by Carrie Lomax
“Where are you going?” Trent called after her, but if he couldn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to waste breath informing him.
9
Trent idly listened to the water run as his heart rate slowed down. It was a good thing he was in peak condition, or the blowjob would’ve given him heart failure. Who’d have guessed not-so-sweet little Janie could suck cock like that?
He was still laying there gasping like a fish stranded on a beach when she returned. She’d either ditched the thong or covered it up with the silky shorts that barely covered her ass. Too bad; he’d spent the last couple of minutes fantasizing about tearing them off with his teeth. Janie curled up on the quarter of the loveseat he wasn’t manspreading all over and dabbed at the mess on his stomach with a warm washcloth.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She glanced up, crankiness in her green eyes. “Helping you clean up. I’m nice that way.”
What. The. Fuck. They weren’t done. What about her? He might need a few minutes—debatable. It had only taken him three minutes of watching Janelle’s ass to get hard again after jerking off in the shower. It was going to take more than one blowjob to work off years of celibacy, no matter how fantastic.
Trent captured her small hand in his and tossed the washcloth over the bed. It landed out of sight with a wet plop. He rolled up to pin Janie against the couch. She tried to scoot back, but there was nowhere for her to go.
Determined to keep things moving the right direction, he sank his fingers into her long hair and pulled her close for a kiss. She let him, but she held back, and her mouth tasted oddly minty.
Perplexed, he pulled back. “Did you rinse your mouth out?”
“Do you object?” She’d covered up her magnificent chest, too, with the white tank top that hid nothing. Resignation flattened her talented mouth.
“If it’s good enough for your mouth, it’s good enough for mine.”
Janie’s eyes hardened into emeralds. “You don’t mean that.”
“Good sex isn’t clean and neat. Who the hell taught you otherwise?”
She pushed him away and opted for the chair in the corner of the room.
Someone, somewhere, had really fucked with Janie’s head. A surge of white-hot blood lust to hunt the guy down consumed Trent, until he realized it probably hadn’t been only one guy. This kind of messed-up didn’t happen overnight. “You want to stop, we stop.”
Her cheeks stained deep red beneath her tan. Janie’s attention rested briefly on his naked genitals. Trent shifted so she could get a better look. When she glanced up, he grinned. “You should give me a try.”
Janie unfurled from the chair and pointedly checked the clock. “We missed your afternoon session, and if we don’t get ready we’re going to miss the networking cocktail hour too.”
“We could skip it. We should skip it. We’re just getting started, Janie.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and began to dress. “This is important, Trent. You can’t miss it. I can’t either. I’m on a mission this evening, and I can’t duck it just because we decided to make out on the couch.”
As badly as she wanted him, there was something else she wanted more. Just his luck. He finally approached a woman, and she rejected him. But no, was no, was no. It never meant anything different.
Trent pushed himself off the couch and headed for the bathroom. “Okay, doll. I’m not gonna fight you.”
Let her stew in her own juices for the evening. Until she came around, he was in a quandary. He wasn’t about to pressure her into anything she didn’t want to do. But he owed her an orgasm or several. It had never occurred to Trent that Janelle might not let him touch her. At all.
* * *
“May I borrow your shirt?” Janelle asked the instant the bathroom door cracked open, brandishing the plain white dress shirt Trent had worn the day before like a shield.
“Sure.”
He had every reason to be generous. He hadn’t had to get her off. No, she’d panicked and now she vaguely regretted it because all she could think about was Trent’s naked body and how good his big cock had tasted, which had her worked up with no release. She zipped into the bathroom, clicked the door locked and ran the shower.
“Don’t take too long, we’re running late,” Mr. Hustle shouted through the door.
“Be right out,” Janelle yelled back as she slammed the shower door closed and buried her fingers in her sex-starved pussy. A completely unsatisfying ripple took the edge off, but not much more. She didn’t want her hand. Her vibrator wouldn’t even have been much help. Her body wanted Trent, but she was terrified she’d end up more desperate and ashamed than she already felt if she slept with him.
