Due South (The Compass series Book 5)

by Tamsen Parker

  She’s super into it, and her enthusiasm is infectious. Also, on the few occasions I’ve spent time with Cris, usually when he’s travelling with India, I’ve noticed he’s a good listener. Probably has to be since I doubt India lets him get a word in edgewise, but even with Mi Young, who’s like me—happy to listen to other people talk so she doesn’t have to—he seems engrossed.

  I’m jealous of Cris and India. Being able to talk to each other and touch each other in public as much as they’d like. Not that they shove their relationship in everyone’s faces because that’s not terribly professional, not to mention I don’t think that’s India’s style—god forbid anyone see her as a human who loves her spouse—but it’s the small things. His hand on the small of her back, the way she stands on tiptoe even in those crazy shoes she wears so she can whisper something in his ear… What I wouldn’t give to do those same things with Lucy.

  But that’s not what we’ve signed up for. No private jokes, no casual brushes of our hands, no people pointing at us and saying, “They’re so cute it’s revolting.” None of that. Because what we have is sex. Astoundingly hot sex, yes, but just sex nonetheless. And okay, maybe a little bit kinky sex.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about Lucy while I’m at the office party. At least not the dirty thoughts I’ve started to have. A buzz in my pocket drags my mind out of the gutter, and when I check it, I’m not surprised. It’s a text. From my mom.

  Found out today the cost of Darren’s PT went up by $20/session. We could cover it, but it would be nice if you could help out. We’re overextended as it is.

  Normally when I get these emails or texts—because it’s never in person, never over the phone, oh, no, because we can’t actually talk about this—I dutifully recalculate the amount of the check I write every month. Eighty dollars here, forty there. It’s chipped away at my money, at my freedom, and something Lucy’s mom said yesterday jumped into my head: Don’t you want to get married and have babies?

  Yeah, I do. And my own family seems entirely unconcerned that, with them consuming all my resources, I’ll never be able to. Of course people with no money get married and have families all the time and I don’t begrudge them that at all. Everyone deserves stability and happiness wherever they can find it. But for me… I can’t imagine asking someone to share their life with me when I have nothing to offer them. And what if they have debts? A lot of people do from student loans or credit cards or medical bills. I can’t imagine feeling on solid enough ground to have a child until we’d paid those off, and having kids is something I want too.

  That angry part of me I don’t like very much, try to tamp down as much as possible, comes to life. It lives at the base of my skull, and it makes my head feel heavy and as though it’s too small. I don’t want to be angry, but I’d also like to have my own life, one where my wishes and desires aren’t entirely constrained by responsibilities to people who don’t even like me.

  I could ditch out on them, stop writing checks altogether, but I don’t want to be that guy. For however much my mom laments how hard she works and how exhausted she is, she’s always been there for us, tried her best to give us everything we needed. I try to do the same, but without the massive guilt trip.

  Is it too much to ask to have everything? It feels that way. I take a swallow of the bubbly in my glass and sigh before checking my watch. Nine. How much longer do I have to stay here before I can get back to the office?

  Just as I’m about to leave my half-empty flute on one of the tables, the door to the restaurant opens, and Lucy comes in. She looks…she looks like I was given a wish and I wished for her. Which, as amazing as she is, would be stupid. If you only get the one wish, always ask for unlimited wishes. Always.

  But if unlimited wishes weren’t an option, I’d gladly take her. Her dress is more risqué than what she normally wears in the office, fancier, and I wish she could be my girlfriend so I could take her out to places where she’d have an excuse to wear dresses like that all the time. It’s a soft turquoise color that looks good with her hair. I think. I’m not exactly an expert on these things, but that’s a thing people say, right?

  She takes small steps over to where India and Singh are deep in conversation and Leo’s now staring into his empty champagne flute. He looks up at Lucy’s approach, and when he gets a load of her, well, he does that up-and-down look I never thought guys did, but they do. But I can’t totally blame him, what with that dress.

