The twins would probably return from the movie before she did, but what the heck, they were almost sixteen. They could stay home alone. And maybe, for fear of her wrath if they damaged anything, they might be good. Did they have to earn trust before being given it? Or should she give it to them, which in turn would teach them to be trustworthy? That was like the chicken and the egg question.
By the time she arrived at the plant, the afterglow of really hot sex had completely dissipated. Now she was just a slut with no panties or bra. Slut, in this case, was not a term of endearment.
She swiped her card key, pushed open the employee cafeteria door, her purse—with her panties and bra inside—under her arm.
Frank was pouring coffee from a pot that reeked like it had been sitting there since the morning.
Double damn. No chance to duck into the ladies’ room.
He turned. “What took you so long?”
Lola didn’t have time to hug her purse to her chest and cover her sweater. The cafeteria was cold. And her nipples knew it.
So did Frank. His eyes dropped, then just as quickly popped back up.
She would not let her attire—or the state of her nipples—undermine her. “I asked you to give me notice.”
“I called,” he said mildly.
“Fifteen minutes is not notice.”
Tall and lanky, he had brown hair that was too long—and slightly greasy, as if he’d been here for the last forty-eight hours. A yellow splotch on his rumpled white T-shirt looked like mustard. He was past thirty and should have long since stopped pulling all-nighters as if he were still in college.
“Fine,” he groused. “You’re here, we can get started.”
She resented the implication that she was holding them up. They were only working this weekend by edict.
She thought about going to the restroom first. But he obviously knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. What would he think if she suddenly put one on? Surely he’d wonder why she’d been carrying her bra in her purse.
Lola decided it was none of his business. Her nipples were none of his business. She wasn’t going to scuttle away like a woman who had just done something wrong. She’d had consensual sex with a very sexy CEO, and she was not going to let Frank—or George, for that matter—bring her down. She marched ahead of him, head high.
In the lab, George was hidden in a warren of test equipment, wires, and computer monitors. A couple of years older than Frank, he was the stereotypical engineer. His black hair was short enough to qualify as a buzz cut, and a blue pen had leaked ink in the pocket of his white button-down shirt. When he saw Lola, his eyes widened, the effect made even greater by the thickness of his horn-rimmed glasses. She thought they’d discontinued the style back in the sixties.
“Hi, George.” She took her seat on the stool between them. She didn’t apologize for being late or for the sweater effect. They would just have to deal.
Pushing the stool back slightly so they could reach the equipment without interference, she turned on her word processor. She didn’t use her laptop for note-taking. The small word processor didn’t need to boot up, and it nestled on her lap easily. She could type quickly and download when she got home. It was much more efficient. She’d also brought a folder of printed diagrams to doctor up.
They were staring at her, not the equipment. For a moment, she thought they might actually have X-ray eyes and knew she wasn’t wearing panties either. The oddest feeling swept over her, something very sexual, almost predatory. She was alone with two men, sandwiched between them like the cream center of an Oreo cookie. No underwear, just a thin sweater and a short little skirt. And half an hour ago, she’d been sitting on Gray’s lap with her hands between her legs. In front of a mirror.
There was something so utterly powerful about that, the knowledge of what she’d been doing, the sexiness. And these two men suddenly salivating over her.
She didn’t want them. She didn’t care about them beyond this project. But Gray was right. Sex was power.
And she wanted more of it with him.
Next time she was going to make some demands of her own. And she knew exactly what would give her the power, even according to Gray.
7
“I’M SORRY, DAD, BUT THE GUYS WANTED TO GET BURGERS AFTER the movie. How was I supposed to say no?”
Cell phone to his ear, Gray hung his head. “Going to dinner was fine. Not calling me to let me know isn’t. I was worried, especially when you didn’t answer your cell phone.”
Rafe gave a disgusted snort. “I told you I left it in the car.”
Gray realized this was another form of punishment. Rafe had used hostility and indifference; now he was employing the tactic of getting Gray’s hopes up, then dashing them. “Well, you better call your mother. She’s worried, too.”