Taking that step meant veering off the path she’d set for herself years ago, when she’d been naïve enough to believe that if she followed the rules of life, she’d be rewarded with love, a family, and a decent job. It meant charting a different course, one where her successes and failures reflected on her, personally. It meant owning her decisions. It meant finding a new path, one that wasn’t cribbed from Crystal, Ben, or anyone else.
A path all her own.
She decided whether to fuck Trent. For now, her decision was not to. She liked him way too much already. There was no way he saw this as anything but a fling. Getting over Ben was the plan; getting hurt again wasn’t.
Janelle toweled off, brushed her hair into a long twist and clipped it into place. A few strokes with her mascara wand, eyeliner, and lipstick and her game face was back in place. She wiggled into a clean thong, pulled the too-short skirt over her hips, and buttoned the white shirt over her green bra. It hung like a shroud over her frame. Janelle tucked the back hem into her skirt and tied the front in a knot. Then she worked the sleeves through the cardigan, rolled them up over her forearms and buttoned the cardigan over her chest. The extra fabric added fifteen pounds to her frame. Perfect.
The ensemble needed one final touch. Janelle exited the bathroom and grabbed her bag. Trent loomed near the door, relaxed and handsome in his dark suit.
“Ready?”
“Almost.” Janelle yanked the final pair of shoes out of the bag. Technically, they weren’t hers, but Alyssa didn’t need them while she was off sailing with Marc De Luna. The black patent Louboutins added four inches to her height. Combined with the up-do, the pink reading glasses and the shirt, she looked easily ten years older. They probably wouldn’t even card her at the bar, which was a good thing since Kyle still had her ID. Not that she had any money to buy a drink.
“What are those?” Trent demanded as she worked her feet into the gorgeous torture devices.
“Shoes.”
“Stripper shoes,” he commented admiringly.
“Watch it, Mace. They’re my sister’s, and she wore them at her office every day.”
“Where’d she work, a brothel?” He held the door for her, openly ogling her legs.
Janelle tapped his chest with mock annoyance. “An advertising agency, you pervert.”
“Were they advertising Viagra?”
Janelle tried to stifle a giggle, but it escaped out her nose in an inelegant snort. Trent grinned and shortened his step to match hers as she tottered down the hallway to the elevators. She’d gotten pretty good at walking in them, but his smile lit up his face and made her knees wobble. The air conditioning didn’t seem to be working, either. She wished she could take off the cardigan without exposing her bra through the white shirt. “Remember, I’m Rachel now.”
The elevator doors opened, revealing a packed car.
“We’ll take the next one.” Trent pulled her back, a possessive gesture that did nothing to tamp down her arousal.
“You’ll wait ten minutes for another. We can squeeze you in.” A family with teenagers jostled aside, leaving a small gap. Janelle stepped in, with Trent hard behind her.
Really hard. His hand rested on her hip, a fraction of an inch from grabbing her ass outright. His broad ches
t pressed against her back. With the added height of her heels, the top of her head came up nearly to his nose. The elevator door dinged open, and Trent brushed his lips along the rim of her ear. Janelle closed her eyes and swallowed. Keep going.
“They’re fuck me shoes. Trying to tell me something?”
Her eyes flew open. “I use words to communicate, Mace. Not footwear.”
How could he whisper that in front of kids? But no one had heard. The family was busily grabbing their bags and shuffling off the elevator. Now she couldn’t get the thought of him banging her while wearing these shoes out of her head.
Olivia spotted them and waved as they walked into the buzzing conference room. She introduced them to a trio of men, two from government organizations and one from a major corporation. Janelle played up her Rachel persona, dropping her voice a bit so she didn’t sound so young. Trent excused himself to the packed bar. By the time he returned fifteen minutes later, Janelle and Olivia were chatting up another group of technology suits.
“She’s good at this. Seven cards tucked away in her shirt pocket already.” Olivia accepted a glass of red wine, took a sip and pursed her lips. “Typical conference crap. How’s the white?”
“Sour,” Janelle reported back, drinking it anyway. She was a fake, but this was a networking event, and she was going to network her heart out.
