by Keri Lake
I shrug, not really wanting to think about it, since the number is so far away at the moment. “Eight hundred. Give, or take.”
“All that work for eight hundred? You’re selling yourself short, Nola.” He picks up one of the vases I repaired, with its golden cracks over shiny black glaze. “I’ll give you a thousand for everything. Do you ship?”
“Very funny, Voss. That’s as bad as Jonah coming in here to buy all my shit.”
“My apartment is lacking. I could use some hand-thrown pottery.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a few vases, but I’m not selling to you.”
“Is it because we’re neighbors?”
“Is that all we are still? I was wondering about that after yesterday.”
His brow wings up and he glances over his shoulder, his head obviously spinning with more ideas than mine at the moment. “If you didn’t have the burden of needing money, would you give this stuff away?”
“Ah, is this a test to see how passionate I am about pottery?”
He shrugs and stuffs his hands into his perfectly pressed slacks. “Maybe I’m just trying to get rid of this shit so I can take you out to dinner.”
“I guess I’d give it away, if someone wanted it. It’d be nice not to have to cart all this stuff home again.”
He tugs his wallet from his pocket and counts out a thousand dollars in front of me, then turns to face the crowd. “Excuse me! Can I have your attention?”
The crowd ignores him, the noise of witches shopping too loud for him to be heard.
Using the chair set out for me, he climbs up onto my table, leaving me staring at shiny, polished black shoes that I can practically see my reflection in.
“Voss! What are you doing?”
“Excuse me! Can I have your attention?” The conversations die down, and all eyes turn toward Voss.
Once again, my cheeks are burning. Hot.
“For the next ten minutes, everything at this table is free to take!”
The second he announces it, the sound of pounding hits my ears, as a stampede makes their way to my table. Women and men dressed in black capes and hats, fighting over my pottery like it’s Black Friday at Walmart. The table wiggles and jostles. Someone knocks over a now-empty wooden crate that once housed a stack of dishes. The Christmas tree I set out for display lies tipped over on the table, it’s mini bulbs rolling around in front of me.
It doesn’t even take ten minutes for every piece of pottery on my table to disappear, along with my business cards and the bowl of mints I set out.
My table is empty, as ravaged as a tuna buffet in a piranha tank.
And for the second time today, I break into hysterical laughter.
I wheel a single box, filled mostly with table props, out of the conference room and find Voss waiting for me by the elevator. In his arms is a small crate with a table cloth, lights, and gift bags that nobody bothered to use. “I don’t know whether to hate you, or hug you, right now.”
“Tell me you wanted to sit through Pixie’s seminar on Potions, and I’ll feel like shit for what I did.”
My stomach can’t possibly muster another laugh, but it does. And when the elevator dings, opening up to more witches, I clamp my mouth shut, feeling as if I’m about to explode when I step inside.
“’Nough said,” Voss says, the serious tone of his voice sending me over the edge.
My head hurts from laughing so much, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion of having gotten my ass up early to set up for this. “Part of me wants to cry. I can’t believe I did this.” I press the button to the garage level, about twelve floors down from the conference room, and rest my head against the mirrored wall.
“Well, that’ll teach you to read the fine print, won’t it?”
“You didn’t have to do that back there. I feel like you’ve rescued me more times this week than anyone has my whole life.”
He sets the basket on the floor of the elevator and crowds me against the wall. “Stay with me.”
“What?”
“I’ll get a room. We’ll get some wine. Fuck all night.”
My spine vibrates with a chill, and I mentally swallow the visual he’s planted in my head. “Voss … I have … I have to pick up Jonah. I mean, Oliver. From Jonah’s.”
“Three hours, Star Wars. That’s all I want.” He toys with a curl in my hair, smoothing the strand between his fingers. “Three hours with you. Alone.”
“I don’t …”
Palm cupping my jaw, he crushes his lips to mine, the spicy cinnamon of his breath only adding to the delicious taste in my mouth. Voss doesn’t just kiss, he consumes, engulfing me in his heat. What began as a tiny spark of excitement in my fingertips catches flame inside me and moves through my veins as if to burn through every ounce of my resistance. “Three hours. Please.”