“Only because you called her.” The hostility was back. And something else, a noise.
“You’re not driving, are you?”
“No,” Rafe snapped. “I’m parked on the street.”
Three teenage boys in a moving car was a frightening prospect, but the driver talking on his cell phone at the same time was enough to stop a father’s heart dead. Gray knew he was nagging, but he’d laid down a strict rule, no talking on the phone while driving. It didn’t matter that his ex-wife’s car had Bluetooth, it was the distraction, not just the hands-free.
“Stop nagging, Dad”—elongated with a sarcastic drawl—“I know the law.” He meant Gray’s law.
Gray kept his sigh to himself. “Call your mother. I’ll see you at training on Tuesday.”
Rafe cut off with a mumbled word which might have been good-bye, or fuck off.
He sat in the family-room chair staring at the blank TV screen. His guts ached. Teenagers could make a strong man feel weak. When they were babies, you held them in the palm of your hand, so small, so needy, so perfect. Your guts ached with how much you loved them, and you wanted to keep them safe, give them everything. You struggled to make all their dreams come true. Then you lost them and you weren’t even sure when or how. The goal had been to allow his wife to stay home with Rafe, and yes, Gray had worked a lot, he’d had to travel. He’d missed some important events. But he hadn’t missed every single one. He hadn’t consistently shortchanged Rafe. Just a few times. Obviously, enough times. He wasn’t a bad man, but somehow he’d failed his son. Now he didn’t know how to pick up the pieces.
Gray arched his neck, flexed his shoulders. The kinks remained.
Yet for a time this afternoon, with Lola, he’d been able to forget everything else. She made him forget. And he wanted her to help him forget a lot more. He planned to, later tonight, when the lights were off and she would be alone in her bed.
* * *
AT TEN O’CLOCK, LOLA SENT THE BOYS TO BED. AT LEAST SHE TRIED to.
“But there’s no football on Monday,” William whined, “so we don’t have to get up early in the morning.”
“Yes, but I do.”
“We’ll turn down the volume.” Harry always had an answer for everything.
Lola was tired of fighting. Besides, she might actually get some work done in the morning while they were sleeping. “All right. But do not make me come out here and tell you to be quiet.”
Harry grinned. He had an infectious grin when he won, especially if he won over an adult.
From the bedroom, she could barely hear the TV. The master bathroom was between the living room and her bedroom proper. Despite what she’d told the boys, by the time she laid her head on the pillow, she wasn’t tired. Her body still hummed from this afternoon’s interlude. Gray still hadn’t taken her, entered her, come inside her. But he was getting close, closer, closest. Soon. She felt it. She was already wet with the thought of it.
Her cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. Glancing at the lighted screen, she didn’t recognize the number. But she knew. Oh yes, yes, yes, Coach Barnett was hot for it.
“Are you alone?” The deep, sexy timbre of his voi
ce made her nerves twitch. Just like that, she was ready for him.
“Totally alone, Coach. I’m in my bed.”
“Very good. Wearing sexy lingerie?”
“No, Coach, I’m not wearing a thing.”
He laughed softly. “Have you been touching yourself, Lola?”
“Not since I was with you this afternoon.”
“Do you want to touch yourself now?”
After two amazing punishment sessions, she was a slave to the feelings he evoked. “Yes, Coach.” Make me do it again. She glanced at the door. She’d locked it. Maybe she was paranoid, but she felt like she was living with two spies in her house.
“Ask me what I’d do if you were here with me right now?”
She liked his games. The men she’d dated hadn’t been particularly inspired. And the games her husband had played were more like mindfucking. “What would you do to me?”
“If you were here . . .” His voice dropped a couple of notes. She felt it low in her belly. “I’d roll you onto your stomach and spread-eagle you across my bed. Then I’d tie your hands to the headboard and your feet to the bottom.”
With his words, his voice, she actually writhed against the mattress imagining herself tied to those sturdy mahogany bedposts. “No one’s ever tied me up before,” she murmured, a little breathless.
