Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  “Sorry about the foreign-speak. Sweaters, you Yanks call them. Anyhow, Galen’s my younger brother. He’s the one who was going out with—”

  “Big-tits Brit,” Adriana says. Clever girl. “It’s all coming together.”

  I nod. “We—my brother and I—can be arseholes sometimes, but our arseholery is not really meant for public consumption. I’m sorry you had to hear that bit. Had I suspected that such a lovely creature as you was close at hand…”

  “It’s all right. I forgive you for being a total douchebag.”

  “Why thank you,” I laugh. “Back to our dysfunctional lunatic family, then. To add to the madness, my mother died a year or so after Galen’s accident.”

  Sexy Adriana gasps. Empathy pours off her like water, drawing me in. All the coldness she tried to show me in the bar is now gone. She feels for me, for Galen, and she wears it on her sleeve, which only makes me want to be closer to her.

  “We grew up quite poor, you see,” I say. I suddenly realize that I have never, ever sat down with another person and told them this much detail about my life. Had my memoir writer been remotely competent I suppose I would have done so this past weekend. But I’m glad he wasn’t, now; I’m glad that I have Adriana to talk to, to spill my guts. I needed this more than I knew. Most women want to talk about my money, not pick my brain and learn what makes me tick.

  Perhaps I’ve hung about the wrong bars until today.

  “But you’re not poor now,” she says, eyeing my clothing. “You’re sitting in First Class, and unlike me you apparently paid for your own ticket.”

  “Oh, fuck no. Far from poor,” I laugh. “I’m filthy stinking rich.” I turn her way and stare into her eyes for a moment. “I get the impression that you don’t care much about that sort of thing.”

  She shakes her head. “If anything I tend to flee from wealthy people, to be honest,” she replies. “I always feel like more money means less moral fibre. And that’s frightening to me. I’ve dealt with too many unethical people.”

  “Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t at all. In fact, I agree one hundred percent. Now, tell me about the unethical wankers in your life.”

  She lets out a little laugh that sends blood surging through me to some place deep inside. Sexy little thing.

  “I’m not going to tell you about my ex,” she begins, “because that’s not cool.”

  “You’re welcome to,” I offer, though my gut clenches slightly to think of the man who’s been fortunate enough to spend any time in bed with this one.

  “Suffice it to say that we were together for years, and I ended up feeling conned. Like what I got in the end wasn’t what he pretended to be in the beginning. He was controlling, demanding. He wanted to know what I was doing at every moment, where I was going, who I was talking to. I felt trapped in my own house, like a bird in a cage,” she says. My heart melts slightly. I hate the thought of someone manipulating her. But who am I? Perhaps Adriana is right about me; maybe I’m just as bad. I manipulate women, charming them long enough to get what I want from them, then release them back into the wild.

  The difference is that I would never cage a woman like Adriana. More likely I’d offer her freedom that she wouldn’t want; I’d tell her I didn’t want to commit and she’d take it as a slight, or else she’d simply flee, knowing that I might have sex with another woman the next day. Truth is, though, that I wouldn’t. I’d only be thinking of protecting her. Fear of commitment isn’t always the same thing as a fear of monogamy; it’s sometimes a simple fear of giving one’s heart away or of taking responsibility for someone else’s. Pain is the ugly consequence of love, and I’m not so keen on pain, whether mine or anyone else’s.

  “So you were trapped, and now you’re not. Hence this trip,” I say, speculating about the facts, but confident that I’m right.

  “Hence this trip,” she repeats. “Then of course, there was my boss, Mr. Grabby…” She frowns as she utters the words.

  “Mr. Grabby thought you were his property because he controlled your livelihood?” I ask.

  She nods and clasps her hands delicately in her lap. “Mr. Grabby thought he had the right to do anything to anyone. He would come up to me at my desk and say wildly inappropriate things. That is, when he wasn’t trying to grab my ass.”

  “I hate to sound like a pig, but I’ve been wanting to say wildly appropriate things to you since I first laid eyes on you,” I say softly. She looks at me and laughs.

