where this was going, he finally heard a loud thunk indicating she’d dropped the receiver on her desk again. That and the creaking of her chair told him she was following his instructions.
His heart beat so hard it could power a jackhammer. Unable to sit still, he stood and paced the confines of his hotel room, waiting for her to return. He double locked the door to prevent interruptions then crossed to the bank of windows and pulled the sheer panels closed.
There was a telltale sound—God bless that chair—on the line then she picked up the receiver. Tony closed his eyes and said a silent thank you to the universe. He’d rather be in her office doing his convincing in person, but he had been more than a little afraid she wouldn’t have listened to him.
“I feel stupid,” she said.
“Don’t,” he commanded. “Now, tell me about your panties. What color are they? Describe them in detail.”
She sighed and after a long pause where he again imagined she was going to hang up on him, she said, “They’re light blue. Lace in front with a thong back.”
“You’re wearing thong underwear?” His dick, already hard, throbbed as he imagined the scrap of blue lace covering her and nothing else.
“Yes,” she drew the word out, so it was a question and an answer. “I didn’t want panty lines to show under my skirt.”
“So you wore nothing so every guy on campus who sees your ass will think you aren’t wearing anything under your skirt?”
“No. I wore a thong so they wouldn’t see the outline of my underwear and know how big my ass is.”
She was exasperated, but he didn’t care if he was pissing her off. She was pissing him off, too. “Your ass is not big. And I can assure you, with or without panty lines, every man who sees your ass in a tight skirt is going to be imagining what it would feel like against his crotch. The only difference is when they don’t see an outline, they think there’s nothing but air between their dick and your pussy, and that’s a fantasy all its own.”
“You’re impossible,” she huffed. “I’m hanging up now.”
“No!” He tempered the panic gripping him. “Don’t hang up. Please.”
“Are you going to stop criticizing my choice of undergarments and tell my why I’m sitting here with my skirt around my waist?”
Tony swiped a hand over his face and stared sightless at the city filtered by gauze-thin curtains. He’d gone way off track and almost lost her. It was time to back off and refocus on the reason for this phone call.
“I’m getting to that.”
“I don’t have all day,” she said.
“Are your knees under your desk?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Spread them wide so they touch the panels on either side.”
“Okay.”
“Touch yourself. Put your hand on your stomach and slide it lower, but don’t go under the lace. Keep your fingers on top of the fabric.”
“Antonio.”
He ignored the protest in her voice. “Do it for me. I want to touch you, but I’m not there, so you’ll have to do it for me.”
Her chair creaked again, and he closed his eyes, imagining her fingers sliding over the blue lace panel. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Um…the lace is rough on my fingers.”
“And your mound? How does it feel?”
“Tingly. It sort of hurts, in a good way.”
“That’s the blood flow filling your tissues, getting you ready for my cock.”
A hissing sound filled his ear. Her sucking in a breath?
“Two fingers now. Use them to part your lips. Press the lace into the crevices, so the fabric puts pressure on your clit.”
Another unintelligible sound came from her end.
“You’re doing good. Now, move your fingers up and down. Go lower. Are you wet?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“If I close my eyes, I can smell your arousal. If I was there, I’d put my mouth on you and taste you. But since I’m not, you’ll have to imagine it. Close your eyes and imagine my face between your legs, my tongue gathering up your juices, flicking over your clit, rough like the lace of your panties.”
God, he was going to die for wanting her. “Rub yourself. That lace panel is my tongue.”
“Mmm….”
“That’s it, babe. I’m right there with you, tasting you, making you feel good. You’re so wet, and now your pussy is swollen and even more sensitive. You want me inside you, and I want to be there more than anything. Move your fingers lower. Press the lace inside.”
Her moan made his knees buckle. He stumbled to the nearest chair and sat.
“I know. That feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart? But you need more. I can feel it in the way your hips are moving. You need me inside you, not just my tongue.”
“Yes.” The word was nothing more than a gasp.
“Move the lace aside so I can see you.” He continued as if he were there. “I love your pussy, especially when you’re horny for me, like now. You’re all pink, and slick with your own juices. I can’t wait any longer, I know you want it, too.”
“Please, Antonio.”
He was dying. His cock had passed aching to downright painful. He needed release as much as she did, but his hand had recently become an unacc
eptable substitute for her pussy. Hell, her mouth ran a close second, and if she ever trusted him enough, he’d add her ass to the list and bump his hand completely out of the running.
“I’m here, babe.”
She had long, slim musician’s fingers. “Find the rim with your index finger. Trace it all the way around.”
Another one of those sounds that came straight from her gut nearly did him in.
“That’s it. Two fingers, babe. Put them inside. As far as you can get them.”
“Ooohhh.” A whimper followed the breathless moan.
“Oh, God. You feel so good. I have to move now. Out. In again. Hard.”
“Aahhh.”
Tony moved to the edge of the chair and braced his elbows on his knees. Cradling his forehead in one hand, he held the phone to his ear with the other and listened to the erotic sounds of her finger fucking herself.
Shit.
Why had he thought this was a good idea? She was getting off all right, but he’d be in pain until he could sink inside her again. And that would be days, at best.
“So good, babe. Feel me fucking you. Squeeze my cock. Yeah, just like that.”
Another whimper told him how close she was.
“Use your thumb, Clare. Touch your clit. You’re almost there. Reach for it.”
Torture. Pure torture listening to her, imagining being inside her and knowing she was pretending her fingers were him.
“I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to fuck you hard. Do it for me. Hard. In. Out. Harder. Shit. I’m going to come. Come with me.”
Tony gripped his forehead hard enough to break bones. His fingers tightened on the phone, threatening to turn it to dust. Sweat trickled down his jaw and along his spine, and he was going to need dental work to repair the molars he’d ground to nubs.
“Come for me, Clare.”
She made that little choking sound in the back of her throat—the one she made when she came. Then a string of sounds he had no words to describe, but were exclamations of intense pleasure. In the background, her desk chair creaked in rhythm with the short jerky movements of her hips as she rode out the orgasm.
Every muscle in his body trembled with the effort to remain still, when all he wanted to do was drive his cock into anything available. His hand. Sofa cushions. Throw pillows. Hell, he’d fuck a keyhole if he could find one. He needed a cold shower. Or a swim in the nearest frozen lake. Maybe he’d call room service for a couple of buckets of ice and fill the bathtub. That might do it.