Toying With Her

by Prescott Lane

  “We’ll make it work,” I say.

  “It’s not ideal,” she says. “But I could try commuting.”

  “There’s a few other things I’d like to get you to try first,” I say, pouncing on top of her.

  Her giggle fills up the room. “I think you promised me beignets.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STERLING

  Beignets, bread pudding, snowballs, praline parfaits—we had them all. People always associate New Orleans with its fabulous Cajun food, but we started with dessert. I think that probably has something to do with Rorke wanting to have me for dessert, and at this point, I’ve forgotten why I’m holding back.

  “It was a perfect day,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder as we walk back into the hotel lobby. He plants a little kiss on my lips in agreement.

  We head towards the elevator, seeing Rorke’s friend stepping out. “You’re here late,” Rorke says.

  “Wedding,” Pierce says. “I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to give you the rundown on who’s coming tomorrow.”

  We had so much fun today I almost forgot the purpose of our visit is business. Tomorrow morning, Pierce is hosting a brunch for some of New Orleans’ upper crust, hoping to land some donors for Levi’s camp.

  “We can do it in the morning, if now’s a bad time,” Pierce says, a hint of mischief in his voice, knowing he’s cock-blocking his friend. That boy’s trouble with a capital T, but there’s something charming about him in a bad boy kind of way.

  Rorke looks down at me. “Now’s fine,” I say, pushing the button for the elevator. “I’ll just head upstairs.”

  “I won’t be long,” Rorke says, giving me a little wink.

  Stepping into the elevator, I turn back to them. “Just be quiet when you come in. In case I’m sleeping.”

  I can barely hear the curse word Rorke mumbles over Pierce’s laughter as the elevator door closes. I’m still smiling as I kick off my shoes in the room. I should be used to walking around. New York City is made for walking, more than driving, but the brutal New Orleans summer heat takes things up a notch. Not even pulling my hair into a high ponytail saved me outside.

  I can’t wait to shower, wash away the smell of Cajun spice and sweat that covers my skin. I knot my hair on top of my head, shedding my clothes as I walk into the bathroom. I’m all about bathrooms. Some people like kitchens, others the outdoor space. For me, it’s the bathroom. This one is Carrera marble and subway tile, which is similar to the color scheme of my bathroom in New York.

  The water heats up immediately, but I turn it down fairly low. I’ve been hot all day, so I don’t linger, taking just long enough to make sure I’ve covered myself in the floral-scented hotel body wash. Then I hop out and wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel.

  I don’t have lingerie. It’s just never been my thing. Sexy bra and panties, yes, but none of that other stuff. But I’m wishing I had something now. Something to surprise him. Opening my suitcase, I scan through the stacks, but nothing feels right.

  To me, there’s not much sexier than a woman in a man’s dress shirt. So I open his bag, finding a box of condoms right on top. I toss it in the trash, knowing I’ve got that covered, then continue my hunt for the right piece of clothing.

  Dammit, he’s only got the one dress shirt! The one I know he needs to wear tomorrow. What the hell, let’s make it his lucky shirt!

  I slip my arms through, the scent of Rorke wrapping around my body. I hope he comes back soon. Faintly, I hear the music from the wedding reception in the courtyard. I open the sliding glass door and step out, resting my elbows on the ledge and watching. We are on the top floor, and his shirt hangs to my knees. I’m perfectly covered up; no one would know I’m without panties.

  The music plays. It’s almost like watching a movie with only the score, no words. I can see the smiles, the laughs, but can’t hear them. I know people are chatting, but it’s all blended together so I can’t make it out. Only the music is loud and clear.

  Etta James’ “At Last.”

  I wonder how couples pick which songs to play. The first dance, the father-daughter dance, the music to get the party started—that’s a lot to consider, and there are so many great songs.

  Rorke and I don’t have a song. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever had a song with any man. And I doubt I could pick just one.

