by Piper Malone
Blake, in nothing but his fire pants, suspenders highlighting his decadent abs, and heavy work boots greets me with a serious look.
“Ma’am, we got a call about smoke coming from your home. The department sent me over to check out the situation.” His delivery is flawless. Professional, firm, and oh so sexy.
It takes me everything not to giggle. “Mr. Fireman, I think you might have the wrong location.” I take a contemplative look up the stairs before turning my attention back to Blake. “I know the damage I can cause by cooking, so I let the professionals at Panda Wok handle my needs.”
“Ah, a take-out queen. I see.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I still think you should let me handle your needs. I’m very good with animals.”
“You’re very good with animals? Mr. Fireman, I don’t have any pets.”
I wonder if he hears me before he plows forward. It’s obvious he has a script for this interlude. “As a firefighter it is imperative that I know how to engage human, animal, and natural beings to ensure the safety and well-being of everyone.”
I give him the you-lost-me look, to which he nods and continues.
“I’ve rescued many frightened cats that were stuck in trees.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Fireman, do not make some cat-Kat reference,” I beg. “Played out, my friend.” Can’t anyone come up with new material?
“The funny thing is,” he presses, “some cats really like trees.”
“Yeah, and?”
“I think your pussy really liked my redwood and it’s time for them to be reacquainted.”
His punch line doubles me over. I don’t think any of the guys I’ve dated have ever made me laugh so hard. “Okay,” I muster through the giggles, “you win points for that one. Come in.”
Blake hops inside the door, happy to have gained entrance. When he stoops over to remove his boots, I get the pleasure of drinking in the firm lines of his muscled back. Without thinking, my fingers graze his shoulder blades and glide down the deep groove of his spine.
“Kat,” he pauses, “I came here to spend some time with you so we can get to know each other. You’re making it very hard for me to be a gentleman.”
“Huh.” It’s an absent sound, my attention captivated by the smooth texture of his skin beneath my hands. “So a gentleman shows up places half naked and uses the word pussy?”
Blake stands up, his mountainous frame towering over me. “My definition is a little skewed from the norm.” His fingers play with the ends of my hair. “You smell really good.”
“It’s jojoba oil. My favorite.” I lean into his chest. “You smell like soap.”
“Yeah, there’s nothing fancy at the house.” He shrugs. “I’ll smell better tomorrow.” His thumb plays over my jaw, my head tilting into the touch.
“Want to come up? Have a drink?”
“Kat, I’ve been waiting on that invite for months.” He sighs before issuing a kiss so gentle my knees go weak. “I would love to.”
Chapter 8
Kat
In the bright sunlight of morning, I wake up to the sound of Blake sleeping next to me. On his back, one arm resting on his chest, the other draped on the pillow over his head, I get to ogle his body without having to fight off his advances. Blake takes up the majority of my queen-sized bed, feet dangling off the end. His broad shoulders eat up the width of the mattress, distinctly outlined with the muscular curvatures of someone who enjoys time at the gym. The sight of his tight pecs makes my fingers curl, resisting the urge to run my fingernails across the smooth plane of his chest and tease his nipples. My mouth waters, wanting to lick the flat of his stomach, feel the muscles tense and jerk under my touch.
Under the sheet, his cock, a dominant force even when not fully erect, forms a smooth hill at the juncture of his thighs. The deviant in me cares not to think about the consequences before gently lifting the sheet to expose him. Cool air on sensitive skin causes a quick reaction, movement of his hips, his dick filling with blood under my watchful eye. I have always loved the male form. A penis is a work of art. Sure, guys touch it all the time, use it as a status symbol, a mechanism to oppress others, but, when you think about it, male genitalia is a masterpiece. Unassuming flesh changes and evolves into a force that is truly a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A smooth, silky vessel that appears to innocently seek your attention while actually hiding a powerful, animalistic force. Blake is a specimen of masculinity that rivals the Greek gods, a vision that will forever be lodged in the top spot of my lusty library, the feminine equivalent of a spank bank.
