by Penny Wylder
CallMeClove: Exactly like that.
I hold my breath when I hit send on this. The alarm bells are still ringing in my head, bad idea, bad idea, but it’s late and I’m getting punch drunk on exhaustion, not to mention my hormones are still raging from earlier.
AtYourService: So you don’t want to see what’s underneath?
Another picture comes through. In this one, he’s pulled his shirt up, just far enough to show his washboard abs and the waistband of his boxers. Goddamn. His stomach is flat, rippling, and looks even more delicious close-up than it did in that beach photo. I want to run my hands over those abs. Trace that glorious V-line straight down into those boxers and…
Argh.
CallMeClove: I thought I said don’t tease me…
AtYourService: My bad. In that case, are you allowed to tease me instead? Because I have to admit, I’ve spent all night wondering what was underneath my damsel in distress’s clothes…
I shiver. Cast a glance down at myself. I’m in PJs now, and they’re not exactly sexy. Just a baggy T-shirt and my gym shorts. But my dresser is within reach, and inside it, the lacy lingerie that I reserve for special occasions.
I take a deep breath. What could it hurt? Just one picture. It’s only polite after all. He sent me one first.
I pull off my T-shirt, slip on the lingerie and arrange it so it doesn’t actually show anything—not my face and not anything completely untoward either. The result is sexier than I expected, to be honest. It’s all black lace and a hint of cleavage, and when I hit send, I’m actually not even embarrassed. Because hell yeah, I look hot.
He replies almost instantly. There’s no message this time, just a photo of him standing beside the stool in the mail room now, his boxers on full display. And through them, I can already make out the outline of his hard cock, straining against the fabric. I trace my fingers along my phone screen, and I’m surprised to find a trickle of sweat inching between my breasts. Because goddamn, I want to touch him. Feel that cock with my own hands.
AtYourService: Still want me to quit teasing, naughty girl?
CallMeClove: I might be coming around to it. I’d need one more photo to be sure…
He doesn’t disappoint. I open the next picture with a skip in my breath. Holy hell. He’s huge.
His cock is thick, swollen with lust, and wrapped in his strong fist. To judge by him, they aren’t kidding when they say large hands equal large everything else. He’s glorious, long and curved slightly upward, with thick veins that stand.
More than anything, I want to taste him. Lick along his length, swirl my tongue around the tip of him, then slowly take him into my mouth… Would he even fit?
I want to find out.
CallMeClove: Should you be undressing like this at work? Seems very unprofessional of you.
AtYourService: Going to lodge a complaint? ;)
CallMeClove: Oh, definitely not.
AtYourService: That’s good. Because it’s your fault, you know.
CallMeClove: My fault? How so? I am perfectly innocent here.
AtYourService: That lacy nightgown says otherwise. And now you’ve gone and made me rock-hard just thinking about peeling it off of you…
CallMeClove: Well, you’re the one who started it. Now I’m getting wet just looking at how hard you are.
AtYourService: Definitely seems like you’re the one doing the teasing. Because now I’m thinking about spreading your thighs and tasting exactly how wet you are. I bet you have a tight little pussy, don’t you, naughty girl?
I slide my hand under the covers. Touch myself as I respond one-handed.
CallMeClove: So tight. I wonder if your thick cock would fit inside me…
AtYourService: I’d go nice and slow. Lick you until you couldn’t stand it anymore, until you were begging for me, and then I’d push into you slowly, an inch at a time…
I spread my pussy lips and swirl my finger through the thick juices accumulating there, all the while imagining it’s him. His finger, his strong, capable hand down my panties. My hand trembles as I type out my reply.
CallMeClove: I’d be so tight and hot and wet around you, and when you finally slid all the way inside me, I’d wrap my legs around your waist, let you fuck me however you want.
AtYourService: I’d fuck you all night, Clove. Every way you want. Hard and rough enough that you wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day.
CallMeClove: Fuck yes, Zayne. That’s what I want you to do to me.
I barely manage to finish typing the last sentence. I’m too concentrated on my pussy, sliding my fingers in and out of myself, while I press down hard on my clit with the heel of my hand, rubbing it at the same time.
AtYourService: I’m fisting my cock right now, thinking about you. Are you touching yourself? Please tell me you’re touching that sweet little pussy of yours, Clove.
That reply is enough to send me over the edge. My body shakes as I come, and I let out a faint cry, alone in the darkness of my apartment.
But now that I have, and the hormones still continue to rage, as frustrated as I am, I grimace. What am I doing? Exactly what I promised myself I shouldn’t.
Seeing my name on the screen next to his makes me realize just what a terrible idea this is. I love this apartment. It’s my home. I can’t risk it for a fling, even if it is with a hottie like Zayne.
CallMeClove: I have to go. I’m sorry.
I log out of the app before I can give into temptation any more. When I roll over to shut off my light, I squint at the time and grimace even harder. Shit. Past two in the morning.
Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.
3
“Good morning, Ms. Walker.”
The usual morning doorman, Paul, waves at me as I exit the building. Meanwhile, I’m suppressing a mixture of frustration and relief. Half of me wanted to see Zayne this morning. Catch one more glimpse of his sexy grin, his piercing blue eyes.
