Snap out of it.
I am not feeling Al Green levels of hearts fluttering over my head.
Nope. Just enjoying some tunes. That’s all. Like William Bell. I switch to him next, then lean back in the chair and enjoy the song along with my listeners.
I turn my mic on as the track fades out. “And now, because music, like sex, is better with a partner, here’s Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”
When the song ends, it’s one minute to ten. Time to wrap up.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s wind down, and whether you’re in the mood tonight for some ‘Love and Happiness’ or just looking to ‘Get It On,’ I hope you find someone to share it with. This is DJ Insomnia, reminding you that you can sleep when you’re dead. Peace.”
The “On Air” light flicks off as I cut the feed, energized by the post-show buzz.
Or is tonight’s high courtesy of anticipation? London will be here any second, and we’ll be alone.
The engineer took off already, since I’m used to locking up, and my show’s the last of the night.
In the quiet of the studio, I have my laptop open to cue up the “Come as You Are” remix I made for London’s revue, when she texts that she’s downstairs. I buzz her into the building. “Third floor. End of the hall. There may or may not be ice cream.”
“Do not tease about ice cream.”
“Fine. There is sadly no ice cream.” I wish now that there were. “But I can’t wait to tease you about other things.”
A minute later, the door to the studio control room opens, and London breezes in. “Your music partner has arrived,” she says with a flourish, and tosses her bag onto the couch.
Partner. Did she listen to my show? Hear my comment about duets? If so, that’s hella hot. “Music is better with a partner,” I say, and the glint in her eyes behind those cute red glasses is my answer.
I drink her in, from her flowy floral top that has the good sense to hug her breasts, to the curve of her hips in her snug jeans. My jeans become a bit snugger too. A lot snugger, actually.
“It’s good to see you.” I try to keep the mood casual as I stand, cross the studio, and wrap her in a quick hug.
We separate as she checks out the room, taking in the posters advertising bands at the Hollywood Bowl and the Greek. “This place is exactly how I pictured it. I have to confess, I was hoping I’d feel like I was in a Nick Hornby novel,” she says.
“It’s High Fidelity in radio station form.”
“Exactly. Epic show posters, a few gold records.”
I gesture to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.” As she sinks into the cushions, I take a seat opposite her at the desk so I can man the controls. As I settle in, her gaze lingers briefly on my stomach and the bulge in my pants. The hungry look in her eyes only sends more blood rushing to the region. Last night’s oral offer has been running through my mind continually. How can I be expected to get any playlist-planning done when she’s eye-fucking me like that?
It’s an impossible feat. Eye-fucking wins, fair and square.
She rubs her palms, at the ready. “What have you got for me?”
Oh, I have plenty for you, London.
I click on the mix, launching into the opening notes of Nirvana.
“You said you wanted something playful, fun, and also iconic. And when you busted out those moves downtown, then again in that video, I kept thinking about the type of music that women love, that gets them to grab their friend’s hand and say, ‘Oh my God, I love this song.’ But I also thought about how some things make us hear a song a new way. So . . .” I stretch out the word as I build to my big idea. “I’ve put some mash-ups together that combine rock edginess with pop effervescence. Something like this.” I switch from the Cobain track to the start of an Imagine Dragons tune.
Her eyes light up. “I love them. My friends do too.”
Yup. Called it. “Let’s give the audience what they want.”
“Brilliant.”
The second the lyrics are set to kick in, Taylor Swift launches into “Shake It Off.”
London’s eyes spark, and my chest tightens with a growing hope. I want her to like this way more than I expected.
She seems into it, but not quite sold, until I move on to the next tune—a Duran Duran number that the ladies at Edge always seem to sing their own karaoke to, “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
Something like glee crosses her face.
Pride suffuses me. Nothing beats impressing the woman you like.
Except sex.
That’s better.
But this is pretty damn close.
As Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” blends in with the chorus, London picks up her imaginary Strat and strums the air.