“I’d pin you to the bed with my body and enter you slowly.”
She needed to feel it. Rolling to her stomach, she spread her legs wide for him and propped a pillow under her chest so she could still keep the phone to her ear. “I can feel you now,” she whispered, wishing she hadn’t thrown out her vibrator.
“I would fuck you so slowly, over your G-spot. Then I’d tuck a pillow beneath your belly so I could rub your clit.”
“Oh. Yes.” Her hips rotated on the bed without her conscious thought.
“Touch yourself, Lola. Tell me how wet you are.”
She shifted and reached between her legs. Her clitoris throbbed beneath her fingers. “I’m absolutely dripping, Coach.”
“Do you feel how hard I am inside you?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Let me fuck you, Lola. Let me make you scream. Tell me how good it is.”
“Coach.” Her voice was barely more than a breath. She couldn’t stand it anymore, and she flopped onto her back. “I’m so wet for you, Coach. Make me come, Coach. Please.” Her fingers circled and swirled around her clitoris.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Rubbing. Touching. Oh God. Coach.” She let the words spill out with little thought. “I wish I had my vibrator. But it wouldn’t be like you. Wouldn’t be as good.” She concentrated on her clitoris, circling fast and hard. She sighed and groaned softly, her hips rising, rocking.
“Come for me, baby. I want to hear you moan.”
She bit her lip. “Coach.” Low, harsh. “Coach.” Then her body contracted, and she curled into the sensation, locking her legs around her hand, intensifying the quakes streaking through her.
When it was over, she unfurled slowly until she was limp against the mattress. She’d been quiet. No one but Gray could have heard.
He was talking to her. “Baby, baby, that was so sweet.”
“Are you hard?”
“Fuck yes.” His voice was suddenly harsh.
She loved the intensity vibrating across the airwaves. “I want to hear you come. Just like I came for you.” She thought about power. When he was talking to her, making her touch herself, bringing her to orgasm, the power was his. She wanted some of that for herself. “Stroke yourself for me. Groan for me.” She dropped her voice. “Come for me.”
“Witch,” he growled.
“You’re dying to come,” she seduced him. “You wanted to come this afternoon when I was on your lap. You could barely hold back.”
He rewarded her with a deep groan. “Yeah.”
“You thought about taking me in front of that mirror. Watching as you slid deep. Every inch inside me.”
“Fuck.” His breath shot out. “Yes, I wanted it. I wanted you.”
“You still want me. You’ve been fantasizing all day about tying me to your bed. Spreading me. Even biting my neck like lions do when they’re mating.” She was seducing herself with the images.
“You can’t know how badly I want it.” He was gruff, his pitch deep, each word an effort.
And her heart sang. He hadn’t taken her. But he’d wanted to. He was holding back to keep his power. But she had it all now. “When you finally have me, I’m going to feel so good. So tight around you. So wet.”
“Jesus, yes.” His breath sawed, harsh pants of need.
“You’ll pound me down into the mattress. You’ll love my moans. And you’ll go so deep, so far. Until you can’t even remember your name.” She hissed out a breath and said in a whisper, “Then you’ll come. Come now.”
No more words, just one long groan that reached deep inside her. And she knew he’d climaxed. “That was good, Coach, so good. You’re going to dream about it tonight. You’ll wake up hard in the night and have to stroke yourself again.”
“Jesus, you really are a witch.”
“I am, Coach. And I’ve got you under my spell,” she quipped. “Now rub it in.”
“What?” He sounded slightly dazed.
“Your come. Rub it in. I want you to sleep with it on you. I want you to wake up with the scent of it and think of me.”
She pushed End.
Now that was power.
* * *
SHE’D BEWITCHED HIM. BECAUSE HE DID EXACTLY WHAT SHE SAID, rubbing the evidence of his orgasm into his belly, then waking deep in the night with a throbbing hard-on. The scent of sex and come swirled in the room, and the phantom echo of her voice whispered in his ear as he stroked himself to another bone-melting climax.
