Hot Pink

by Susan Johnson

“So you got a big hard-on.”

  “It usually works that way. If you come closer, I might let you touch it.”

  “If I come closer, I’ll be doing more than that.”

  “If I let you.”

  “You’re not the boss.”

  “Sometimes I am. Are you coming?” he whispered.

  “What if I want to give orders?”

  “Maybe you can—later . . . after we see how you like this whipped cream someone left here. After I take off that thong that’s barely covering your hot little pussy. Come here, babe . . . let’s try out this cream . . .”

  She remembered everything—every touch, every whisper, every scent and taste that day on the sunporch. Her body remembered too. She was wet and aching—no longer sure she was angry with him. “I shouldn’t let you.”

  She hadn’t said that, then. “Just come a little closer—here, take my hand,” he whispered. “That’s a good girl, that’s the way . . . you’re almost here—here . . . stand between my legs so I can reach you. And we don’t need this thong.”

  She could practically feel it slide down her legs, the throbbing deep inside her a hard steady rhythm, her skin so heated, the air felt cool. “I want to touch you,” she breathed.

  “Don’t worry—you’ll be touching me in just a little while. We don’t want to waste this whipped cream, now, do we? Bend over a little so I can put a dab on your nipples—that’s the way—can you feel it? Is it cool? Your nipples are really hard. Does that mean you’re ready for cock? Answer me, darling,” he whispered, “or you can’t have it.”

  “Yes, yes . . . oh, God, yes . . .” She was panting, her eyes shut, feeling as though she were teetering on the brink.

  “Bend over a little more. I can’t quite reach your nipples with my mouth—umm . . . perfect, sweet when I lick it. Give me the other. Put it in my mouth. Can you feel me lick you? Can you feel me holding your breasts—they’re soft and cushiony and really big. The more to eat, right,” he purred. “Like your pussy. Bring it closer—so I can fill it with cream . . . here we go—one dollop—all the way up . . . another—stand still or I can’t get it far enough in. Stand still, darling,” he said more sternly. “I want to eat more than two spoonfuls. Hey, hey . . . don’t come yet, Jesus . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, gasping.

  “Then we’ll just have to start all over again,” he said, half softly, half firmly, like the most tolerant of masters. “And we’ll just keep doing it until you get it right . . .”

  “Don’t say that,” she breathed, holding her hand between her legs as though she could protect herself from wanting what she shouldn’t have.

  “I’ve barely started,” he said, his voice mild, constrained. “There’s a big bowl of whipped cream to deal with and I haven’t even begun to think about seeing if I fit inside you—or how far I fit inside you—whether you can take me all.”

  “Hurry home, hurry, hurry, hurry home—please, please, please . . .”

  “I’ll be home in the morning. Sleep tight.”

  And then he hung up as though he wasn’t leaving her frantic.

  As though he were made of ice.

  As though it really had been just a game.

  She screamed in frustration—the echo of her cry pricking up the ears of Mrs. Gregorich’s cat sitting on Mrs. Gregorich’s front porch railing. And then she rolled over, jerked open the drawer of her bedside table and pulled out her vibrator.

  Rocco didn’t dare scream in his hotel room with the heavy security nowadays, but he would have liked to. Just like he would have liked to keep talking to Chloe if he wasn’t afraid he’d lose his mind.

  And he didn’t need an appliance when he had two strong hands.

  But he swore under his breath at the end because he wanted more.

  He wanted her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY MORNING STARTED OUT TO BE A pretty fine day. Chloe had actually slept eight hours the night before—orgasms were supremely relaxing. It helped that Rocco had said he was coming home. Not that she expected a Cinderella-story happy ending tied with a bow, but he’d sounded serious about making things work. Yesss and thank you God and she was keeping her fingers crossed.

  The sun was shining as though in harmony with her mood, her web site for the car dealership was ninety-nine percent finished and when she had the little dancing cartoon bears singing their jingle, it would be done.

  She even ate breakfast as would a mature woman concerned with her health and nutrition. Although Count Chocula perhaps didn’t count toward any actual food group. But the milk did.

  She’d also decided last night in a kind of post-orgasmic calm that she was getting too stressed-out about men. Colin, Rocco or whomever—none of them should unduly disrupt her life. Maybe the two chapters she’d read in the Zen book were rubbing off. She hoped Rocco would be a part of her life, but she’d never allowed a man to complicate her existence in the past and she didn’t want to begin now.

  A shame she hadn’t extended that decision to include their fiancées because Amy Thiebaud was standing at her office door when she arrived downstairs.

  “Your office hours say ten. It’s after ten,” Amy said pettishly.

  “Feel free to leave.” And for a second Chloe debated leaving herself, her Zen calm evaporating on the spot. But she refused to look cowardly in front of this woman. She didn’t know why. It was simply one of those unassailable facts.

  “I have a few things to say to you before I do that.”

  That blue-eyed glare was not a pretty sight, Chloe reflected, punching the numbers on her lock. Should she open the door, slip inside, quickly shut it again and lock it? A fleeting thought, instantly rejected when Amy said, “What a tiny little office. But I suppose you can’t afford anything else.”