“The whisky’s not exactly top shelf either.” Trent glanced around. “There’s the Solomon guy we met at lunch.”
“Let’s say hello.” Janelle beelined it toward the older man in the gray suit.
“Aren’t you going to come say hi?” Olivia jerked her head.
“Go meet him, if you want to. I already have.” Janelle overheard Trent’s response and was of half a mind to drag him along, but he was a big boy and could handle himself. She positioned herself so she could watch him while introducing Olivia to Russ Solomon and his circle.
The instant they were out of sight, a curvy blonde woman sidled up to Trent. He bent to listen to something she said, and his expression shuttered. The stranger grabbed Trent’s ass and squeezed. He angled sharply away, backing into a suit and causing the man to spill his drink.
“Excuse me.” Olivia marched across the room, murder in her eyes.
Janelle hobbled after her, incredulous at what she’d just witnessed. Incandescent fury burned through her. “Did she just do that?”
“Not the first time I’ve seen it happen to him.” Olivia said. The blonde woman skulked away, giggling, wobbling on her high heels. “Trent. You all right?”
“I’m fine.” But he didn’t look fine, his handsome features schooled into blankness, but anger etched around his eyes and mouth.
“You should’ve used your middle name…”
“I can’t, and I’m not changing it no matter how much I hate it. My parents gave it to me.” Trent’s scowl deepened.
“Now you have to tell me what it is.” Janelle set her fake glasses up on top of her head.
Olivia made a dismissive sound. “He’ll never tell you.”
“It’s Rishi.” Trent glared at his friend. “I’m not ashamed of it, Liv. My mom liked the meaning, but I’m obviously not Hindu.”
“Rishi. Trent Rishi Mason.” Janelle muttered the names quietly, trying them out. “I like it, but yeah, you’re better off sticking with Mace for your cover identity.”
Olivia glanced around. “Lady Grabby Hands left. Let’s hope she gets the hangover she’s earned, and move on with our evening.”
An hour later, they were all into their second terrible drink, and the stack of business cards tucked into her shirt pocket resembled a cell phone under the pink cardigan.
“Look at this.” She patted the lump over her breast. “I’m doing your job for you, Mace.”
“I’m looking,” Trent replied, his eyes dropping to the gap between the placket of his shirt where a hint of cleavage was visible.
“You’ll be sharing those contacts, right?” Olivia gave Mace a sidelong look, but it was fake shade.
“A lot of good it’ll do us having a mess of cards for people we barely met,” he grumped.
Janelle stumbled a little on her high heels and grabbed Trent’s arm to steady herself. She tapped her temple above the arm of her reading glasses. They weren’t very strong, but they gave the room a fuzzy blur that made her feel more intoxicated than she was. “I have a system. The ones on top are contacts who mentioned issuing RFPs in the next few months. The ones in the middle are long-term prospects, and the ones at the back of the pack are unlikely to lead to anything. There’s two flipped cards separating the sections.”
Olivia laughed. “Rachel’s a genius, Mace. I hope you’re planning on keeping her around.”
“For the weekend,” Trent shrugged. His blue striped tie was askew and the first button of his shirt undone. He held his drink in one hand and his other stuck in his pocket, which made the hem of his jacket ride up to expose the narrow span of his waist and hips.
Damn. Of all the heroes in Las Vegas, she had to hook up with the one who’d starred in his own porn video. She’d given him a blow job, and the memory made her nerves buzz like a hive of horny bees. The lust was so strong she couldn’t speak. Lady Grabby Hands had been out of line, though Janelle sympathized with desiring Trent enough to do stupid things.
“What are you two doing for dinner?” Olivia asked.
“No plans,” Trent replied, removing his hand from his pocket. His suit dropped and hid the view. Janelle glanced away.
“I’ve been invited to a vendor event. You’re welcome to come along.”
“I don’t have any—” Janelle snapped her mouth shut.
Olivia smiled and touched her arm. “Don’t worry. They’re always happy to flash the Amex for new customers. The rep pays. It’s how the industry works.”
