After several long glorious moments, his kiss became gentle, slow, sweet, teasing her lips with tenderness. She allowed every last vestige of control and reserve to dissolve away from her as she gave herself fully to him. Surely she had never been kissed like this in her life, and certainly not by any of those stuffy executive types she usually dated.
She chided herself that she should feel afraid, or at the least hesitant, that he had so quickly found the chink in her armor. And yet…surprise, surprise, she actually enjoyed this ride she was on, this heady rush into what she neither knew nor cared. She sure as hell was eager to find out. As hot as Mr. Throb made her, she realized she longed to discover if there could be a bit more between them than just a collision of heated bodies. At this very moment, he could do absolutely anything and everything he liked with her and she would willingly—gleefully—let him.
He pulled away from her mouth reluctantly, a satisfied smile on his lips, and when he reached for her hand again she didn’t hesitate to grasp his in return.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go get that coffee.”
Erection
Tim Rudolph
Sometimes they sounded like characters in a screwball sitcom.
“I’ve decided,” he said, his head trolling leisurely between her thighs. “I’m going to get a tattoo. On my scrotum. Missy and Michael, forever and ever.”
Missy reluctantly opened her eyes. “That would look pretty stupid on a dead man. Because I’d have to kill you. By the way, Julie thinks you’re hotter than a Houston firefighter. Her words. The poor kid is smitten.”
“Fuck your secretary. Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Liz Taylor? A very young Liz Taylor?”
Missy shifted in her chair. “Wait. You’re not doing it right. Here, let me move my leg this way. There, that’s better. Mother of Mary, where’d you learn to do that?”
Michael came up for air, grinning. “You really enjoy screwing the help, don’t you?”
“Well,” she said, pushing his head back down, feeling her wetness gather on the leather chair under her ass, “being the superintendant of construction for a California high-rise does have its perks. You know, so many hotties, so little time? Yum yum.”
Michael jerked his head up. “One thing you should know—I’m not the jealous type. So you can take your architecture and engineering degrees, and you can…”
“Shush. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Michael Shaw was her latest, maybe her best—and maybe even her equal. He’d come highly recommended by a hot-to-trot Silicon Valley executive that Missy used to pal around with at Stanford. She’d told Missy that not only was Mike Shaw an artist with a trowel—he’d poured her an elegantly patterned pool deck and tinted it emerald green—he also had the “goods” to take a girl where she needed to go, if Missy knew what she meant.
Missy did. Beautiful, brainy, cantankerous as hell, and sexually rambunctious, she was always on the lookout for new talent. Early on, given her new-kid status, she’d tried to resist flirting with the worker bees. But there was so much eye candy strutting around that, well, she’d grabbed a few samples off the shelf and thrown them into her cart. What single gal in her position wouldn’t?
Oh, but if they all came in smart and pretty packages like Michael Shaw, she’d never get any work done.
“You stopped. Did I ask you to stop?”
Michael rested his hands on her knees. “Missy, we’re pouring sixteen this morning. My boys are going to wonder where I am. Hear that? That’s the truck rolling in, and here I am on the floor between your legs. Some crew foreman I am.”
Missy threw down her legs from the desktop and crossed them, her panties still clutched in her hand. “You’re not irreplaceable, you know. And it’s not nice to get your boss all hot and bothered and then leave the task unfinished. I hope this isn’t a sign of your lack of commitment. To the job, I mean.”
“Missy…”
“You’re dismissed, Michael. I’ve got a boatload of bureaucratic bullshit to wade through before lunch, so I’ll see you when I see you.” She rubbed her face with both hands, anticipating the long day ahead. “Let’s not have any slipups today, okay? No lumps in the concrete.”
Michael leaned casually against the door in a way that drove her crazy. With one hand on the knob and the other over his crotch he said, “I got your lump right here. Have a groovy day. Boss.”
Great, she thought. Alone, snowed under and horny. Michael had been so proficient with his tongue that her cunt was like a live wire ready to arc at the slightest touch. She sighed, and then pressed the intercom button. “Jules, dear, hold all my calls. I’ve got an itch I need to scratch.”