  Lovely as her dress is, what I’d like is to take it off of her, because I know now however banging she may look in her clothes, she looks even better in the lingerie she’s wearing under them, and tonight can’t be any exception. Skin-colored heels on her feet make her legs look as though they go on forever, and yeah, she’s got on stockings. I need to go splash some water on my face since taking a cold shower isn’t an option, and then maybe I can find the wherewithal to talk to her. I want to talk to her, even if I can’t put my hand on the small of her back, even if she can’t whisper in my ear. I want to wring every second, every minute out of this that I can.

  Heading down the hall, I nod at a couple of colleagues and then find the door to the restroom. Unisex, like the bathrooms at work. And inside—oh, inside. An idea springs to my head, and despite my best efforts to wash it away with the cold water I splash across my cheeks over the big central sink, it won’t leave. This bathroom is inspiring, and I know just the girl who might be interested in turning my inspiration into some perspiration.

  Chapter Ten

  ‡

  December 21st

  Lucy

  My clutch buzzes with the force of a text. When I take it out and click it on, it’s a message from Evans:

  Meet me in the bathroom.

  What the hell?

  Uh, no.

  I shake my head. So, okay, we’ve had sex in the office kitchen. And the copy room. And he went down on me under my desk. But a public restroom? Jeez, Evans. A girl has standards.

  I watch the hallway where the bathrooms are, but he doesn’t emerge looking sheepish. Instead, there’s another buzz of my phone.

  Do you trust me?

  Those four words poke at something inside me. I do. I feel safer with Evans than I’ve ever felt with anyone before, which is weird considering we’ve done some foolish, reckless things together. But the answer is yes, always.

  You know I do.

  Then meet me in the bathroom. Now. This is not a request.

  Oh. It’s so strange other men have touched me in such intimate ways and never have any of them made me as hot as this rude text. This is not a request. So we’re playing like that, huh? I can do that.

  My hips sway more than they ought to as I walk toward where he’d disappeared to a few minutes ago. It takes me longer than I’d like because, with the tall shoes and the tight skirt, I have to mince my way there. I saw how he’d looked at me as I talked to Leo. And I’d noticed too the way Leo’s eyes kept wandering to my neckline. This dress—it’s not exactly subtle, and though I’m probably going to hell for it, I like the way most of the men look at me. It makes me feel desirable, sexy.

  I nod at Janelle as I pass her, and when I turn the corner, I’m greeted by a single cut into the wall instead of the two doors I’m expecting.

  Unisex bathrooms.

  Oh.

  And when I wind my way around the slab of marble blocking the room from the hallway, I kind of can’t believe what I’m seeing. A trough of a sink in the middle, but lining three of the walls are stalls. Not your typical, may-as-well-be-a-house-of-cards framework of barely-big-enough-to-leave-you-decent metal walls and doors that never quite close right. No, these stalls have floor to ceiling doors, and I swear to god there is mood lighting in here. Soft and low. The music from the party is piped in here too.

  Holy crap. I am in a sex bathroom.

  I don’t know if the architect snickered to herself while she was designing this or if the unisex nature was a necessity of space, but there’s no denying it
. This bathroom was built for fucking.

  While the quirks of the space make for better-than-I-could’ve-hoped-for banging opportunities, they also make it hard to determine which of the stalls Evans is in. I don’t want to start hissing his name, because…because yeah, I’d die if anyone figured out what we were up to, even though in theory, I like the idea of having witnesses, of being in public. So many messy thoughts in my head.

  Then a door is nudged ajar and I’m relieved when Evans’s head pokes out. He breaks into a grin when he sees me and gestures me over, keeping an eye out while I scurry over. Once I reach him, he ushers me into the stall and closes the door behind me. Despite the fancy walls and floors, it’s still essentially a bathroom stall and I start to feel silly. It stops when he says, “Turn around.”

  His tone of voice sets off a chain reaction. My nipples draw into hard points that rub against the satin of my bra, and my breasts seem to strain against the cups. Touch me please, they beg. My dress feels tighter in certain areas, like my chest has swelled and my hips. I’m much more conscious of what exactly the fabric is clinging to. Touch me.

