by Cynthia Dane
So by the time I ended up in bed, wearing nothing but my favorite lilac-colored negligee beneath the soft futon cover my grandmother made me years ago, I was ready for that phone call from my lover.
“Yes? You’ve reached the boudoir of Natalie Chen.”
I expected a giggle. What I got was a deep, sultry voice.
“What are you wearing?”
Insecurity lay on me instead of my blanket. That was a man’s voice. Asking me what I was wearing during the most intimate time of my day. A man. The other.
Damn him.
“What are you wearing,” I countered.
“I asked first.”
“Well, hello to you too.”
“Humor me, would you?”
“To whom do I owe this great pleasure? Before I go describing my underwear, I would like to know who exactly is on the other end.”
“Me, of course.” The playful tone now entering Eric’s voice was still deep and rich. “The lover of your dreams.”
“I have dreamed of you a few times.”
“What are you wearing?”
That persistence convinced me that it was all Eric on the other end. To say I was even more confused than I had been Friday night was almost an understatement.
I snuggled in deeper beneath my covers. “A nightgown.”
“What color? Paint me a picture. Is your hair down? Or is it still in that cute ponytail?”
So my boss did like the hairstyle change. Good to know. “It’s lavender. You know, that pale, Eastery purple.”
“I’m familiar with the subtleties between colors, yes.” Why did that droll voice turn me on? What had become of me? I was acting like a sex-starved fool! “Wearing underwear?”
I grinned into my phone. “No.”
“Good.”
“What are you wearing?”
Eric clicked his tongue. “It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. This is about you.”
My hand went straight to my stomach. My fingers would have pressed on to other places, but I grew aware of my actions in time. How about that? All Eric had to do was call me up asking about my underwear and I was ready to touch myself.
Probably because I knew where this was going.
The phone call at night. The voice. Jumping right into sexy talk.
I was ready.
What did this say about us? That after such a short amount of time and a shit ton of drama, I could still be so easily seduced? Before this past weekend, I was convinced only a man, both physically and mentally, could coax me into bed and give me the sex of my life. Not only had I willingly gone with Erica after abruptly discovering the truth, but I walked away more self-assured in how I might see myself.
But how could I dwell on these implications when a sexy someone told me to pinch my nipples until they were erect and to rub myself until I was wet enough to fuck? And they did it with the kind of purr in their voice that would have gotten me wet anyway!
Wild. From the moment Erica whispered into my hear that I should fuck myself for her aural entertainment until I gasped over the phone, I felt like I was living some wild double life that could never compare to anyone else’s. Occasionally, I asked if she were joining me from her room, and my brain always referenced that orgasmic face she made the night before. I wanted to believe that we were truly sharing this moment.
“Stop asking me questions, unless you’re asking me for permission.”
“Permission for what?”
That was the kind of chuckle I shuddered to hear with my fingers halfway in my pussy. “Permission to come.”
Damn her!
“Tell me, Natalie,” Erica mused while I continued to fend off orgasm. “What kind of things do you keep in your nightstand? Don’t leave anything out.”
She was killing me! “The usual assortment of goods a woman finds necessary in her private life.”
“That’s a lot of words just to say condoms and sex toys.”
“How did you know that I have condoms in my nightstand?” Like I was getting laid in my house with my mother next door. Please.
“Because you’re a safe woman who takes many precautions. Which is why I do so enjoy watching you come undone. It’s not a bad idea to unwind at the end of a long work day.”
“Bet you can think up a dozen ways to help me unwind.”
“I prefer taking my thoughts to the real world. Which is why I’m going to tell you to take out your favorite toy and fuck yourself with it.”
I froze beneath my covers. It was one thing to stroke myself to orgasm over the phone. What were even the logistics of going farther than that?
Yup. That was me. Thinking about logistics instead of contemplating what it meant to have phone sex with my genderbending boss.
“Are you hesitating? Or are you taking your sweet time deciding on the perfect item?”
My fingers hooked into brass handle on my nightstand drawer. “Pink or blue.”
“What was that?”
I wetted my lips before subjecting myself to more possible embarrassment. “I’ve got two. Pick a color.”
“Whichever one vibrates. You’re going to hold it up to phone so I can make sure it’s vibrating.”
Pink it was!
I have to commend myself for treating my first time having phone sex – let alone with a woman – like a pro. Who knew a few weeks before that I would be placing my buzzing vibrator near my phone so my boss could hear it go off before it got me off? Since then, it’s become one of my favorite stories. Maybe not something I would tell at a dinner party, but something I definitely confess when I’m drunk enough around my closest friends. It’s better to focus on the hilarity of it before delving into the pleasurable side of phone sex.
Because I could safely say that easing an old friend into my body had never been so hot.
It must have been the audience. Erica may not have been there physically, but she was there, listening and guiding me as if she were the one manipulating my favorite sex toy in my body.
Suffice to say, I was begging to come within about two minutes.
“Okay, fine,” she said with her deep sigh. “Go for it.”