“Congratulations, you lucky girl. Need any help?”
Despite the headaches, Missy Butler was in her element. Every aspect of building design and development fascinated her. Sure, there were obstacles, like the silly, no-job-for-a-lady Neanderthals who wanted to watch her fail. Well, they could choke on her panty hose—she wasn’t going to fail. Who else read the Bible-thick building code for pleasure? If they saw her as an on-the-make working girl firing howitzers at the glass ceiling, so be it. Bottom line, she told the little boys where they could stick their building blocks, and they had to like it.
The only thing missing, she mused, was a sign she wanted to have made for her desk: I Cause Erections!
Late that afternoon, Michael returned to Missy’s office, sweat-soaked, dust-covered, and looking as scrumptious as a boy toy in a GQ cologne ad. “Hey,” he said.
Missy looked up briefly from her work. “You’re back. And I’m swamped. But come over here and give me a kiss before you leave.”
“Am I leaving? I thought maybe we could pick up where we left off.”
“Where you left off, you mean. How’d the pour go? I heard there was a problem with the concrete guy’s pump.”
“Fuel clog. Nothing to set us back. That doesn’t mean the pour wasn’t exciting. Juan stepped on a nail and the sucker went clean through his boot and right between his toes. I told him, dude, go buy a lottery ticket—you’re on a roll.”
Missy, head down again, scribbling figures, calculating square footage, said, “Uh-huh. So you’re dealing with nails in boots and equipment hiccups, and I’m up to my knickers in bid applications and seismic stress test requirements. Daddy warned me that life isn’t fair, but did I listen?” The point of her pencil broke and she cursed, then snapped the unreliable bastard in two.
“I love it when you pretend to be annoyed,” Michael said. “You get such cute little crinkles around your eyes. But you can’t fool me—you eat this stuff up with a spoon.” He propped himself on the corner of her desk and played with her hair. “What you probably need is a change in perspective. What you probably need is a good spanking. Here, let’s clear a place on your desk.”
“Michael, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Okay, now stand up, lean over and show me those hot schoolgirl cheeks of yours.”
“I will not!”
“It’s either that or I call Julie in here and tell her that you’ve always wanted to watch me backdoor the secretary.”
“Where do guys come up with this stuff? You must think we’re all wanton sluts.”
“Dreams die hard. Now, up you go.”
Michael helped her to her feet, and she didn’t resist. Suddenly her head was swimming with images, perverted images. Julie taking it in the ass on Missy’s desk. Missy scrunched up underneath being devoured by her secretary. Michael pulling out at the last second and spunking all over that mind-breaking pile of paperwork.
“Be gentle,” she said, feeling Michael’s calloused fingers snake under her panties. “Missy’s had a difficult day.” Even wanton sluts have difficult days, she thought.
The next morning they sat in her office drinking coffee and watching the fog make the skyscraper’s skeleton disappear.
“Do you love me, Michael?”
Michael put
down his cup and pinched his nose. “Now that question’s a landmine just waiting to be stepped on. I’m crazy about you, kid. Crazy.”
“Then let’s rob a bank.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s rent a rowboat in the park. Let’s play hooky and go see a chick flick. Let’s…”
“Let’s slow down. What’s all this about? Cabin fever? Come up with me to seventeen and you can play in the cement with us. Or you can just watch me wrestle with the mud hose two hundred feet above ground. That’s always fun.” Missy offered her empty cup to Michael without a word, and he rose to get her a refill. “We’re not feeling sorry for ourselves this morning, are we? Too much on our plates? Dealing with the city got us constipated?”
“You are so mean sometimes,” Missy said. “You’re like Clark Gable knocking Carole Lombard around, only without the charm.”
“Well, Missy, sometimes you talk in circles, and I can’t keep up. Tell me what’s bothering you, hon. Today. While we’re still young.”
“Smart-ass. And why should anything be bothering me? I’m actually starting to dig my role as crabby spinster workaholic.”