“You’ve been practicing. I can tell,” I say of her air-shredding.
“I’ve got a competition to enter, remember? And apparently I’ll have to learn animal hybrid tunes . . . because did you really just combine wolf and tiger songs?”
“I’m not afraid to go carnal,” I say, and her mouth forms a sexy O as she sets down her imaginary guitar and pick when Survivor hits the chorus. London bobs her head, visualizing her choreography, I suspect.
“I have a verdict,” she says, and I can’t tell from her tone if she’s deep in thought or deeply disappointed. She relieves me with her next words. “I love it, Teddy. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. The pop lyrics are familiar enough to get a club pumped up, but the rock jamming underneath makes it a totally unique sound. You’re soooo good.”
My body tingles at her words. I could listen to her compliment me all night long. And hell, I’d like to earn praise from her, in all different ways.
She mentions other artists she wants to hear, like P!nk and Ed Sheeran, so I make some notes to work on it and send her another round tomorrow.
We listen to a few other tunes I have cued up, soaking in the surround-sound vibe of the speakers, the way music bathes the studio. Archer’s right—it does feel like the club in here.
When we’ve made real progress, I declare our work done for the evening and head to the mini-fridge, grabbing two cans of seltzer and handing her one. “Celebratory toast?”
After we pop them open, we clink aluminum and say, “Cheers.” I slide next to her on the couch.
“That was hard work,” she says. “You do seem like you need a break.”
“Hey, it’s been a long day,” I say, a hint of fatigue coming through. “Tennis with Sam, lunch with my parents, radio show, thinking about the situation with you all day.” I probably shouldn’t admit that last bit, but when I’m next to her like this, the truth wants to come out.
“Ah, yes. It is a situation.”
“It didn’t help either when my mom asked if I was seeing anyone.” The guilt and confusion from lunch comes rushing back, like a sharp, stabbing pain.
She takes a sip of her bubbles, her brow knitting, like she’s mulling this over. “And what did you say?”
“Honestly? I lied. Or at least I kinda didn’t answer. And I don’t know why exactly. Because I love my folks and I’ve always been up-front with them about my relationships, and I wanted to tell them about you. But I don’t know . . .” I trail off, not sure exactly what I’m trying to say. Not sure where we should go from here.
How to be careful and also be present tonight. Or if I can.
“But this isn’t a relationship.” It comes out a little sad, and that note in her voice stops me for a moment.
But then, I can’t argue with her.
It’s not.
I’m the one who made it clear that we couldn’t have one.
I laid down the law.
“Right,” I say, a little heavily. “For all the reasons we talked about.”
“Exactly,” she says, adjusting her tone, speaking brightly now. Maybe too brightly? Hard to say, but I swear for a second it sounds like she’s convincing herself.
Like maybe she wi
shes we could have something more.
Or is that wishful thinking on my part?
Likely so, and with that in mind, I let the next words make landfall. “Except we aren’t going to be working together that long . . .”
It sounds like an invitation, one that spells out how I’m potentially up for more in the future.
Trouble is, even though she won’t be working for the club much longer, she’ll always be my boss’s sister.
And I don’t want to mix business with pleasure.
Especially since leaving the club isn’t an option.
My deejay business has barely gotten off the ground. It’s like a hot-air balloon floating a few feet above earth, sandbags still very much attached.
“That’s true,” she says, perched on the edge of the couch like she’s waiting for me to say more.
But, fuuuuck, I can’t say what I want to say. Can’t do what I want to do.
I can say this much though.
“You’ve got to know, if I didn’t work for your brother, this would be different,” I say, gesturing from her to me and back. “It would. I swear.”
Her smile curves wickedly. “Good to hear.”
“But I do work for him. And more than that, I just can’t make the same mistakes I made last time. Everything was tangled up with Tracy’s dad, and when I got out of that relationship, I had to start over. Rebuild from scratch.”