  “That’s different. I can tell you to go fuck yourself without worrying about losing my pay check.”

  “Fair enough. So what happened?”

  “I made good use of the voice memo feature on my phone. Recorded multiple instances of him coming over to strongly suggest that I blow him in his office. Presented them to the company’s higher ups as evidence of sexual harassment. I was given a very generous severance package as a result.”

  “Hence this trip,” I say again.

  “Hence this trip.”

  “You are a remarkable woman.” I utter the words before I realize I’m doing it. They come from a place of genuine admiration. But I don’t usually allow myself to admire anyone; it’s too much like closeness. I don’t want to desire the presence of another person. Yet I’ve been desiring proximity with Adriana for hours, like she cast a spell on me in that bar. “So what’s next for you?”

  “Work-wise?” she asks. I nod. She bites her lip again, and my blood starts flowing like mad to the special place between my legs. “You’ll laugh.”

  “I won’t. I seldom laugh. I’m a cold bastard whose sense of humour deserted him years ago.”

  “No you’re not,” she says, her brow creasing slightly as she assesses me. “You have a good sense of humour. You just want people to think you’re an ass.”

  “Now why would I want them to think that?” I ask, pretending to be shocked.

  “Because you fear intimacy.”

  I almost leap back. Jesus, she’s figured me out quickly. Am I so readable, so dully transparent?

  “Well, you’ve just sized me up brilliantly,” I say, “and humbled me in the process. Now return the favour and tell me what you plan to do with your life.”

  “I’m going to write books.”

  My heart starts to beat a little faster. Fate has intervened in my life. I went to New York to meet with one writer and ended up next to another. A much more beautiful one, I might add. “Are you really?” I ask, trying not to let the smile inside my chest make its way to my lips.

  “I am. And you’re mocking me.”

  “I’m doing no such thing. I’m just very pleased to have met you.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “It just so happens that I need a writer. For my memoir.” Immediately I feel foolish for saying the word, which sounds so sodding self-important.

  “Memoir?” she says, pulling back with a very amused look in her green eyes. “My, aren’t we fancy?”

  If I had proper human emotions I’d likely blush. “Yes, well, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “But you’ve never read a thing I’ve written. I might suck.”

  “A woman such as you should never talk about sucking in my presence, Adriana. You’ll make my trousers tight. Well, tight-er.” Oops. I said something inappropriate. Purely accidental.

  “I might blow, as well.”

  “Be still my heart,” I say. And my cock.

  She laughs. “Fine. I’ll consider it. I could use a gig.”

  “Great,” I tell her.

  “This means, of course, that you’ll have to tell me things about your day to day life. Like what pastimes you enjoy.”

  “Meeting beautiful women in bars comes to mind.”

  She glares at me sideways. “You see? You’ve just confessed that you’re what I feared all along. A ladies’ man who wanders around trying to find ways to stimulate his fractured sense of self.”

&nb
sp; I let out a chuckle. “I said meeting, not picking up. I failed with you, remember?”

  “But you still enjoyed it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. What else? About your daily life, that is.”

  “I play football.”

  She looks genuinely surprised now. “Football? Like shoulder pads and smashing into other men?”

  “No. Like hitting a ball with your foot. You call it soccer.”

  “Ah, that explains the…” She’s about to say something about my physique when she stops herself. But I can read it in her eyes as her gaze slips down my front and back again. “I mean, you look like someone who exercises.” So restrained.

  “I do. Anyhow, I play on a city team with a pile of French bastards. By the way, I should warn you about them.”

  “About your team?”

  “About all Parisian men.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says. “I’ve heard tales told.”

  “They enjoy women a lot. If you get unwanted advances…” I begin, then I remember the surgical precision with which she shot me down earlier. “Actually, you’ll be all right.”

  “I take it ‘fuck off’ is a suitable way to get a man to go away?”

  “It’s a start. Though if you mention fucking, they may take it as a come-on. At any rate, I have every faith that you’ll do just fine.”