  “My bed’s pretty small too, but Rocco doesn’t seem to mind,” Chloe retorted, because she liked her office and whether Amy Thiebaud did or not was irrelevant to just about everything in her life—or in the universe for that matter. She pushed the door open and walked in.

  “He probably was drunk or wanted to see if you had any pierced body parts,” the heiress said in her best put-someone-in-their-place tone of voice as she followed Chloe in.

  If malicious intent was contagious, Amy Thiebaud would be the Typhoid Mary of the affliction, Chloe thought. But the last thing she wanted was to prolong this encounter by trading insults. Her list of grievances was long, and she didn’t want to waste a week of her time. “If you came here to say something, say it and get the hell out. You’re blotting out my sunshine.”

  “I came here to this shabby little place,” Amy said with a disdainful glance about, “to let you know that my fiancé is not available to sluts like you.”

  “Shouldn’t you be telling Rocco this? He’s the one shopping around.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m telling you for your own good. I can hurt you, and I will.”

  “You mean like Fatal Attraction in reverse? This isn’t Hollywood, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you?”

  “Not smart enough to wear pearls in the morning, but what the hell, we’re not all fashionistas.” And she supposed pearls went with that sleek pink suit.

  “Just don’t sleep with Rocco again. I’m only going to warn you once.”

  “Come on,” Chloe murmured. “This is ridiculous. If you don’t want your boyfriend to sleep around, talk to him, not me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  “My father has considerable influence in this town. I can see that your business is shut down.”

  “No, you can’t.” But Amy’s expression was a little scary and Minneapolis wasn’t that big a town. In fact, when it came to the business community, it was a relatively small town.

  “Try me.”

  Her certainty was even more scary. “Thanks for the warning. Shut the door when you leave.” Never show fear. That was her motto.

  “Listen, you mouthy
little bitch, just stay away from him. I mean it. I don’t care what kind of lies he’s been telling you, but he’s mine. He’s always been mine regardless of the sluts who’ve thrown themselves at him. I have my wedding dress picked out and the country club is booked for the reception, so stay the hell out of my way.”

  Chloe thought of all that Rocco had said last night. God, was that only last night? “His story’s real different from yours. I talked to him last night.”

  “I don’t care if you screwed him last night; he’s marrying me.”

  Such finality, such indifference to Rocco’s extracurricular activities. Maybe Amy was more European, more sophisticated—certainly richer. Maybe her father had a wife and a mistress and two families like that French premier who’d died a few years ago. The one that had a little out-of-the-ordinary state funeral. “Well, congratulations, then. I’ll tell Rocco I’m not interested in marrying him.” Not that he’d actually suggested marriage, but he’d said he’d loved her—she was allowed a body blow.

  “You stupid cow. You didn’t actually believe him? You did.” Amy’s smile was so arch the Romans could have built an aqueduct on it. “I suppose he said he only had to break up with me first.”

  Along with a couple hundred other lies, Chloe reflected, forcing herself to show no emotion. Damn she was dumb. And Rocco had used the same smooth talk so many times, he had it down pat. Fucker. “If you come back here again, I’ll call the cops,” Chloe said. “Get the hell out.” There was no way she had to deal with Rocco’s fiancée. Or any more shit from him. “I don’t want to sound dramatic, but if you’re not gone on the count of three, I’m picking up the phone and calling the cops.” She was amazed at how calm she sounded—like a zombie—like she felt. Dead inside.

  “No need for that, darling,” Amy drawled, as though she could smell defeat in the air. “And tell Rocco I stopped by if you wish. He won’t bat an eyelash.” Turning away, Amy swept Chloe’s flat-screen monitor off her desk with a swipe of her hand. “Oh, dear, how clumsy of me,” she purred, stepping over the broken glass as she walked out of the office. “I hope you have insurance.”

  Shit. Rocco owed her a new monitor. Not that she was likely to collect. His girlfriend looked as though she was going to be keeping a close watch on him. And in her new frame of mind, she didn’t want the grief. She was finished with Rocco and his cheating heart. In fact, all the men in her life were getting to be too high-maintenance. She glanced at the mess on the floor and then at the clock. Almost ten-thirty. A ray of sunlight shining through her plateglass windows led her eye outside, reminding her of the beauty of the day.

  Screw it. The dancing bears could wait until Monday. So could the insurance man.

  She was getting out of town, escaping all her problems like any well-adjusted, discerning, mature adult would do when faced with the train wreck of their life.

  Rocco was never going to call again. Nor did she want him to, considering his truckload of lies.

  Colin would be calling too much and she was relatively sure she didn’t care to take on the role of girlfriend to a college student who said “cool” a lot.

  As for sex. She always had her vibrator. And electrical appliances were blessedly undemanding.

  So she had only to leave a message for Colin, canceling their Saturday night. She conveniently left a voicemail for him at Chino’s because he wouldn’t be in to work before noon thus eliminating pointless argument.

  It took her less than ten minutes to pack an overnight bag, leave a message for Tess and Rosie and hit the open road. She had no idea where she was going other than up north where everyone went on the weekend. She’d find a motel or bed and breakfast somewhere when she felt like stopping.