Christ. She’d turned the tables on him. And he liked it.
* * *
BANG, BANG, BANG.
Lola shot up in bed, heart in her throat, pulse racing. What on earth?
“Aunt Lola, wake up,” Harry shouted through the door. “Mom’s on Skype and she wants to talk to you.”
“Coming,” she called, adding, “Good Lord,” under her breath. Andrea must have forgotten the time difference. Then she glanced at the clock. And had another heart attack. Eight o’clock? It was unheard of. She never got up this late.
It was sex. It was that orgasm. It was the way Gray made her feel. So good, so relaxed, so special, she’d slept an extra two hours. Damnation.
Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her robe and threw open the door. Harry and William—still in their pj’s—were at the dining room table, not that you could really call the corner nook off the kitchen and living room a dining room since it could handle only a table, four chairs, and the breakfront.
“Where is she?” Andrea screamed. Her sister thought she had to yell over Skype as if it were a bad phone connection.
“We got her out of bed, Mom.”
“Out of bed?” her sister screeched. “Didn’t she make you a healthy breakfast?”
Lola nudged Harry out of the chair. “They’re capable of making their own healthy breakfast.” Although she’d let them buy Cap’n Crunch cereal on the first grocery expedition. Of course they’d complained of “crunch mouth” the next day. She was a bad aunt.
“Lola,” Andrea said peevishly, “you look like crap.”
“Thank you very much,” she answered dryly. “You wanted to speak to me?” During every Skype call Lola hadn’t been able to get out of, Andrea had a list of instructions for her. Most of which Lola ignored.
“I most certainly do.” Every muscle in Andrea’s face pulled into a scowl. “How on earth could you allow them to drive with a newly licensed teenager?”
“He got his license a year ago,” William piped in.
“If you live for eighty years, twelve months is nothing,” Andrea snapped. “Do you know that 95 percent of accidents involve
teenage drivers?”
“Wow. I’ve never heard that statistic.” Lola didn’t believe it. Andrea was simply pulling it out of her . . . hat.
“Teenage drinking and driving is the leading cause of highway deaths.”
Lola didn’t roll her eyes. It would only make things worse. “It was the afternoon. They went to a movie. There was no drinking.” She certainly hadn’t smelled anything on their breath.
The twins hovered over her shoulder, getting into the picture. “No way, Mom,” Harry defended. “We were not drinking.”
“I’m talking to your aunt Lola. And it isn’t what actually happened but what could have happened that’s the issue.”
Lola thought of that old philosopher—she couldn’t remember which one—who’d once said something to the effect that he’d had many tragedies in his life, most of which never happened. That was Andrea, dwelling on things that never happened.
“Yes, well, they’re fine, Andrea.”
“And who is this kid anyway? Did you meet his parents?”
“Uhh . . .” Meet his parents? Maybe that was a mom thing; the idea had never even occurred to Lola. It was a good thing she’d never had kids of her own.
“You didn’t.” Aghast, Andrea’s mouth dropped open. “What’s his name?”
Harry jumped in before Lola could further incriminate herself. “Arby.”
Arby? Like the fast food restaurant? Whatever.
“Did you even meet him, Lola?” Andrea glared, the look hot enough to melt the computer screen. “You didn’t,” she finished when Lola failed to answer immediately. She leaned into the webcam, her face filling the entire screen, which gave her the bloated cheeks of a puffer fish. “What if he isn’t really sixteen? Or he’s older and he’s some sort of child molester? Do you realize what might have happened?” Her voice was rising to hysteria.
First teenage drinking, now child molesters? Okay, she wouldn’t make good mom material, but honestly, Andrea was over the top. “You’re catastrophizing, Andrea.”
Her sister’s face looked ready to explode all over the screen.
“Oh wow, Mom, you’re getting fuzzy.” Harry waved his hand in front of the webcam. “I think we’re losing the signal. Mom, Mom, can you hear us? Mom?” He hit a button on the keyboard and Andrea disappeared.
The Naughty Corner Page 7