She might as well have told me to bust down the gates of Heaven while St. Peter attempted to haul me away, because all the pleasure flooding my body was like jetting up into the sky and flying above the clouds. Whether angels actually existed or not didn’t matter.
I dropped my phone beside my head. Two hands were necessary to get through this.
“Jesus.” That was the first thing I heard after I was finished being so greedy. “I could be over there in two minutes, you know.”
Granted, I would have laughed at anything she said, but that really knocked me out. “Don’t think you’re ready to deal with my mother yet.”
“Point taken. Now go wash up and get to bed. You’ve got work in the morning.”
She hung up without another word. Me? I lay in my bed for another half hour, staring at my ceiling with the goofiest grin on my face. Everything inside of me was basically one giant ball of endorphins that no one could control.
Least of all me.
Chapter 38
ERICA
I didn’t have a hangover when I woke up at five in the morning. Thank God, because it wasn’t my alarm that had roused me.
It was Adam, Brooke’s fiancé.
“Hi, uh, Mr. Mann?” No man was a bigger sack of nerves on the phone than that guy. I’ll never understand what Brooke saw in him. Then again, she always did like being in charge in her relationships. In another life, Brooke would make an excellent Domme. “I’m sorry for waking you up so early, sir, but I’m afraid Brooke is really sick and won’t be able to make it into work today. Possibly tomorrow, too.”
“What?” I sat up, my baggy T-shirt clinging to my unbound body with all the sweat it could release. “What’s wrong?”
“The doctors think it’s food poisoning. We’ve been at the hospital all night.”
What? Brooke? In the hosp
ital? That was preposterous! She never got sick!
God knew I was awake after hearing that. I sat up straight in my bed and searched for the switch on my bedside lamp. Even if I had a clapper, I would’ve been too uncoordinated to turn on my fucking lights. “What hospital? I can have her transferred to…”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Mann, she’s stable.” Fuck that guy! Where was Brooke’s doctor? I would’ve much rather talked to an actual medical professional than whoever this spineless twit was. “She’s conscious, but she’s really not doing well. The doctors want to keep her here a day or two to see if she improves. I’m on her phone, by the way.”
“I figured.” How else would he contact me? I can assure you that Adam does not have my personal phone number. Brooke, however, does. “All right. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll make arrangements both for myself and for Brooke. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
So began one of the most chaotic days of my year. For October, that was a feat.
Sherman was the first person I informed. He said he would pass the information along. That included calling Natalie at ass o’clock and telling her we needed her to play personal assistant until Brooke was in commission again.
While Sherman did that, I called Brooke’s hospital and spoke directly to her doctor. Since my family had always made generous contributions to the hospitals in our city, I didn’t have a problem getting doctors to talk about anybody. It’s amazing what oaths and privileges professionals will break when you dangle money in front of them.
In this case, I threatened to no longer donate to their much-needed wing expansion project (for maternity, no less) if I didn’t get details about Brooke’s case. I didn’t care if she never married me and made me her next of kin. I got information not even Adam could procure!
Since I would never stand for Brooke – or any woman who meant so much to me, for that matter – to be in standard care, I arranged to pay for a private room and around the clock attention. I was assured that a nurse would be assigned to nobody but her, and the doctor would personally check on her every hour. It still didn’t feel like enough.
I did all of that while getting ready for work. Fuck yoga. I needed to shower, brush my teeth, and slap on my binder before rummaging for a suit that didn’t stink like my pussy. I never had time to call Natalie and make sure she would be waiting for me at work. All right, so I had a little time in between getting in my Mercedes and riding to work while the sun rose in the distance. But I was afraid that hearing Natalie’s voice not even twelve hours after I coaxed her to orgasm over the phone would be too much and take me out of my game.
No need for that, after all. When I saw her a little while later, I might as well have someone stick a fork in me and declare me done.
She was radiant in an orange Chanel dress that I had yet to see on her body. It was perfect for the office: chic, bold, yet not drawing too much attention from the more important things happening at a meeting or during a business dinner. The kicker? I recognized it. A few years before (or maybe it had been several) Chanel put out a line that captured my attention and reminded me that I had always wondered what it would be like to confidently strut in those kinds of clothes. Orange was not a color I had ever seriously worn before. My father had always stressed that a smart man wore dark, subdued colors and called attention with striking jewel tones. Not that he ever explained it like that. “Jewel tones” was the kind of phrase that would have received a smack on the mouth. What was I? Some fashionable girl? Knowing colors beyond “red” and “blue” was the sign of a faggot.
Natalie grinned when she realized I recognized her look – and approved of it. There was no time for me to compliment her in private, however, since she had much to catch up on. Brooke left no stones unturned in our office, and Natalie had mighty big shoes to fill.
Not that I could think of anyone better to do it. Natalie not only understood Brooke’s strange language and organizational system, but had the uncanny ability to anticipate my every need before I voiced it. Coffee? It was already on my desk, just the way I liked it. (Dug out of Brooke’s most pertinent notes, I suspect.) Notes for a meeting later in the week? Delivered in a pristine manila envelope by lunch. The thermostat adjusted? She must have noticed me rolling up my sleeves as I typed furiously into my email client, because the temperature dropped in my office before the sweat began in earnest.