  We chat and chat some more. About her parents, who sound lovely, healthy, and supportive. About her dreams of writing a love story for the ages. About her mad friend Jen, who sounds like a good and a terrible influence at once. Before we know it, a good three hours have gone by and we’re soaring somewhere high above the Atlantic. Each time we make eye contact for a sustained period she pulls her beautiful green eyes away and looks at something—the back of the seat in front of her, her knees, peeking out from below her jacket—anything but me.

  When the flight attendant comes by, I order Adriana a gin and tonic, which she accepts gratefully.

  “What is it about airplanes that makes me crave alcohol like Pavlov’s freaking dog?” she asks.

  “Pavlov’s dog didn’t drink. It was cigarettes that hooked him,” I reply.

  “My bad.” She smiles again. I’m so glad that the ice queen has melted.

  “I can’t help but notice that you’re not drinking. Not in the mood?” she asks. Another sip.

  “I’m in the mood for a good deal,” I tell her, chancing a touch of my hand to her denim-clad knee. I’ve been in the mood since I first set eyes on her. But speaking to her like this has only enhanced her appeal.

  She doesn’t pull away. I hear her breath catch in her throat, feel her tense up. Good. Very good.

  She sips again, occupying her mind and hand with something other than me. Eventually, though, she lets her right hand slip down and plays with the fingers that are still wrapped around her knee. She’s inviting me to touch further, offering the intimacy of her fingertips.

  “You’re guessing that I’m still single,” she says softly.

  I nod. “Am I wrong?” I ask.

  A shake of her golden mane. “No, not wrong. I’m very single.”

  I slip my hand under the jacket that’s still acting as a blanket over her legs, and once again she sips. An act of denial, telling herself this isn’t really happening. I push her to accept the reality of it, sliding my fingers between her thighs before slipping them farther up. Wordlessly asking her the all-important question. How she reacts will provide the answer I seek.

  Like the goddess that she is, she pulls her knees apart, encouraging my touch. Oh, beautiful.

  Those soft breasts of hers are moving up and down with her quick breaths. Her hand is on top of mine under the jacket now, guiding me. I’m staring at her face, her eyes closed now.

  It’s dark all around us, the passengers more or less asleep. Only the dimmest light illuminates her beautiful features and I can’t help myself. I move in, bending to lay a gentle kiss on her neck. She pulls her head the other way, exposing the white flesh to my lips, which make a slow play, my tongue tasting the salt on her skin. Christ, she’s sexy. If I were any less human I’d bite her; she’s so fucking edible.

  My hand has found the confounded seam in her jeans that covers the bits that I really want to access, and I press hard into her sex even as her hips push forward against me, fighting her seatbelt. Beautiful girl, I can smell your arousal.

  “I want you,” I whisper as I offer her more kisses. “I’ve never seen someone so fucking delectable as you, Adriana.”

  “I want you too,” she offers, a finger stroking my stubbled jawline as she turns and pulls my face to hers.

  Our lips meet, but at first only softly, gently. Like naughty schoolchildren who are just about to get caught. Fuck, I want a bed, a couch, a desk, anything. I want to lay her on her back, tear her legs open and eat her out. I want her jeans to turn into a skirt that I can ram up around her hips.

  I want my tongue inside her.

  I slide my hand over to her button and undo it, zipping down her fly, and tuck my fingertips into her panties. Her stomach clenches under my touch, but she helps me by grasping my wrist and pushing me down there until I feel her slick wetness. Sweet thing. So aroused for me. Her pussy is begging for me to find my way inside.

  I pull my fingers out and lick them, just to show her how much I crave her succulent nectar. And then I pull off my own jacket and put it on my lap. Perhaps she’ll get the hint. I’ll rub your pussy, you rub my…

  She reaches for me even as my hand goes back to its place between her legs, and I feel her undoing my belt. Yes, good girl. Very good girl.

  Mr. Erection has returned, and he’s very happy to meet you, Adriana Stevenson.