  And right now, she didn’t feel like stopping until she was far away from any and all men currently messing with her brain.

  She’d meditate, put some balance back in her life.

  She’d read something philosophical and enlightening.

  She’d clear her mind of all emotional disorder.

  Or then again, maybe she’d get a good bottle of wine, some videos and cookies and chips and lie in bed and indulge in said items until she had to drive back home on Sunday.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ROCCO HAD CHANGED HIS FLIGHT TO AN earlier one and arrived in the cities from Chicago at eleven-thirty—just prior to the time Colin got his message from Chloe at work.

  The men’s trajectories converged on Chloe’s place within seconds of each other.

  Colin had arrived first and was pounding on Chloe’s door, as if her message hadn’t said she was going out of town but into seclusion at home. Perhaps it was more a reaction to his frustration than a rational impulse.

  Rocco recognized the pickup truck with the motorcycle in back when he pulled up to the curb. And suffice it to say, his reaction was no more rational than Colin’s.

  He came out of his car as though the building was on fire, strode up to Colin, who was so engaged in his pounding the door down that he’d not noticed Rocco’s arrival, and tapped him on the shoulder. Hard.

  Colin spun around. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Rocco’s glare matched Colin’s growl.

  “None of your damned business.”

  “If she’s not answering, she must not be home.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “You do this often?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a friend of hers.”

  Rocco’s tone brought a belligerent gleam to Colin’s eyes. “How friendly a friend?”

  It was Rocco’s turn to say, “What’s it to you?”

  The two men measured each other with sulky looks, and then Colin said with a lovesick sigh, “She was supposed to go out with me tomorrow.”

  “Supposed to?” Rocco was surprised he was able to keep his tone so mild.

  Colin sighed again. “She left me a message at work saying she was going out of town.”

  Rocco felt an immoderate relief that Chloe wouldn’t be going out with this young man with tattoos and a Chino’s ID hanging round his neck. “Should you be working?”

  “Screw you.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if I knew.”

  He obviously didn’t know. Another reason for relief—along with a small niggling fear. He’d come home early because she’d asked him to last night. So why was she gone?

  “Jesus God, I’m just crazy about her,” Colin murmured, unable to restrain his unhappiness, his heartache spilling over. “I suppose she’s going out with you too.”

  Rocco didn’t know if going out was the right term. Fucking their brains out, maybe, but he didn’t think this young man would appreciate such frankness. “Did Chloe say when she was coming back—where she was going?”

  Colin shook his head, sighed a long wafting sigh and then looked up as though struck by a sudden thought. “Wanna go have a beer and talk about her?”

  No matter how lovesick the sentiment, Rocco understood perfectly. “Louie’s is just around the corner. I’ll buy.”

  Colin looked at the well-dressed man and frowned. “I can buy.”

  “We’ll take turns,” Rocco replied diplomatically.

  They walked in silence to the small neighborhood bar that opened at eight in the morning for the regulars who needed that first eye-opener before breakfast. Louie was behind the bar where he’d been for nearly fifty years, setting them up for a few of his customers who were leaning their elbows on the century-old bar. Four old codgers were playing cards at the table in the window and an elderly couple in one of the booths was having their lunch with a couple of beers.

  They all looked up when Rocco and Colin walked in.

  “Afternoon, fellows,” Louie said. “What can I do you for?”

  Rocco was going to ask what their choices in beer were, but decided against it. He looked at Colin.

  “A tap.” He shoved his h
and in his jean pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills.

  “Same here,” Rocco said, taking a seat in the first booth and loosening his tie.

  Colin brought them two tap beers, set them down on the scarred surface of the booth table and slid into the seat opposite Rocco. Lifting his glass, he said, “To Chloe.”

  Rocco raised his glass and nodded.

  Colin drained his beer and set the empty glass on the table.

  A challenge any man would recognize.

  Rocco did the same and waved at Louie for two more.

  In earlier centuries, they might have saddled their destriers, taken up their lances and charged each other, or perhaps met at dawn for a duel. This wasn’t a contest to the death, but it was confrontational, and as so often in the past, it was over a woman.

  Men were like that.

  Possessive.

  Quick to appropriate territory.

  Unwilling to relinquish it.

  “She’s unbelievable,” Colin softly said, lifting his refilled glass in both praise and challenge.

  “Yeah.”

  Two glasses were drained and refilled.

  “How long have you known her?” Rocco asked, watching Colin closely for any minute clue his words might not reveal.

  “A week.”

  Colin’s answer hit him like a jolt. He knew that instant covetous feeling.

  Colin dipped his head. “How about you?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  Both men drank down their beers, consumed with jealousy.

  Louie was waved over, Rocco gave him a fifty, said, “Keep them coming,” and gazed at Colin with the piercing scrutiny of a forensic scientist. “How old are you?”

  “What the fuck’s the difference? How old are you?”

  “Older than you.”

  “Then that makes me younger than you.” The beer was beginning to work its wonders.

  Rocco sighed. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. She goes out with everyone.”

  “Fucking-A and that’s the problem.”

  “Our problem. Not hers.”

  “I’m not in the mood to be reasonable.”