“I don’t want you to be in that position. You need to know I don’t want to get in the way of your career. That’s the last thing I want.”
Damn. Why does she have to be so understanding? Oh right, because she’s awesome. Thanks, universe, for dangling a fantastic woman in my path—a woman I can’t have.
“And I need the job. I need the raise I’m up for too, since it’ll help me with my own business.” I emphasize the word need because, well, it deserves emphasis. “My event business isn’t ready to fly on its own just now. Maybe someday. But not yet. So I need to keep building that. I said as much to Sam when I told him about you.”
“You told your friend about me?” Her tone pitches up like she’s intrigued, maybe delighted, by this fact.
“Hell, yeah. Told him what an incredible first date we had. He’s wise beyond his years. Honestly, he keeps me more centered than he probably knows. He’s a good dude.”
“Sounds like my Olive. She and Emery are my rocks—my diamonds really. We all went to college together, and I’m so happy they both live here. They’ve made settling in LA so much easier for me.”
“Here’s to friends.” I lift my can to hers.
“Not for the many, but for the true.”
“I like that,” I say, then take a drink.
“Thanks,” she says. “Although, I can hear Olive whispering in my ear right now telling me friendships aren’t everything. Friendships are there so you have someone to talk to about your awesome sex life, she’d say.”
“So is it? Awesome?”
Her eyes glint. “It’s been showing real promise recently. I met this adorable guy,” she says, using the same word she did on our sushi date.
“I hear adorable is actually quite sexy.”
“You heard correctly.” This conversation has taken a welcome turn away from Shouldn’t City and toward Why Notsville. Her voice is pure sex, and her eyes are smoldering. I set my can on the table, and she does the same.
“You know what else I heard?” I ask playfully.
“What’s that?”
“Adorable guys are great kissers. It can be proven in the adorable-guy challenge.”
“Challenge accepted. Lay it on me.”
“With pleasure.” I lean in, gently remove her glasses, set them on the coffee table, and steal one long kiss, claiming her mouth, savoring the taste of her.
My head swims with desire, and I let out a low groan. She pulls back, eyes hazy. “I think you’re right. About us focusing on the job.”
“Right,” I say, deflated, even though her eyes haven’t lost any of that fire.
“But I think we’re probably okay to focus on different kinds of jobs. Like, say, blow . . . jobs.” She gives a hint of separation between those last two words, and it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard.
“That sounds like a great job to focus on,” I rasp as she inches closer to me and lays her hand on my stomach.
She slides her fingers between the buttons of my shirt, teasing my abs. I curl a hand around the back of her head, drawing her to my mouth. Losing myself in London. Giving in to this moment that feels so right. She feels right. And I want that. I want more of her.
She takes over the kiss, flicking her tongue over my lips while she unbuttons my shirt, caressing my chest. Part of me wants to stop her—it’s after hours, but someone still might come into the studio. But she seems into it, and hey, it’s just a shirt.
“Mmm. Nice chest. Nice pecs. Nice everything,” she whispers in my ear as she parts the material, dips her head, and presses a kiss to my chest. I shudder from her touch, running my fingers through her hair as she feathers kisses on my pecs and nipples. Her soft lips on my skin send shock waves rushing through my body. My cock throbs in my pants as she scrapes her fingernails down my abs.
Then, in one smooth motion, she unclasps the button at my fly and tugs at my zipper. She slides effortlessly off the couch so she’s on her knees in front of me, just as I was for her last night. She’s a sensual goddess, a lustful contradiction. Submissive on her knees, but powerful in her eyes, the desire to please me shining in those irises. Part of me wants to toss her on her back and fuck her so we can experience that pleasure together, but something else tells me to relax, to enjoy this.
Her hand plays with the waistband of my boxer briefs, and her eyes dart to the door. She seems aware of the distant possibility of us being found like this, and instead of pulling my pants down, she reaches inside and grabs my length. The feel of her soft hand on me for the first time draws out a groan from deep within.