  Looking down at the bride and groom, I watch as he gives her a huge smile. A smile I know well. He can’t wait to get her out of there and into one of these rooms. Wonder if they waited for tonight? Doubt it. Does anyone wait anymore? Did anyone ever really wait? Or was it all just a ruse pulled off by older generations?

  Rorke would wait, if I wanted to. He’s just that kind of man. And from the way he’s talking, the wait wouldn’t be long.

  Rorke wants to marry me. I can’t believe he said all that earlier. Weddings, kids, jobs, moving—he’s thought about it all. It’s overwhelming. It’s not what I expected when I came home for the summer. Yes, I wanted to feel what it was like to be surrounded by love again. I just thought it would be my parents’ love.

  I never expected to find Rorke waiting for me.

  *

  RORKE

  Sterling was kidding about the sleeping, right? God, I hope so, but just in case, I’m extra quiet as I open the door. The lights are out. Shit!

  My eyes land on the bed. It’s empty. I’ve never been so thankful not to find Sterling in bed before. A light catches the corner of my eye. She’s out on the balcony watching the wedding, the lyrics of a love song filling up the night sky. My eyes roam up her body, her bare feet crossed at her ankles as she leans over. I catch just a glimpse of her pink toe nail polish. Her long legs look smooth as they disappear under my white button-down shirt.

  No ass cheeks, no cleavage, sleeves covering up her hands, and she’s never looked sexier. Her hair is pulled up high, just a glimpse of her neck showing. Her body starts to sway a little, allowing me a little peek at her profile. Her alabaster skin, a perfect little nose, those green eyes, and full pink lips mesmerize me. They always have.

  I used to hate this feeling—admiring her from afar. But not anymore. Years without laying eyes on her, years with only my memories, taught me to appreciate the view. I could go slip my arms around her and dance with her on the balcony, but first, I want to enjoy the view a little longer. I’m nothing if not patient when it comes to Sterling Jamison.

  My cock pushes against my shorts, his patience running thin. I hope Sterling didn’t find the box of condoms I packed while she was putting on my shirt. Hopefully, she didn’t dig too far. My heart starts to thump hard. Or did I forget to pack them? Surely not, they were the first things I got out to pack. But did I leave them by accident? I can’t remember. Sterling came by upset that night, distracting me.

  Reaching my hand into my bag to feel around, I see Sterling turn towards me. She looks incredible in my shirt from behind, but the front view is even better.

  “Looking for something?” she asks, a coy little smile on her lips.

  My hand snaps out of the bag. I know I have one in my wallet anyway, though that thought sucks. I only have one! But we are in New Orleans, the Big Easy. I bet the city earned its nickname for easy access to condoms for idiots like me. “No, I’ve got everything I need,” I say, watching her slowing walk towards me.

  “I thought you might have been looking for something else,” she says, pointing to the trash, the box of condoms inside. “I’ve got it covered, unless you just want to use them.”

  I capture her in my arms, taking her down to the bed and looking into her eyes. “I love you. Let me love you.”

  It’s never bothered me that she hasn’t said she loves me back. And it’s not like I haven’t had sex with women who didn’t love me, or who I didn’t love. When we had sex as teenagers, I never told Sterling how I felt, and I want to make sure she knows this time. Gently, I push a strand of hair off her cheek, letting my finger graze the curves of her
face. But I don’t get any words out.

  “Love me,” she whispers.

  When you say the words “making love” to a man, he associates that with being gentle, sweet, slow. “Fucking” is used to describe hard, fast, rough sex. I’m not sure what to call this. My English degree is failing me again.

  My hands find her ass under my shirt, and she pulls down my shorts, taking hold of my cock, slipping me inside. We thrust against each other. It’s desperate and hard. We don’t even bother to remove our clothes. She keeps whispering “love me” over and over again.

  She’s warm and wet and so damn tight. I can’t focus on anything other than how incredible she feels surrounding me, taking every long, hard inch of me. Even through my shirt, I can feel her nails clawing down my back to my ass, pulling me even deeper, desperate for me to be closer. “More,” she pants. “Love me more.”