This was dangerous. Relying on someone like Natalie, who was not only new to my world but someone I was sleeping with, meant creating a new, inexplicable bond that could lead to more than mere heartbreak should we ever split up.
Because at least Brooke didn’t start working for me until she was no longer my fiancée.
No time to think about that, though. I had meetings. Teleconferences. Mediating an argument between Ms. Cho and one of the mailroom clerks was at the forefront of my attention once I realized Natalie was out of the office running errands and Sherman was… well, I wasn’t sure where he was. It wasn’t until I returned to my desk, sighing in resignation, that I recalled him saying he was visiting Brooke in the hospital. I would have to wait until after work.
I ate lunch in my office, alone. Natalie brought up a sandwich from the bistro down the street and delivered it with a small smile that I couldn’t help but relish. My hand lingered on hers when she slid my lunch across my desk.
“Try not to get lettuce and onions everywhere, sir,” she said with a husky bite to voice. “I’d feel terrible for the cleaning crew.”
“I can think of worse things for them to clean up tonight.”
Her brows shot up in curiosity. Had I said something sexual? No intent of mine to flirt with that line, but I’d take it.
“If I didn’t have to go out and run your errands,” Natalie said, “I’d insist on staying in here and making sure you didn’t spill any of that sandwich.”
My turn to raise my brows and wonder what the hell she meant by that. Handfeeding me? Carefully picking up every little thing I spilled? Both were ridiculous and well beneath her. But when you’re in awe over a new relationship, sometimes the little fantasies you have are… out of touch. Benign, but something you cringe to remember later.
“It’s a sandwich, Ms. Chen. Both myself and my desk will live.”
“This antique?” She patted the restored wood every man in my family has worked at since the company was founded. It was one of the few things I didn’t throw out when my father died. “Not so sure about that. Our diets today are much harsher than they were when this piece of Colonial history was created.”
I pushed my wrapped sandwich aside. Before me, on my monitor, was some light reading to entertain me during my break. Other CEOs watch cat videos or play mindless games to give themselves a break during a long day taking over other companies and maximizing profits. Me? My eternal access to JSTOR meant I would never lack for reading materials.
I hated to watch Natalie saunter out of my office as if she owned the role she filled. Brooke may still have been better than her at that job, but she had a massive head start over my girlfriend. Before long, Natalie would probably stage a coup and kick out my ex-fiancée. I would be tempted to let her get away with it.
The article regarding the migration of herons in central Japan did not hold my interest as much as I thought it would. My sandwich was gone before I finished the first page. Thoughts continued to travel to Natalie, who was almost too good to be true.
Would there be time to take her home with me that night? Or were we doomed to another night apart? Fuck me, I was officially entrenched in the infatuation stage of our relationship. Giddiness had already almost destroyed my carefully controlled disguise. Now I was wondering what I could get out of and what I could rearrange to fit my love life.
Typical.
Sitting at my desk all morning and foregoing a morning exercise routine meant I was more cramped than a dog in her cage at the end of lunch. I checked my schedule and saw that my next meeting – a teleconference with a t
horn in my side – wasn’t for another hour. People filtered back into the main office to resume their activities. After poking my head out my door and basking in the well-oiled machine I oversaw, I closed my door and dug a yoga mat out of the depths of my private bathroom closet. With my jacket draped over my chair and the corner speakers playing light instrumentals, I inhaled a mighty, deep breath and threw myself into a short yoga routine meant to relieve the thoughts in my brain and the kinks in my body.
Not the easiest thing to do when you’re wearing men’s clothing and packing a fake dick in your pants, but after a decade, you get used to it.
Someone in my office, however, was not used to my relationship with one of the oldest arts in the world.
“Oh, hi.” Natalie had swiped her clearance card and helped herself into my office. The file in her hand almost hit the floor. She quickly closed the door behind her before the whole office saw me doing the splits on a yoga mat, my wiggling toes extended and my forehead lowering to my steepled fingers. “Hi. Hi.”
I maintained my pose while gazing up at her. “Like what you see?”
Natalie hustled to my desk and placed her folder down before she could drop it again. “That’s definitely something.”
“You can’t do the splits?”
“Absolutely not. The only thing that splits around here is me when someone opens a bottle of vinegar.”
“Duly noted.” I slowly raised my torso and pulled my legs back into a respectable fold. “Excuse me. Had to stretch after a long morning. You know how it is.”
“Usually when I want to stretch, I take off my heels and bend over.”
“Who says the only time you do that is when you’re stretching?”
“Mr. Mann!” Natalie chided me with faux-animosity. “We are at work.”
“We sure are. Didn’t happen to bring back any coffee, did you?”
She rushed into the breakroom to get me some, although I hadn’t asked her to fetch any. By the time she returned, I was in downward-facing dog, my breaths long and strong, and my back arching to the slow beat of the music on the speakers.