  Eight

  Adriana

  I’ve got his pants undone and I am…oh, God, I’m slipping a hand down the front of his boxers. Though there’s not much room down there, because of the massive erection blocking my path.

  His dick’s a hot, thick iron bar, only much, much nicer. Like, so nice that it makes me drool. This rod’s got throbbing veins and a mind of its own. Oh, he’s so hard. So long, so thick, so everything. My woman parts are aching in the most painful way for him. Why can’t we have him? my hooha is asking. Why isn’t he inside me?

  Okay, this is crazy. This is nuts. Why am I doing this? I’m supposed to be going to Paris, not exchanging handies with a man I met in a bar in New York.

  But I know why. I’m doing it because I’m following Jen’s very good advice. I’m figuring out how to let myself go. I’m trying to learn how to be adventurous, to have a good fucking time. Plus, he’s so damned enticing. He’s perfect. This ultra-sexy man is interested in what I do, in how my mind works. But he’s also amazing in his own right. He does good things for people. For God’s sake, he makes robot arms and legs so that people can live normal lives. Conlon Davies is a genius. An athletic, drool-worthy, hand-job worthy genius. I want to experience every inch of him.

  But there’s something else, too. I want him to experience every inch of me. If this is the only time I’m ever going to see him, I want him to know how attractive he is to me. I want him to feel my arousal on his fingertips. To taste it on his tongue.

  We’re silent now, other than the odd quick breath as one of us treats the other to a particularly effective stroke of the fingers. His are slipping along my sex, navigating around my clit with the most expert skill I’ve ever encountered. I pull my butt off the seat and he drives them inside me, curling them as they pierce my opening, taking ownership of my flesh. He’s looking at me, watching my face to see what my limit is. I get it. He wants to make me nuts.

  Well, he’s succeeding.

  I turn to him and lean my cheek against the headrest, drawing my hand up his shaft til my palm is wrapped around the swollen head. I slip a finger over it. Mmm, wet. And then I do what he did and pull my hand out to give my fingertip a lick. He smiles approval at me.

  “Adriana, I want to fuck you,” he tells
me in a whisper, “so much that it hurts.”

  “I can tell,” I say, reaching down to give him a little squeeze.

  “No, I mean…” his eyes go to the “vacant” sign illuminated over the bathroom door.

  “You really…you…” I stammer as my gaze follows his. “Do people even do that?”

  “There’s only one way to answer such a question,” he tells me, those sexy lips moving in a way that makes me want to feel them between my legs. “And it’s to do it ourselves.”

  My cheeks go hot at the thought of making my way to that door. Suddenly, walking down the aisle has taken on a whole new meaning. The bathroom seems fifty miles away, and I’m convinced that every set of eyes on the plane will be watching me, pointing, whispering, “She’s going in there to fuck a stranger. The whore of flight 874.”

  “You go first,” he says, smiling in the most suggestive way as he watches me chew on my lip. “I’ll join you in a minute. No, make that thirty seconds. I need to get my mouth on you or I’ll go mad.”

  Well, that is an offer I can’t refuse. I nod my head and zip up my jeans. Pulling my shirt out of my waistband, I stand up and ease my nervous body into the aisle, proceeding cautiously through a small sea of sleeping bodies.

  Right. Within ten seconds I’ve made it to the restroom. The least romantic place on earth has just become the most exciting nine square feet imaginable. All I need to do is to slip inside and wait. Looking to my left and right as if I’m about to commit a bank heist, I slide the door open and waltz in.

  As I look at myself in the mirror, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my left ear, I ask my reflection what the hell I’m doing. I just met this guy. What kind of crazy primal urge has told me to have sex with him? This must be what happens to a cow when a bull comes into the paddock and she sees him for the first time.

  Yes, that’s exactly it. Except that I hope I’m not a cow.

  Either way, he’s a hell of a bull. I’ll never have another opportunity like this, and besides, I’m beginning my new, single, amazing life in style. By schtupping a rich guy in an airplane can.