  God, I know exactly how she feels. No matter how deep I am, it’s never enough. Pinning her arms over her head, I sink deeper into her. “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

  The muscles of her inner thighs stretch wider, allowing me to fill up all of her. A couple hard thrusts and her back arches, her legs tightening around my waist, and she screams out my name.

  My dick still resting between her thighs, I glance down at her little smile, her eyes closed, looking completely content. I’ve missed that look. Her eyes flutter open, their green color brighter than ever. “I love you, Rorke.”

  Something shifts inside me. Her words have changed me forever. I feel it in the deepest part of my chest. She doesn’t shout it from the rooftops, but instead, whispers it like a prayer, something held in the most sacred place. Often the things that scare us are the hardest to say. The things we feel the deepest become the things we struggle to express. That used to be true for me—before I lost Levi, before I lost Sterling. So now, I let her words settle safely into my heart.

  I sit back on my heels, pulling her up with me. She watches my fingers as I unbutton her shirt, slipping it off her shoulders. She does the same to my shirt. This time when I slip inside her, it’s slow. Our eyes stay locked on each other with each thrust of our hips. There are no words to describe the feeling of being buried deep inside her. The push of her tits against my chest, the way her mouth drops open as she moans, the arch of her neck—it’s love, it’s sex, it’s beauty, it’s life. It’s her being made for me, and me being made for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  STERLING

  I should be getting ready for Rorke’s presentation today, but I keep getting distracted. First, I got distracted by him bending me over the bed, then he distracted me in the shower, then breakfast in bed turned into him having me for breakfast.

  Holding out his shirt for him, his long, muscular arms slip through the cool material. He turns around, and I start to fasten the buttons for him. He pushes my hair off my shoulders, so it’s no longer covering my breasts, the last bit of modesty shot to hell. I’m standing in front of him completely naked, and the heat between my legs is proof of how easily distracted I am. Just the way his blue eyes are looking at me makes me want to fall on my back with my legs spread. “We’re never going to make it to this meeting,” he growls, his hand sliding up my inner thigh.

  I stop him, and my body curses me. “I have to get dressed.”

  He groans playfully, and I quickly grab my clothes before I change my mind. I packed two dresses for the event. A girl needs choices. I hold each one up trying to decide.

  “Blue,” he says.

  “But I think it might be too short,” I say, tilting my head.

  He comes up behind me, his lips grazing my ear. “Don’t wear panties.”

  Sounds good. I slip the dress over my head without a bra, either. He chuckles, gathering his stuff together. A quick application of mascara and lip-gloss, my hair pulled up, and I’m ready to go. I take one last look in the mirror to check my booty and boobs. Yep, everything is covered, and nothing is jiggling too much.

  “Why do women always check their asses and cleavage before they walk out the door?” he asks.

  “The better question is, why don’t guys check their junk? That way, they wouldn’t have to adjust it in public all the damn time.”

  He laughs as I grab my purse. And when Rorke turns his back, I flip open his notes for the presentation and place a pink heart sticky note inside. He’ll love it.

  *

  The banquet room is set up in a horseshoe shape with a screen at the far end. Rorke used it to show images of the farm and artist renderings of what the camp will look like. There’s a bar in the back, and a seafood and steak lunch was served. Rorke’s friend is a player with women, and he knows how to seduce in the boardroom, as well.

  I know the moment Rorke sees my sticky note because his entire body looks like it smiles. I’m sitting in the end seat closest to where Rorke is standing. To be relegated to a chair is a much different experience for me. I’m usually the one giving the pitch, but I think this is actually harder. I’ve gone from feeling like I could throw up, I’m so nervous for him, to being teary-eyed when a picture of Levi flashed on the screen behind Rorke. I’m so proud of him. I always am, but watching him in action, placing the perfect joke or pausing for effect, it’s hard to believe this man is the same shy boy I grew up with.