The other half is relieved that I don’t have to walk past him right away. Not after last night. And especially not with how I’m looking this morning—like I just rolled out of the wrong side of the bed and face-first into a pot of coffee. There are bags under my eyes that my makeup is straining to conceal, and my hair is a mess because I didn’t have time to shower.
As it is, I just wave back at Paul as I jog out the door, hurrying toward the train in my flats, because no way can I run as fast as I’ll need to in heels.
Half an hour later, I roll into my office five minutes before our first meeting is set to begin. Just enough time to pour myself a large cup of black coffee in the break room before I sidle up to the office where we meet every Friday morning to review our campaigns from last week and plan for the next.
One girl at the back of the room, a new hire I don’t know very well, Hannah-something, is staring at me blatantly. I do a quick check, but no, I remembered to button all my buttons. Huh. Weird.
I shake my head and zone back into the meeting.
Even though it’s business as usual, it’s still impossible to concentrate. I stare blankly at my manager, my mind still stuck on my text exchange with Zayne last night. The image of his cock, the knowledge that he was touching himself, masturbating in the break room thinking about me.
Before long, I have to cross my legs and clench them tight, my panties already feeling worryingly damp.
Naturally, that’s the moment when my boss calls my name. I focus on her, then the PowerPoint slide on the wall behind her. But it doesn’t help me figure out what she just said.
“Sorry, what was that?” I wince.
My boss’s annoyed stare says it all. Normally she and I are on good terms, but the rest of the day pretty much goes like that. No matter what she asks, I need her to repeat it multiple times because I can’t keep my head on straight.
Then a few of the results from previous campaigns come in abysmally low, coupled with one of our vendors trying to renegotiate a contract we’d already signed, and by
the end of my very long Friday, I am in desperate need of a stiff drink.
To top it all off, none of my usual post-work happy hour buddies are free tonight. Andy has a hot date with this new guy she’s been flirting with nonstop all week, and Celeste has some birthday party for her aunt to go to. Which leaves me stranded in midtown with nowhere to go.
I heave a sigh and start heading for the train when my phone buzzes. Another message on the app. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before I tap it open.
It’s Zayne.
My stomach flips, the sensation both nervous and pleasant at once. I open our conversation, my face flushing as I remember just how hot and heated this got last time.
But if I’m expecting just another sext, that’s not what I find.
AtYourService: Hope I didn’t keep you up too late last night. How’s your Friday going?
CallMeClove: To be honest, not great. Work was pretty shitty. All kinds of projects exploding at once.
AtYourService: Would coffee cheer you up? I know a great little place not far from the building, over on Madison. And I happen to be free this evening.
I smile. Sure, the bad idea alarms are still going off, but they’re buried deep in the back of my mind now, under a few layers of my crappy workday, my friends all being busy, and, admittedly, my hormones still in full-on raging after last night’s photo exchange.
CallMeClove: Actually, yeah, coffee sounds great. Meet you there?
He sends me the address and I get onto the subway train with a renewed pep in my step. I check myself out in the mirror and fix my hair, add a touch of lipstick. My favorite distraction when I feel tired—bright red lipstick because then people won’t notice your other flaws.
I actually don’t look too bad by the time I step off the train at the other end. I guess an overdose of coffee and stress is a decent remedy for sleepless bedhead after all.
The coffee shop Zayne picked turns out to be a cute place a few blocks from my apartment that I’ve been eyeballing for months. It opened last summer but I hadn’t made it over here yet. It’s funny how you get set in your routines. You don’t even know that they need breaking until someone comes along and smashes them.
And hell if Zayne isn’t doing a damn good job of that right now. The moment I step through the front doors into the cozy little café, I spot him. He’s impossible to miss now that I’ve finally tuned into his frequency. His eyes catch me from across the room and nearly pin me to my spot in the doorway. My heartbeat speeds up and suddenly it’s hard to focus on anything but the extremely hot man standing up, drawing out a chair for me, eyes locked on mine all the while. In the warm café lighting, his cheekbones stand out sharper than ever. He looks sexy as hell in jeans and a T-shirt, relaxed and off duty, like a completely different person from the uniformed hottie who saved me last night.
Was it only last night? It feels like so long ago now. Like so much has already changed.
For one thing, I finally woke up to notice the guy I’ve spent the last two years walking right past, blind as a bat.
I take a seat across from him and look down to find he’s already ordered. There’s a latte cooling in front of me, a little heart drawn into the foam.
I smile and lift it to tap against his in a cheers. “How did you know my drink?”
“Educated guess. I figure, you’re a twenty-something bookworm with good taste, you probably like your coffee strong with a dash of sweet.”
I glance into his cup and find he’s drinking the same thing. “Great minds think alike,” I point out.
His smile widens. “But fools seldom differ.”
I laugh. Everybody always forgets the second half of that quote. “Touché,” I say, and take a long sip of my latte. It’s delicious.
“So, tell me all about your shitty day,” he says, leaning back in his chair. It shows off his muscles to perfect advantage, which I’m sure was the point. I can’t help letting my gaze wander down across his chest, along his arms, before I force myself to look back at his face.