An appreciative smirk plays on her face as she runs her hand down my shaft to cup my balls, freeing me from my boxers, exposing all of me to her. She licks her lips as her eyes focus on my dick, and I swear I almost come from the look on her face alone.
“This is a pretty nice cock too,” she says.
“Nice?” I tease.
Taking her time, she whispers in a voice like smoke, “Incredible.”
If I thought I was going to blow from the heat in her eyes, her dirty words have me at the edge of desire. With her hands on my thighs, she drags her soft tongue up my length, teasing me from balls to tip. She plants firm, sucking kisses down the throbbing vein as her hand grips the base. Her lips and her touch have my cock jumping against my stomach.
“Now that’s incredible,” I murmur, as she pumps up the length of my shaft, stopping to thumb the pre-come off the tip. She brings it to her lips, her eyes going hazy as she licks off the taste of me.
I heat up as I get to know London’s deliciously dirty side, fire sparking across every inch of my body.
Her hand smooths down my dick until she’s cupping my balls, driving me crazy with her teasing touch.
I let out a low growl that sounds like a warning. I’m dying for her to take me in her mouth, but London has other plans—plans to make me beg, it seems.
Her mouth travels the length of my shaft as her eyes stay locked on mine.
“Your mouth is amazing,” I grind out as her tongue reaches the tip and she swallows the head of my dick in one decadent motion.
A motion that sends lightning racing up my spine.
She takes her time, exploring my dick with her lips. And I’m all too happy for her to get to know my favorite body part.
As she sucks the head, her tongue laves my dick in an intoxicating swirl.
I’m not above pleading.
Hell, just now I’d beg, borrow, and steal for her to swallow me whole. When I groan so loudly that I wonder if the engineer who left long ago can hear, she takes mercy
and, at last, at long fucking fast, goes deeper, moaning around me.
Her murmurs, those sexy, dirty sounds, shoot pinpricks of pleasure through my body.
I lay my head back against the cushions, savoring her magnificent touch. “Your mouth . . . so good,” I croak before my mind can no longer form any thoughts, overcome by the buzz of pleasure, by the promise of blissful torment.
She sets a languid rhythm, taking her time, traveling the length of my cock, her lips and hand moving together. On the next stroke, her mouth relaxes, and she takes more.
Her hand travels lower, massaging my balls, as her lips draw me impossibly deeper in her throat. That sensation of her mouth full of me has my thighs crackling with energy, my head swimming with desire. She is intoxicating, and I’m high on her and ready to explode.
“Gonna come,” I grunt. She sucks harder, squeezes my balls just a little tighter, and lets out one more delicious moan.
My cock pulses inside her mouth, the first wave of euphoria crashing into me. As my hips thrust, my orgasm overtakes me, and a series of pulsing spasms shoots the length of my body. The release gives way to a floating sensation as I glide on a cloud of pleasure.
She slows her movements and swallows in flawless rhythm with my body.
We spend a few moments suspended in this blissed-out state. As I come down from my high, she lets go of me with one final mind-blowing lick.
Our eyes lock.
“Un. Fucking. Real,” I mutter, trying to catch my breath.
“Mmm. I’m glad you liked.”
“Oh, I liked. I fucking loved. Jesus, that was . . .” And I finish the thought by sighing happily.
She rocks back on the floor, but I grab her arm gently and pull her up to me, making room for her to nestle into my chest on the couch. She rests her head against me as I wrap an arm around her and kiss her hair.
“That’s got to be the best work meeting I’ve ever been a part of,” I offer, as real-world thoughts return to my mind—most of them working out ways to reconcile the sex we want to have with the relationship we need to avoid.
26
Sure, I have theories. About fate, about luck, about great sex.
But never once did I speculate that an excellent sexual encounter would sate me.
How to Get Lucky Page 14