  I follow his instructions, spinning on the balls of my feet until I’m facing the door I came in.

  “Hands on the wall.”

  I lay my palms and fingertips against the cool marble at shoulder-height and wait for my next instructions in this game we’re playing. He’s silent, though, and I wonder what he’s doing. If he’s jerking off looking at my butt, I’m going to be annoyed. You called me in here for this?

  I’m about to tell him to stop wasting my time, but then I hear voices. Voices I recognize. It’s Singh and Ellis. And as the voices get closer, Evans’s fingertips land on the backs of my thighs, skimming the hem of my dress, which is almost at my knees.

  Singh is talking about the shrimp cocktail while Ellis favors the canapes. They carry on their inane hors d’oevres chatter while Evans slips his fingers under the fabric of my dress and starts to work it up my legs, inch by excruciating inch. Our coworkers even talk to each other while they’re in the stalls, practically shouting about the admittedly insane spread. It’s true that, even though India is a hardass, this is the best holiday party we’ve ever had. I guess Singh and Ellis are both bachelors too, probably don’t cook much, so this kind of food is a treat.

  All the while, Evans is dragging the fabric slowly, slowly over my thighs, taking his damn time. My fingers are curling against the marble that’s been warmed by my touch, and I want to snap and tell him to get on with it.

  His hot breath on my ear makes me turn, and the desire that’s been drawing me up tight, tight, is thrummed when his mouth finds my lobe. He sucks and nibbles while his hands keep up their excruciatingly snail-paced assault on my decency.

  He’s only midway up my thighs when Singh and Ellis slam out of their stalls and thankfully wash their hands before departing back to the buffet. When they leave, though, Evans stops.

  “What the—”

  But before I can get the rest of the sentence out of my mouth, I hear whistling through the door. That’s… Yeah, someone is definitely whistling “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as they come to take a leak. Meanwhile, Evans has started again, edging my dress up until his fingers hit the tops of my stockings and the suck of air through his teeth thrills me.

  “You’re a very naughty girl, Lucy,” he purrs in my ear. I push my butt toward him because apparently I’m the very filthiest kind of girl. The kind who likes to be told she’s dirty and wallow in it, but only with someone else who wants to wallow in it too. Evans likes this about me, that I like to play these games. A lot.

  His fingers find the garters, and he snaps one against my skin before bracing his hands on my ass cheeks and pushing me back toward the door, but not far enough to touch.

  I want to touch.

  I want to rock against something, anything to relieve the ache. It started in my nipples and in my clit, but the feeling of sex has spread through my whole body. I think I might be able to come if he’d rub my hair between his fingertips or if he’d lay the lightest of kisses on a fingernail. As long as it was rhythmic, repetitive contact…

  “Did you wear these for me? When you rolled them up your calves, over your knees and tugged them up your thighs, did you think of me touching you everywhere they touched? Because I’m going to.”

  I stuff the squeak down because whoever was whistling is still whistling. I’m guessing it’s Leo because he’s forever humming and singing under his breath in the office. And the truth is, I had had a fleeting thought of Evans while I’d rolled the stocking up my legs and clipped the silk between the garters. But it was an everyday act; nothing particularly sensual or sexual about it. Now I’ll think of him every time I put stockings on. And if I could rewind my vague memories of the task performed, I can imbue it with the weight of sex, the weight of his desire. So it’s only an eensie, weensie lie to say “yes.”

  Evans is tracing the garters now, front and back, his fingers slipping along my flesh on the sides of the elastic. I thrust my ass back at him because the feather-light touch is doing nothing for me. What it’s doing is something to me. And again, his hands cup my ass cheeks and he steers my hips back to where he’d put them.

  “You’ll keep still or I’ll stop. Don’t test me, Lucy, because I’m not kidding. I’m hard as hell for you, but I’ll walk away if you can’t behave. If you’re good, you’ll get a treat. And by treat, I mean a nice hard fuck against this door while the people we work with go about their business, not knowing I’ve got my cock buried inside your sweet, hot cunt.”