He lets his eyes wander too, and he doesn’t seem to care that I see him checking me out. I shiver. There’s something sexy about a man who’s blatantly turned on by you and doesn’t mind that you know it. His gaze lingers on my curves, my dress, then darts back to my face.
“You really want to hear about my crappy work problems?” I counter.
He laughs. “Only if you want to talk about them.”
I heave a sigh. “Where to even start?”
“Start with what’s got you so stressed out that your shoulders are up to your ears,” he suggests.
I force myself to relax my posture, shooting him another glance. Normally guys aren’t interested in hearing about my day-to-day life. But okay, I’ll give him a try. I tell him about how my boss is annoyed at me for missing my deadline and how my project fell below par.
“But you don’t normally have a tricky relationship with her?” he asks.
I nod. “Normally we get on great. Normally I perform better than this.”
“Well everyone has off days. She understands that, I’m sure.”
I feel myself bobbing my head. Why is he so easy to talk to? I blink and shake my head, pulling myself out of my own world. “But this has got to be boring for you,” I admit, realizing we’ve just spent the last 15 minutes talking about my office politics.
“If you’d prefer, we can change the subject. Talk about something more distracting.”
“You do seem good at distracting women,” I reply with a smirk, letting my gaze drip over his body.
“Only when I’m inspired.” He leans closer across the table and those blue eyes draw me in again, magnets that are impossible to tear myself away from. “And I must say, you are extremely inspiring, Clove Walker.”
I raise an eyebrow, grinning. “What exactly do I inspire in you?”
“Dirty as hell fantasies for one thing.” He hooks a leg around mine under the table and slides his calf against mine. I catch my breath, brace myself against the table with both hands. But he lets me go almost right away and leans back in his seat, casual and nonchalant once more, as though he didn’t just say that. “For another, you make me want to know more about you. I mean, I know the basics. Name, address of course, and the volume of Amazon packages you get on a weekly basis…”
My cheeks flush bright red at the reminder of how we know one another. Of how well he knows my private details. I also take the opportunity to kick him lightly under the table. “Hey, I don’t get nearly as many packages as Mr. Horton down in 3C, okay?”
“True, but he’s going for the Guinness World Record of longest a man can go without ever leaving his apartment, so he hardly counts.”
“When was the last time you saw him outside?” I muse.
“November three years ago,” Zayne answers without hesitation, and I laugh again.
“No, but seriously, do you think he’s okay in there?”
“I bet he’s got a more interesting life than all the rest of us combined.” Zayne shakes his head with a half-laugh. “Watch, we’ll find out one day that all those food deliveries and household supplies he orders are actually secret spy equipment in disguise.”
“Ooh, yes, and I’ll bet he’s got a Russian spy lover who sneaks into his apartment via the fire escape every night for secret trysts.”
“Who’d have thought Mr. Horton would be the kinky type, huh?” Zayne lifts an eyebrow, smirking.
“Guess it just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover.” I lift an eyebrow in return, unable to keep a wide smile from dancing across my face.
“True enough.” He’s leaning forward again, and so am I, unable to stop myself. He’s not just magnetic, he has a gravitational pull of his own. “After all, I never would have guessed you were so naughty, Ms. Walker.”
“I never would have guessed you were so dynamic, Zayne.”
“Pearson,” he says, filling in the unspoken blank.
My cheeks flush.
“We seem a little uneven here, Zayne Pearson. You know way more about me than I do you. So come on, share some details.”
“What do you want to know?” He tilts forward, so close to me suddenly that his lips graze my ear as he whispers. “Beside the size of my cock?”
My cheeks burn red-hot now, on fire. But the rest of me is burning too. Especially my belly and the growing tight spot between my legs. I swear, when he talks dirty, I feel it directly in my pussy, like an electric shot straight to my core. “That’s definitely on the list,” I murmur with a grin. “I mean, I do have that one lovely photo, but I have to say, I’m tempted to request more…”
“Done,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. My eyebrows rise. I must look surprised because his grin deepens and he adds, “Of course, that means I get to ask for something in exchange.”
I turn my face a little, so our cheeks are almost touching now. We’re close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, and I catch his scent again, every bit as intoxicating as it was last night. Salty and sweet all at once. “And what is it you desire, Mr. Pearson?”
“Turnabout is fair play,” he answers. “A photo for a photo. You teased me with that sexy little lingerie piece last night…” He lifts a hand slowly and lets it hover in the air between us. My breath catches in my throat, my whole body tense in anticipation of his touch. When it comes, it’s feather-light, just the faintest caress, his fingertips grazing across my collarbone before he drops his hand to the table once more. “I’d like to see what’s underneath.”
If my cheeks felt hot before, now they could start a fire. But the idea of sending him a photo of my breasts, something that would normally raise a whole lot of red flags on a first date, has me feeling hot and bothered instead. Because it leads me to imagining more—him jerking off in the mail room while he’s supposed to be working, unable to help himself, too turned on by the image of me, by my breasts, my body, the idea of me.