He’s a stud.
And I want him in my mouth. Licking my lips, I lean over, gently placing one hand between his legs, the other next to his hip. The thought that this could be a bad idea, waking a man who is not familiar with where he is, or even with me, is slapped away. This is Blake. He probably authored a textbook on kinky sex acts and then posted a personal kick-ass book review.
Hovering over him, lips almost touching the smooth ridge of his corona, I exhale a steady breath warming him up before running my tongue up the pink flesh of his head, savoring his taste and the deep moan rumbling from his chest. Satisfied that I have his attention, even if he is half-conscious, I set to the work of rousing the rest of my bedmate. His attentive cock is ready to go in moments. Keeping my hands firmly on the bed, I cradle him in my mouth, a series of gentle pulls making his flesh jerk. When his hips start to pump into my mouth, the heady feeling of knowing I have him settles in. Moaning in his sleep, he reaches for his own body, and startles when he feels mine.
“Holy shit,” he grinds out, as I hear his head pick up and flop back on the bed. “Fuck, Kat. I thought you were a dream.” I double my efforts and tease his balls in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. “Scratch that,” he moans, “you’re paradise.”
Blake wastes no time in participating in this tryst. In an instant, his hand trails up my thigh and two skillful fingers delve into my wet and aching core. I whimper as he pumps his fingers in and out of me at a maddening pace.
“I can’t believe how wet you are from sucking my cock, doll.” His hand shifts, caressing the walls of my body. I clench around his intrusion, eliciting a deep rumble from his chest. “I can’t let you have all the fun,” he says. “I want you to keep my dick in your mouth, okay?”
I hum my agreement, swirling my tongue around his plump mushroom head. Blake growls, pulling my leg up and over his body, shifting himself beneath me. Knowing the bliss that is about to come, I wiggle my hips. I’m teasing the bear, but I want him, badly.
We become dueling forces focused on the singular pleasure of the other. I revel in the feel of his glorious masculinity throbbing in my mouth. He worships my sensitive sex with his talented mouth. He begs me to come on his tongue, words and sensation combining to form an explosive elixir that detonates my body in time with his. Drinking him down and he does me, I collapse on him, exhausted and happy.
“Kat,” he whispers.
“Oh,” I pick myself up, realizing all my weight is on top of him, “sorry!”
He grabs me mid-dismount, making sure I don’t slam my knee into his nose before pulling me close, the top of my head resting on his shoulder.
“You are perfect,” he says after a moment of quiet contemplation.
My first instinct is to respond that he doesn’t know me. I worry that if Blake stayed around long enough, he would see all my flaws. I pause, waiting to hear the self-destructive words I’ve battled with my entire life chant in my mind. You are useless. You’re a whore. Most days they are quiet; other days a water cannon wouldn’t drown them out. I pause, quietly bracing myself to hear the words. Today, they are strangely silent.
Deep, calm breathing signals that Blake is sleeping. The sound makes me smile. One blow job and he’s down for the count. He did have a rough shift at the house. A bunch of calls for suspicious smells and a fire pit that got a little out of hand did not bode well for any kind of sleep.
I snuggle into his
body and enjoy the warmth. He’s here. He thinks I’m perfect. Blake can’t see the issues that are so clear to me. We haven’t talked about the future, about BDSM, and what that means for us. I still have to ask him to come to dinner with my family.
Pushing away the worries, I listen to Blake’s paced breath and allow it to lull me to sleep. For now, maybe I’ll lie to myself and believe I can be what he needs.
Chapter 9
Kat
Monday mornings are a paradox. I can’t stand them because my freedom is over but there is something rejuvenating about a crazy workout at the gym and grabbing a yummy coffee that kicks the workweek off on a high note.