  Lust. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s pushing against the containment of my body. Lust and want. I’m soaking wet, I know it. Who knew some dirty words in a semi-public place could turn my crank so freaking hard? And by the time his clever, time-taking fingers make it to my underwear, they’re going to be drenched. Maybe dripping. Do women actually get so wet and slick it coats the insides of their thighs? Because I might be. I shift slightly, and I can already feel how my lips slide against the slip of fabric between my thighs.

  It takes two more visitors for Evans to finally work my skirt over my hips and up to my waist. When the fabric is bunched up, he grabs my cheeks and digs his fingers into me, pulling me apart, drawing all my filthy thoughts to between my legs with his lewd whispers.

  “Are you sure about this, Lucy?”

  It’s possible I’ve been chanting a steady stream of “please” under my breath, so yes, dammit, yes.

  “I’m sure.”

  “And what are you sure about?” The first had been an earnest question. Now that he’s got permission, he’s going to tease. Cunning and wonderful sex wizard he apparently is. Who would’ve thought? Since I’m a full participant in this game, I’ll give him my answer.

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  “You want me to fuck you? Right here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he drawls, all the while kneading the flesh of my butt. “You want me to fuck you, in a bathroom, where any one of your coworkers could wander by and maybe catch one of those breathy sex noises you make? What would they think, Lucy? If they knew? If they knew your marvelous tits were pressed hard up against the door and your legs were spread apart so I could work my hard cock into all the tight wetness I know is waiting for me under here?”

  His finger skims along the thin strip of fabric, the only barrier to his touch. And it might not be there much longer, because it might disintegrate. That’s how soaked I am.

  “Big,” I mutter.

  His finger stops its trip, and I want to scream. “What?”

  “I said big. You forgot big. Your big, hard cock. Evans, please. Fuck me, please. Fuck me with your big, hard cock.”

  He wrenches my underwear to the side, steps close behind me, and then curses. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly because I hate the absence of his hands for the minute it takes him to fumble his belt undone and unzip. There’s a rip of a packet,
a pause, and then he’s back. His hands are back; his heat is back.

  It occurs to me it’s convenient I’m wearing these heels because otherwise we’d have to do some pretty fancy tricks for our bodies to line up the way they need to. But with these shoes, I’m the perfect height and his knees bend only slightly alongside mine before he’s pressing into me.

  I love the way he takes the first stroke slow. Each time he has to make space for, yes, his big, hard cock. But sometimes I want to scold my vagina because seriously? Don’t you remember him? Shouldn’t you hold the shape of him? Because as much as I love the consideration, the care and the strain he must be under not to rut into me, I truly do want to be fucked and I don’t have time for this shit.

  I shove back against him and immediately regret it. Even though I’m beyond wet and he’s had me before, it burns and a sob makes my whole body go rigid. My fingers curl up against the door, and I turn my face to a cool part of the marble. Pain is so not an aphrodisiac for me. It hurts.

  “Lucy.” His whisper is frantic, and his hands that have been digging into my flesh have gone soft, stroking instead. “Do you—”

  “No.” I reach back for his hip to stop him from withdrawing from me. I don’t want him to stop, to leave me empty. The pain slowed but didn’t get rid of the torrent of lust that had been flooding me seconds ago. And all because I couldn’t wait.

  He runs a hand back and over my hip, my flank, soothing me while his other finds a sweetly firm grip on my shoulder. Not impatient or demanding…letting me know he’s here. When he lays his cheek where my neck meets my shoulder, I’m almost certain it’s to better judge my breathing and my heartbeat. The tenderness is almost too much to bear.

  A few minutes must go by with us standing here like this: me with my dress rucked up around my waist and him with his pants around his ankles. A lot of guys wouldn’t have the patience for this or might’ve gone soft. But he’s still hard, halfway inside me. I squeeze around him, and he groans quietly, rolling his head against my back.