Another moment passes before the phone beeps again. She’s being as calculating as I am, clearly.
“No.”
My erection springs to life with all the élan of a race horse. Good lord, what this woman does to me.
I chance another text:
“I can't ask what you're wearing now, because doing so would make me a creep. So I won’t.”
“Correct, you would seem like a creep. But I can ask what you're wearing, because I’m a girl.”
Naughty girl, willing to flirt, but not willing to take me home with her. I must say, I respect the hell out of that.
I snap a quick photo of my bare legs from the thighs down and hit send. Probably not very gentlemanly to send her anything above that.
Her immediate response is:
“Nice. And?”
Quick photo of my torso as I lean back on the headboard. I’m hoping that my eight-pack shows sufficiently in the dim light to please her senses. Either way, as far as Adriana can now tell, I’m completely nude.
After that one, she takes a minute to respond. Perhaps she’s busy counting my abdominal muscles.
“I’m wearing something similar, you know,” she writes.
Crikey, she’s naked.
“Woman, you torment me.”
“You torment ME. I was planning on having a girls’ night out, and you showed up and touched my thigh in your gentle, seductive way. That’s not fair.”
“Apologies. Your thigh was calling my name. ‘Conlon,’ it said in a sweet, womanly voice, ‘Fondle me.’”
“My thighs are damned traitors.”
“Your thighs are heaven. Don't you dare speak ill of them. Will I still see you tomorrow?”
“Of course. I told you I’d go to dinner with you.”
“I wanted to see more of you tonight, you know.”
“I know.”
“May I call you?”
Brief pause. She’s deciding whether to opt for or against saintly self control.
“Yes.”
Without a second’s thought I hit the call button. She lets it ring once, twice, before her voice greets me on the other end.
“Yeeeess?” she asks, as though she doesn’t know exactly which horny man is ringing her.
“Conlon Davies here,” I say. “Looking for photo evidence of your attire.”
“I’m not wearing a tire, silly.”
“Show me what you are wearing, then.”
“Fine.”
I hear rustling, movement and finally a voice.
“Sending,” she says.
I pull back and watch the phone. A moment later, a photograph appears of a lovely bra and a pair of crumpled cotton panties, lying on the floor.
“There’s a lie in this photograph. You’re not wearing those.”
“No, I’m not.” Her voice has gone a little breathy. Not deliberately, I know. It just sort of happened, which makes it even sexier.
“If you’re nude now, tell me something. Are you cold?”
“A little,” she replies. “The air conditioning is pretty powerful.”
Good lord.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to cross the line, because if I don’t, I’ll regret it.
“Nipple status, please.”
I can all but hear her breath catching before she replies, “Very, very hard.”
I’m dying.
“What an amazing coincidence. Something in my bedroom is also very hard.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’ll send you a photo of my hard bit if you send me one of yours.”
“You first.” She doesn’t believe me. She’s testing me. Fine.
A quick web search turns up exactly what I want, and I send the snapshot of a man wearing a panda bear thong.
“Very funny,” she replies.
“All right then,” I say. Quickly I snap a picture of my boxers, my erection straining against them, but not too conspicuously. After assessing it for its creep factor, I deem it sufficiently classy to send.
“That’s much better,” she says. Her voice has descended about half an octave, and I can hear the arousal in it.
“Now you,” I reply.
A few seconds later the photo comes in, this time of her breasts under thin white sheets. Oh, sweet woman, this is just what I fantasized about. Her hard nipples, small, delicious peaks under the cotton. I can almost taste them.
“My God, woman. Why are you not in my bed?”
“You didn’t invite me, remember?”
“More fool me. But the night is still young. May I come over there and do everything to that body?”
“No. I’m trying a new thing called exercising self-control. Professional relationship, remember? Oh, wait. I just sent you a pic of my tits.”
“We can still keep it on the up and up. Tell me something. How do you feel about phone sex between business associates?”
Another pause. “I’ve never had phone sex.”
“You’d never had sex in an airplane bathroom either, and now look at you.”
She lets out a crystalline laugh. God, I love that sound. “Fair enough,” she says, the smile audible in her voice.
“It’s quite easy, really. All you need to do is to slip a hand down between those creamy thighs of yours…”
“Mm hmm?”
“While I slip my own hand into my shorts.”
I’m convinced that I hear her breath catch in her chest. Yes, Adriana, the thought of it arouses me, too.
Twenty-One
Adriana
How the hell did Conlon persuade me to do this? I swear, the man is mind-controlling me or something. He could get me to do anything. Here I am, a phone sex virgin, trying to prove to myself that I can resist, and…
Oh, fuck it. I’ll admit it. I’m seriously aroused by the idea.
So I do what he asked. I slip my hand between my legs and touch myself.
“Tell me, gorgeous girl. Are you very wet for me?” he asks.
“Very, very wet,” I reply, my voice a little hoarse.
“Good,” he replies. “Now comes the fun part. Close your eyes, Adriana.”
The combination of his voice, his accent, his words makes me shiver with delight. I shut my eyes.