“If this is about last night…”
“You fell asleep! I cooked you lasagna from an old family recipe. I plied you with cold mountain Chablis. I even let you watch Sportscenter while I cleaned up. And what was my reward? Sweet talk and flowers? No, a snooze fest that chased the cat under the bed.”
Michael threw his hands up in surrender. “Baby, I was so, so tired. You saw all the work we put in yesterday.” He grinned sheepishly. “Guess you just made me feel so at home that I took advantage.” He stood behind her and started to give her a shoulder rub. “Tell me how to make it right.”
Missy shrugged him off. “Romance, Michael. A girl needs a little romance to put a bounce in her step and a flutter in her nether regions.”
Michael stood silently for a moment, then said, “Are we talking about the same Missy Butler? If you had any more bounce and flutter, they’d have to sedate you with an animal tranquilizer.”
“Damn you for making me smile.”
“There you go, girl. So what are you doing for lunch tomorrow? Whatever it is, cancel it.”
“Why? Are you taking me to Home Depot to look at trowels and drill bits?”
“Oh, disagreeable woman. No, this is way better. Just meet me here with a good appetite—and a better attitude.”
“Now who’s talking in circles?”
“Don’t give up on us, Missy. Love is in the air.”
“Right. And you’re fucking Cupid.”
“Until tomorrow—my little valentine.”
“Oh, christ.”
When Michael showed up just before noon on the following day, Missy was pacing back and forth in front of her desk, her fourth cup of coffee sloshing over the brim. She was pumped. She’d just gotten off the phone with the plumbers and pipefitter’s rep, having persuaded him—with incentives—to have his sorry-ass crew start working Saturdays. If there were no major screwups, her project would finish ahead of schedule—and put a shine on her resume.
“Wow,” Michael said. “Who put the extra marshmallows in your hot chocolate?”
“Little victories, Michael. Little victories are the key to happiness. Like stepping on a nail that goes between your toes.” But when she looked Michael up and down, she was suddenly in no mood to smile. She’d worn a kicky new skirt and a favorite blouse for their lunchtime rendezvous, but now she felt deflated. “What’s with the painter’s tarp and the Igloo? And you’re, like, all grungy. I thought you were taking me to lunch.”
“I am. Get your sweater, follow me, and all will be revealed. By the way, little victories suit you—you’re gorgeous. Hot date tonight?”
Outside the sun was warm and pleasant on her skin, so she tied the sweater around her waist. Michael was already two strides ahead of her, leading her…where, exactly? Not that she cared. Her eyes were fixed on his sinewy ass, and how it gave his faded jeans a certain rodeo cowboy sexiness. Uh-oh, she thought. Here comes that itch again. But before she could pull her mind out of the gutter, she walked right into Michael’s back without realizing that he’d stopped.
“Ouch. Hey. You okay?”
“Sorry,” she said. Then she realized where they were. “Oh my god. What have you done to the elevator?”
The freight elevator, a spare, rickety, wire mesh contraption that Missy had ridden in—reluctantly—dozens of times, was now adorned with flowers, crepe paper, and Happy Birthday balloons.
“Like it?” Michael asked. “Romantic enough for you?”
Missy hesitated before answering. “I…guess? I mean, it’s actually quite lovely. But it’s not my birthday.”
“I know. But it was either that or Get Well Soon balloons.” Michael set the tarp and Igloo cooler inside the elevator then swept out his arm with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits, my queen.”
What the hell, Missy thought. It was Friday, and she’d already penciled out the rest of the day and told Julie to knock off early. She took a deep breath, grabbed a hard hat from a plastic bin and stepped inside. What now? She watched as Michael pulled down the heavy gate and hit the up button. As the car shimmied and started to rise, she leaned back against the wire, feeling the usual anxiety wash through her.
“For future reference, Michael, I am not fond of elevators, pretty as this one is. And I most certainly don’t like heights.”
Michael smiled. “And yet you build skyscrapers for a living. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“No, irony is me firing you for getting me fired for joyriding on company time. So can you let me in on the big mystery?”