“If Mace is okay with it.” Janelle glanced up, uncertain.
“Everyone needs dinner.” The look he gave her told Janelle he’d make her dessert, if she let him.
She smoothed her skirt with warm palms and shivered. Trent looked away, and Janelle felt as if the sun had set, a cool shadow replacing the heat of his attention. Her feet were starting to hurt, but the group was moving and there wasn’t time to change shoes. She could only hope that the mix of bad wine, good company, and high heels didn’t make her so weak-kneed she needed Trent’s help staying upright. Because touching him was a short, slippery slope to sex with a man she still knew too little about.
* * *
Hours later, Janelle and Trent stumbled through the door of the hotel room. Janelle scraped her shoulder against the wall until she was far enough inside the room to let the door bang shut, then kicked off the shiny high heels. Her toes expanded and stretched as she wiggled them. Bliss.
Janelle threw herself down on the bed without ceremony. If Mysterious Mace Mason brushed against her one more time, Janelle was going to pounce. During the cab ride back to the hotel, she’d been squished against his side in the middle of the back seat. She’d barely uttered a word, overwhelmed at the sensation of being pressed against his body for a full twenty minutes. Every bump and pothole threatened to send her into spontaneous orgasm.
Either she needed to make a move, or she needed to move on.
The bed dipped. Janelle propped her chin on her forearms. Trent had discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, leaning back against the headboard.
“Hey. You did great tonight.” His touch was gentle as he pulled away the clip holding her hair. It was the first deliberate move he’d made since this afternoon.
“At what? Talking? Eating food someone else paid for? Drinking your wine?” She hadn’t been brave enough to ask for her own glass without an ID, but she’d consumed most of his drink. She wasn’t drunk. Tired, overstimulated, and confused, but her judgment was otherwise unimpaired. Which was why she tilted her head into Trent’s palm as he ran his fingers through her hair, even though it drove her to the brink of yes.
“At learning
the tech contracting business. At making connections. Even Olivia was impressed.”
His hand sent sensual shockwaves through her body. Janelle relaxed physically, but her words were ruthless. “I got everything wrong. I always get everything wrong.”
Trent’s hand froze mid-stroke. “You get a lot of things right, Janie. You work hard. You’ve accomplished—”
“Nothing. I’ve accomplished nothing, Trent.” She pushed back on her knees and sat up. She hiccupped. “I ran my mouth asking dumb questions this evening.”
“You accomplished more tonight than I’ve managed this whole conference. Look at the stack of cards you collected.” Trent leaned back against the headboard, kicked off his shoes and socks, and put one foot up.
Janelle glanced down and plucked the thick stack out of his shirt pocket. “The only reason they talked to me was because I wore four-inch fuck-me heels and a short skirt.”
Trent accepted the stack of cards and placed them on the nightstand. Janelle unbuttoned the pink cardigan and fought her way free of it. His wrinkled shirt did nothing to conceal the dark outline of her bra.
Trent’s attention flicked to her chest. “They talked to you because you’re funny and friendly and you ask a lot of questions. You’re interested, and interesting.”
“I ask a lot of questions because I don’t know shit about internet security.”
“Yeah. Which makes you extremely compelling to a bunch of nerds stuck in a conference room talking shop about thwarting spam and I-D-10-T errors.”
“What error?” Janelle liked learning this new field, but all the jargon made her feel like a half-wit. She didn’t appreciate Trent trotting it out just now.
“It spells ‘idiot.’ User error is the nicer term.” He loosened his tie and tossed it aside, his shirt collar framing his Adams’ apple. She wanted to lick her way up to his jaw.
“Oh.” Janelle stood up to prevent herself from taking action. His shirt billowed around her body, immersing her in a cloud of pheromones that hit harder than any drug. His scent had surrounded her for hours. She yanked the hem out of the waistband of her skirt, desperate to get the damn thing off. Aware of Trent watching her move, and still trying with vain stupidity to pretend she wasn’t flirting her ass off. “I figured it was because I have boobs.”