“Now stroke your finger over your beautiful pussy for me.”
I follow orders.
“Does that feel good?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “So good.”
“Are you imagining my mouth on you?”
I gasp, but I reply honestly. “Yes.”
“I’d like to be lapping at you right now,” he says, his voice soft and deep. “I’d like to stroke that sweet little clit of yours with the tip of my tongue.”
“I’d like that, too,” I breathe, slipping a finger over my bud, picturing his tongue there. “What are you doing?” I ask slightly awkwardly. I’m new at this.
“I’ve got my fingers wrapped around my shaft,” he replies, his tone far more confident than mine. “I’m stroking my very hard cock very, very slowly. Otherwise I might just come.”
“That would be terrible,” I say.
“I want you to come first,” he replies. “I want you to tell me when you’re close. Now put your fingers inside and slip them out again.”
I do just that. I’m so fucking wet, my pussy throbs for him.
For what I don’t have, what I can’t have.
“I’m rock hard for you, Adriana,” he tells me. “I wish I could be inside you right now.”
“Me too.”
“Make yourself come for me, Beautiful. I want you to.”
That’s not much of a challenge; I’m already so close. I hit the speaker button and drop the phone onto the sheets beside me, ready to cry out when it happens. My fingers work like I want his tongue to do, stroking my engorged clit in small, gentle circles. My pace quickens as I hear his voice.
“Oh, that’s beautiful, Adriana. Keep doing that for me.”
Keep doing what? How does
he know what I’m doing?
I look towards the phone that’s lying a foot away from my right hip, and realize with utter horror that somehow I’ve hit the button for a two-way video chat.
Oh my God, I can see his face. And he can see me, too.
In the lower right corner of the screen is the image of what his eyes are taking in. The camera is aimed at my hips and waist, my forearm visible as I pleasure myself. Nothing too graphic, at least, but he can see clearly what I’m up to. Some part of me is turned on, knowing he’s watching. Another part is vaguely mortified.
As if to alleviate any embarrassment that I might feel, Conlon drags his phone’s camera down to his waist and shows me what’s happening in his own bedroom. His incredible swollen cock takes up almost the whole screen, his hand fisted around its length. He’s stroking himself gently as gentle moans erupt from somewhere offscreen.
I’m so turned on that I feel like I’m going to pass out.
I stare down at the phone and watch him as I stroke myself, my speed increasing, my touch intensifying. In response, his speed picks up too. His cock is so thick, so hard, and all I can think of is what it would be like to have it inside me again.
“I’m going to come, Conlon,” I gasp, my thighs splitting apart as my hips buck under me with the first shudder of my orgasm. I know he’s watching. I know he sees what he’s done to me.
“Fuck, yes,” he moans, and I watch him let loose. A moment later he shoots his seed all over his stomach as my body pulses with ecstasy. I’ve never experienced anything so erotic, and we didn’t even touch. Glorious, perfect, sexy man.
I watch his fingers slip over his stomach, then with the other hand he steers his phone to his gorgeous face.
“That was for you, gorgeous Adriana,” he tells me. “I came for you.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. I don’t quite have the nerve to direct the camera to my own face. “Mine was for you,” I say.
“I know.”
“We didn’t exactly keep it professional, did we?” I ask, turning off the camera option.
“Not exactly. But tomorrow is a new day,” he says.
“Yes. It is.”
For a minute or so we sit in silence, listening to one another’s breaths grow slower and more shallow. When the time comes to speak, neither of us seems to want to hang up, so we slowly ease into an actual conversation.
“That concert tonight,” I say, “it was amazing.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes, but for reasons other than the music itself.”
“Reasons such as?” I ask.
“For one, I had you next to me.”
“You’re flattering me again.”
“Not flattering. Just being truthful.”
My mind shifts to another topic, like I’m deliberately veering away from intimate talk after our brief sexual encounter. I’m doing what I did on the plane; I’m running away from closeness and pulling away from him. Another self-preservation measure. “What was that, at the restaurant?” I ask. “About your father?”
Conlon goes silent again, and I can tell that I’ve stepped into unpleasant territory.
“What about my father?” he asks, his tone turned icy.
“You had a strange reaction when Galen was talking about him. You seemed angry.”
“I am angry. My father was a disaster. An alcoholic. Still is, by all accounts.”
“He’s still alive?”
“Still alive, yes. We haven’t spoken in years. He used to get in touch now and then to ask me for money, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very polite the last time. He brings out some ill feelings in me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. But if ever you wonder why I balk at the notion of commitment, look to him.”
Things have just gotten weirdly serious, and I have only myself to blame.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m not him.”
What a pair of dysfunctional idiots we are. We come so close to opening up, then shut down all over again.
“Do you ever worry?” I ask him quietly. “I mean, about becoming like him?”
“No. I have no call to be crushed by life, so no reason to need the escape that alcohol would provide.”
“Right. You’d only be crushed if…”
“If I loved something and lost it.” He grits out the words.
“And you don’t love anything.”