“No mystery. We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
The elevator reached the end of the line and Michael locked it in place. When the pulleys took up slack the floor dropped sharply, and Missy fell into him, clutching his shirttails and crying, “Oh shit, we’re going to die.”
Michael laughed and pulled her safely onto the twenty-third floor. There was no roof or walls yet, just steel beams and columns, and a temporary plywood floor with gaps in it. “Watch your step,” he told her. “And don’t look down.”
She shuddered. “And to think I could be sitting down in Monica’s ordering clam chowder and doing my Sudoku.” Breathe, she told herself. Float.
“Like a postcard, isn’t it?” Michael said, admiring the view. “Never gets old.”
“It’s very pretty, yes,” she said, holding his hand tightly while removing her heels. “But I’ve seen it a hundred times. It’s my job, remember?”
“Now don’t get grumpy. Here, help me spread out this tarp.” When they’d finished, Michael sat down and opened up the red-and-white cooler. “Picnic! Get it while it’s hot.”
Dear, sweet boy, Missy thought. He’d gone to so much trouble. Could it be that he actually cared about more than jumping her bones? Not that there was anything wrong with that.
“Look here,” Michael said, holding up a brown paper deli sack.
“Not bad,” Missy said. “Sandwiches from Zoccoli’s. Chips. Several cans of Coors light. Say, this isn’t about some kinky date-rape fantasy of yours, is it?”
“Sit down and eat your lunch, woman.”
“What’s the cheap bottle of bubbly for?”
Michael grabbed a green, long-necked bottle from the cooler and rubbed it like it was a talisman. “This, dear lady, is for the christening.”
Missy snatched a beer from the cooler, cracked it open and took three healthy swallows. She waited for Michael to explain, but he was wrist-deep in the chips and playing coy. Finally she gave in. “Do I really have to ask?”
“Think about it,” he said, offering her the bag and stealing a beer for himself. “Every ship has a captain, right? And every captain christens his—or her—ship before it launches.” Michael pushed himself up and spread his arms wide, then turned in a slow circle. “Missy, this is your ship. You built it, you’re at the helm
and it’s damn near ready to sail. But it needs a name and a proper send-off.”
To her surprise, Missy was touched, almost to the point of tearing up. The man had soul. The man was more than just a pretty face. She waited for her emotions to settle, then said, “Thank you, Michael. Any man who rescues me from the superintendant’s shack on a beautiful day like this is my hero.”
“What about the christening?” he asked, handing her the bottle of champagne.
“Oh, that.” She studied the bottle’s blue label, pretending to be put off by the idea. But his smile as he rested his arms on her shoulders and nuzzled her hair broke her resolve. “It’s stupid. It’s corny. But I love stupid and corny.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips.
“A name, then,” Michael said. “We need a name for this ship you built.”
Missy finished her beer and crumpled the can in her hands. “The Titanic?”
“C’mon, now. How about the S.S. Missy Butler? Commissioned in 2014, mothballed in the way distant future.”
“Done.” Missy walked carefully over to a steel column rising up from the center of the floor and drew her arm back, ready to smash the bottle. Then she had second thoughts. “Nope,” she said. “Something’s missing.”
Michael sighed and opened another beer for both of them. “I give up—what?”
“If I’m the captain, I need a first mate. Will you be my first mate, Mikey?”
Michael snapped to attention. “When you bat your eyes like that, how can I say no, Captain?”
“You know,” Missy said, taking a slow-walking tour around his body, “I do like that pose. But I’d like it much better if you…”
“If I…?”
“Boots and hat. Nothing else. Can you do this for Missy? She’d be ever so…grateful.”
Michael didn’t need to be asked twice. Pulling off shirts, unbuttoning jeans, slipping down boxers—he was all but naked in less than a minute.
“Guys are so easy,” Missy said, letting her eyes roam freely. His body was like a sculpture made flesh, from the taut, workingman’s muscles of his stomach and thighs to the boyish dimples in his cheeks. She tried to tamp down the wicked thoughts stirred up by the sight of him, but it was a losing battle. “Your captain approves,” she whispered in his ear. Then she gave him a playful slap on the rump.
Sex Objects Page 8