Until that high note is snapped in two by an emergency meeting. With the CEO. Events like this are akin to finding that ants invaded your picnic lunch. Your wonderful day is totally fucked up because Mother Nature’s minions decided to stomp all over your coleslaw.
It sucks. This meeting is crawling with ants. I don’t think I can go in there and play nice just yet, it’s still Monday after all. I linger until the last possible minute, milling around the hallway, looking at the vision board that makes no sense to anyone except the people who put it up, all while sipping my delicious overpriced coffee.
We are a competitive marketing agency, the best in Boston. Our clientele is vast, wealthy, and high profile to say the least. We are an enormous entity in Massachusetts that has recently spread nationwide. I know the plan is to move into international marketing. I’d love to get my hands on an overseas account just for the travel. It’s crazy, a little too busy sometimes, but I like it. I can exercise my creativity and I have the ability to come and go as I please. The flexibility is what I really enjoy. I can work from home, my office, the Starbucks down the street. It’s a blessing, really. While I have my own office, sometimes the confines of four walls chokes the life out of me. I need to breathe fresh air. Feel the world around me. My most successful accounts were ones that I developed when I was running or kayaking or at a Red Sox game.
I don’t think they will ask for open statements about current work today, but the meeting is still strange. Why now? Why was there no warning? Are we being restructured? I watch my coworkers file in, chattering about their weekends. The five interns we recently acquired follow their mentors like dazed ducklings. I hope the people showing them the ropes allow them to do some of their own work. It would suck if they were coffee jockeys for nine months and didn’t learn anything.
Not that I’m an expert in mentoring, they’ve never asked me to take an intern. I think they know better by now. I might eat the young. Besides, I’d be no good to them anyway; I’ve had a block on any new ideas lately. My creative logjam was made worse by Babu’s request to bring Blake over for dinner. I don’t know how to ask him. Do I prep him for the discomfort I know all too well? Can I tell the guy I’m seeing that it takes me at least three days to feel normal after seeing my family?
They aren’t horrible or anything; we just view things differently. Like I believe you should protect your children from the verbally abusive monsters who live in your house, but not everyone agrees. Namely, my parents and my dickhead brother. But it was years ago, right? If we don’t talk about it, it never happened. Right? Right!
It’s so much more than that, but looking at the facts is all I can really handle anymore. My uncle Yuri was an arrogant prick who resorted to name calling and accused me of sleeping with neighborhood boys when I was twelve.
What kind of an asshole says those things to a twelve-year-old?
Oh, that’s right. My uncle. The worst is when I’m stressed or overwhelmed, the memory of his inebriated taunts clang in my head and disturb my dreams.
I roll my eyes as the endless churning of self-talk begins: It wasn’t your fault. He was an ass. They did the best they could.
The bitch in me rails against the placating voices. They didn’t protect me.
So I protected myself. I left. The best offense is a good defense.
I still feel like my parents view me as a stranger. Like they know me, because I look familiar but they have no clue who I am as a person. I’m not sure if my mother knows my favorite color.
Bringing Blake to sit around a table with them means I have to prepare him, expose him to the dirty laundry. I’m sure they will be on their best behavior, but it’s still unnerving.
Before I think too much about how I’m going to tackle that hurdle, I hear dainty tapping along the tile floor. Nicole, one of my team members, whips around the corner a little too quickly, wobbling on her heels as she skitters past me. “C’mon, we’re late for the meeting,” she calls over her shoulder. “I hope you have something good for this guy if he needs it.”
I have nothing, not even the will to tell Nicole that I am a sinking ship and she should find a life vest. I thought the magic elixir concocted by the hottie barista I over-tipped was going to rattle something loose… Nope. When I don’t respond, Nicole shoots me a pleading look. I toss her a cheesy smile that has her groaning as we enter the boardroom.