  Rorke ends by telling a story about Levi’s list, and the adventure they had checking off the strip club experience. The story involves sneaking past a bald, burly bouncer, a stolen bottle of whiskey, and hitchhiking across our town.

  “We ended up at this girl’s house,” Rorke says, grinning. “This girl I had a crush on forever.”

  Dear God in heaven, he’s talking about me.

  “We’d had so much to drink that Levi was able to convince me that I needed to tell her how I felt. He was crouched down in the bushes, hiding. I was hopped up on liquid courage when I knocked, but no one was home,” he says, glancing at me. “Levi told me in his drunken wisdom that I’d get my chance. He died just a few months later. He never got a chance.”

  Rorke never told me that story. I wonder where I was that night. I wonder what I would’ve said if I’d been home. How did I not know how he felt? I guess we never really know the extent to which someone loves us. It’s our job to try to convey that every single day.

  He finishes his speech and finds me, giving me a kiss. Then he proceeds to work the room, doing a brilliant job, and I’m by his side for most of it. After reaching my fill of sports conversation, I decide to give him some space and grab a drink at the bar.

  “Only woman in the room,” Pierce says, walking up to me.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I say, and that’s true. Unfortunately, it still happens a lot in business. It’s not unusual to be the only woman in a room full of suits, even in my line of work.

  “Then you’d be the only one,” he says. “Every guy in this place has eye fucked you.” My head flips around ready to attack, but he holds up his hands. “Except me, of course. Wouldn’t do that to Rorke.”

  “Glad to see even male whores have a code of ethics.”

  He busts out laughing and says, “Standards as high as vibrator inventors.”

  My stomach twists a little, something that happens every time someone catches me off guard about my occupation. It shouldn’t. It’s stupid. Pierce is Rorke’s friend—I’m sure he meant nothing by it. It would be natural to ask about your friend’s new girlfriend’s occupation.

  Still, it’s not a topic I wish to discuss with him, so I ask, “How do you think it went today?”

  We make small talk until the room empties out. Pierce gives Rorke and me a quick goodbye, and as soon as he leaves the room, Rorke picks me up, kissing me hard on the lips.

  “Thank you for my note.” He pulls it from his pocket, so I can see my handwriting.

  If you get nervous, remember I’m not wearing panties!

  “You little tease,” he says, grinning.

  “Maybe you should tease me back,” I flirt.
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  Taking my hand, he practically runs to the elevator, both of us thankful it doesn’t stop on the way up. Our thankfulness is short-lived when we see our door at the end of the hallway, with the maid’s cart parked out front.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans.

  I laugh at the absurdity of it. “Do you think they’ve started clearing out the presentation room yet? We could go back.”

  “Naughty girl,” he says as we make a mad dash down the elevator and back to the room we just exited, only to have our dreams dashed by yet another cleaning crew. “Rent another room?” he asks.

  “No!” I say, laughing.

  “Why not?”

  “What are you going to do? March up to the front desk and say, ‘I need to have sex with my girlfriend and the maids are cock-blocking me’?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he asks, laughing.

  *

  Without a room, we decide to hit the historic streets of New Orleans. I’m not sure the air in any city is like the air here, the smell of Cajun spice mixing with the Mississippi River. The sound of street musicians setting the rhythm of the city. It’s a place where voodoo and the Catholic Church are neighbors. And the dead and living walk side-by-side.

  Bodies are buried above ground. French Quarter houses are protected by placing broken glass bottles on the fences, and sin and seduction are celebrated on Bourbon Street, and in Mardi Gras parades. The history is deep, the scandals deeper. But the love of the city is felt in each trumpet that sounds and each oyster that’s shucked.

  Every corner holds romance in its architecture, sex in its streets. It’s a city where desire is a tourist attraction, which might explain why four hours without sex has left my man in a foul mood.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he begs for the tenth time, like a child wanting the newest toy.

  “But I want to get my tea leaves read,” I say, pulling him inside the little shop.