He pauses before replying. “I love Galen,” he says. “When he lost his arm I resolved to fix things for him. I hated that he’d become less than whole. I hated the thought that perhaps no one would love him, and I wanted to make things right. It’s why I do what I do now.”
“You have nothing to worry about where Galen’s concerned,” I reply. “He’s a very likeable guy.”
“Yes, he is. So likeable that I would try to set him up with you, if I thought I could possibly stand it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You beautiful creature. If I offered you up for my brother to take, it would mean I had zero chance of ever being inside you again. As it stands, I have about a one percent chance, but that’s far better than nothing. As much as you want to keep things professional, I find myself wanting to kiss you every time I look at you. I nearly tore your clothes off in the elevator earlier today. You make me insane, Adriana.”
I wait a moment before replying, considering my words carefully. “What is it that you really want from me, Conlon? Aside from sex, I mean?”
When his words come back to me, I can almost feel his eyes narrowing in the sexy, hungry way that they do. “I want everything. I want your body. I want your mind. I want your heart.”
Heat flows through me like a torrent of lava. He’s just ever so slightly opened himself. Slightly lowered the barrier between us. He’s just told me in no uncertain terms that he wants more than a roll in the hay.
But it’s not enough. I want to ask him what he would do if I fulfilled his wish and gave myself to him. Of course, I’m not going to, because there’s only one answer I want to hear. And I don’t think it’s the one I’d get.
“I think,” he says softly when faced with my silence, “that we should say good night. I’ll see you tomorrow at six, Adriana.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply quietly. “Tomorrow. Good night, Conlon.”
“Good night.”
Twenty-Two
Adriana
Apparently my brain and body are still working on North American time. It’s 11:40 a.m., and I’ve just woken up.
Today I’m going to do more wandering, partly to keep my mind off the dinner that Conlon has planned tonight. I don’t want to think too much about it, or to think about him. I just want to see what happens.
I’m hoping to pop into Notre Dame and have a look at the inside of the famous cathedral, if only to provide me with a little respite from thoughts of Mr. Davies.
After I make myself a quick breakfast of coffee and day-old pastries, I take a shower and contemplate what I should wear tonight. I’m a little torn about it; I’m supposed to be keeping him at arms’ length, but last night we did enjoy a certain strange, difficult intimacy. I got to know him a little better, to gain some understanding of his demons. It didn’t make me want him any less, but it did frighten me just a little.
I walk over to the closet and leaf through my dresses. A light blue one catches my eye, and I pull it out. Another plunging neckline; I could tease him a little with my breasts again at dinner. And I think maybe I will.
Wait, why do I want to tease him so badly? Maybe I should wear a flannel nightgown or something.
Fuck, I know why. I want him. I want him back inside me, but without turbulence. Without hiding. I want to feel all of him, his naked body pressed against me, taking me slowly at first, then hard. So hard. I want him to give me everything he can, for just one night. No matter how much
I tell myself that I’ll keep him at arms’ length, the truth is that I want to pull him in, to taste him. To steal pieces of him to take home when the time comes. Maybe that’s it; his allure is that I’ll lose him soon. I’ll lose him the minute I walk onto that plane back to New York.
Okay, I’m inside my own head way too deep. Breathe, Adriana. Let whatever happens happen. Meanwhile, go spend a nice day alone in Paris. Jen told me to have fun, and Katherine told me to be adventurous, and here I am, tearing my mind apart over a man in a city I’m leaving in a matter of days.
I throw on another, more modest dress, and head out for an afternoon walk through the Parisian streets towards the cathedral. Maybe, just maybe, if I wander into a house of God I’ll be cured of all my lustful thoughts.
Yeah, that’s not likely to happen.
It only takes a few minutes to get to the large square in front of the cathedral, and when I arrive I let out a huff of disappointment. A long line extends through the vast outdoor area, and I only realize as I’m getting close to the arching doorway leading inside that it’s because there’s an airport-security-type setup awaiting visitors. Paris is on lockdown these days, I guess. I watch for a moment before committing, noting that the queue is moving quickly, and hop over to its end. I don’t have anywhere to be for a hours; may as well spend some time standing among tourists. The guards scan everyone’s bag on the way in but the line goes smoothly, and I’m inside within ten minutes.
Inside the largest, most beautiful architectural wonder I’ve ever seen. It turns out that it was so worth the wait.
I stop in my tracks when I first begin to register the size of the place, my eyes veering upwards to the vaulted ceiling so high above me that it may as well be among the clouds. There’s a sense of lightness about this building, like it floats on air despite the fact that it’s built of tons of rock.
The stained glass windows are beautiful, and remind me of my evening at the Sainte Chapelle. Every one of them tells a story, and my heart swells with a strange affection for them.
At the centre of the church, hundreds of chairs are set up in a cordoned-off area, separated from tourists like me by a translucent wall of woven metal. A congregation of some sort occupies most of the seats, and at the front a man is preaching in French. For a moment I stop and watch him, before proceeding on my way.
Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1) Page 13