Our CEO, Mr. Achenbach, welcomes Nicole and me with gleeful cheer, forcing the entire room to turn and look at us. Of course, why wouldn’t you call attention to the people interrupting your meeting with their fashionably late entrance? After he has sufficiently embarrassed us, Mr. Achenbach continues on his congratulatory speech about the revenue we’ve secured and the accounts we’ve managed. Our firm has branded several large commercial businesses and worked to help launch a few lucratively backed start-ups.
“Our new challenge,” Mr. Achenbach states, “is to continue to show the community we are supportive of our roots. Our home is here but as we expand in global markets, we need to maintain our status with the people who have supported us from the beginning. Therefore, we will be launching a new branch of our company, philanthropic marketing.
“Our goal is to collaborate with a local business and assist in fundraising efforts to support community needs and resources. We brand the organization, give it a new look, entirely on our dime, and launch a fund-raising campaign on a local, and if possible, national level. Then, as a company, we identify similar entities in our area and continue the same process.”
The room is silent. No one in the room seems to know how to respond, including me. Marketing, account acquisition, is cutthroat and more than a little brutal. Now he wants us to put on a pretty hat and play tea party?
“So,” Serena asks from her typical seat at the table, “we need to pitch ideas for local organizations that need support and build a marketing strategy that will yield lucrative results for them?”
“Correct,” Mr. Achenbach confirms.
“Is there compensation for this activity, or are we working for our standard commission?” she inquires with a cool, yet professional tone.
“There is no commission, per se. The colleague who earns the job will receive a straight salary.”
“In addition to their current pay?” Serena is on Mr. Achenbach like a seagull that located a discarded tub of French fries. We share the accolade of being the highest-ranking agents in this company. Serena and I are essentially the same wrecking ball with different hair. She dabbles in the mean-girl mentality, which I cannot stand. I try to kill her with polite professionalism but she’s a bitch to the highest degree. Every email that chick sends to me has “FYI” in the subject line. I decided long ago that the ascribed “For Your Information” acronym actually stands for “Fuck You Idiot” when penned by Serena. It pisses me off that we grapple for top seed in this agency. I always feel like she’s working a slant, trying to manipulate someone out of something. Of course, the majority of the office can’t see her horns beneath her ebony hair.
“Yes.” Mr. Achenbach glows with a wild delight. “Some of you stand to make almost double your current earnings. There is a slight catch; the agency representative will have an intern assigned to the project as well. I think it would be best to allow our interns to expand their knowledge in this area of marketing.”
Kicking Serena’s ass with this project would be a gorgeous feather in my cap. I’ve been taking on bigger projects, but this could launch me to a new position within the company. Plus, I’ve been eyeing a cute walk up in town close to Reagan and Caleb’s house. I saw the sale sign when Reagan and I were on a pre-wedding run and I thought it would be fun to live closer to them. Every time I’ve looked at the pictures on the realty website, I envision a seductive bedroom and a swanky office decked out with hip, modern elements and brilliantly painted walls. Then I glance at the price tag and my stomach rolls. A monetary boost from winning this campaign would give me the down payment I need.
“What type of organizations are you looking to support?” I ask, curious about what might help me earn this accolade.
“It’s pitcher’s choice.” Mr. Achenbach’s chubby cheeks redden with excitement. “The agent will submit a proposal then present their idea to the board of directors. We are open to hearing it all.”
I watch my coworkers raise their hands to ask additional questions, some of them eagerly scribbling notes. I listen to the questions, take in some of the early ideas people toss out. Some of them are good but I want to come up with something different, innovative. I need to make a bold statement with this pitch or it will be lost in a sea of repetitive ideas. When I sense the meeting is adjourned, I make for the door. Some fresh air, a hot coffee, and time to think this through is all I need.
“Be prepared to lose this one, Kat,” Serena calls, her stiletto heels clicking down the hall. “I’ve got a killer idea that he’s going to love. I’ll let you take a spin in my new Beemer once I win that cash. Consider that ride the first-place-loser prize.”