The husky tone of his voice bleeds a small bit of desperation, like every minute counts against him.
“Voss. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
The elevator dings, and he steps aside, when it opens to the sixth floor and an older woman walks on. She smiles and turns her back to us, the awkward silence broken by the gasp that escapes me, when Voss snakes his hand down my ass and between my thighs.
The woman turns to smile again and clears her throat, before returning her attention toward the numbers counting down the floors.
Fingertips dancing across the sensitive skin between my legs, he fondles me in the most deliciously forbidden way. Every nerve in my body hums as the pad of his finger traces closer across my skin to the thin fabric separating him from what he’s made clear he wants most.
He finds it, reaching lower, until he’s probing the entrance, warning me of what’s to come.
Literally.
Lips parted, I close my eyes, mentally willing myself not to breathe too harshly. Not to get too caught up in the fantasies of being fingered right here in public, behind some poor, unsuspecting lady who has no idea how wicked this man is.
As if he read my mind last night in the bathtub. I’m dizzy with want, and his touch is selling exactly what I need right now.
“Three hours,” he whispers, but certainly not quiet enough for what he’s doing to me. “Deal?”
“Shhhh!”
The older woman clears her throat a second time.
Running his finger up and down my slit, he kisses the shell of my ear. “If you don’t, my dick will fall off, and I’ll spend the rest of my life masturbating with a pillow.”
Hand slapped to my face, I try to cap the snort that escapes me, and my body convulses with silent laughter.
“Please. Do it for the pillows.” He smiles against my cheek and bites at my earlobe, which truth be told, only adds to the dizzy sensation from before. “Will you stay with me?”
“What’s the significance of three hours?” I whisper, and goddamn, this elevator is taking forever.
“You’ll have to stay with me to find out.” The moment his fingers break contact, the knot in my stomach eases, and the wetness he’s stoked saturates my cotton panties until they’re sliding against my skin.
The elevator dings again, opening to the lobby, and before the older woman in front of us exits, she turns around, setting her hand on my arm, and leans in. “Life’s short, sweetheart. Rent the room. For the sake of pillows everywhere.” With a wink, she hobbles away.
Eyes wide with horror, I thump my fist into Voss’s shoulder. The door closes again, and he grabs either side of my face, backing me into the wall.
His tongue dips past my teeth, deepening his kiss, and he drags my thigh up over his hip. With my knee hiked, he once again has access to what he wants, and the tickle along my slit is a warning. “I want more, Nola.”
The elevator dings and opens to the lower level, where the garage sits beneath the hotel. No one there, not that it seems to matter to Voss, who keeps on with his curious tongue and wandering fingers. It closes again, but doesn’t move.
We do, though. Voss dr
ags his lips down over my throat, biting my jawline along the way. I’m squirming in his solid arms like a worm caught on a hook. Frantic and impatient, we tear into each other like it’s the last few seconds on earth.
“I’ll do anything to make you mine tonight. Anything you want.” Pushing the crotch of my damp panties aside, he flicks his finger over my sodden entrance and shudders a breath. “Fuck, you’re already wet for me.”
“You can have … any woman. Why me? I’m just … just a mom.”
“You’re a hot mom. A beautiful mom. And I got fucking mommy issues.” Only the tip of his finger slips inside. In and out, bringing to mind a stark awareness that it’s been too long. Too long since I’ve felt wanted. Desired.
Properly fucked.
Trollop. I cringe at the words of my mother. But then I remember, my mother had a man who doted on her for years, and she never once appreciated him. She never felt the empty void of affection, never spent her nights trying to remember the scent of her husband, or the sound of his voice. She built her own cage to avoid my father, to shun his affections, so she wouldn’t know the first thing about what I need right now.
“Three hours. That’s it, right?”
“Three hours.”
I don’t know what the hell is so significant about three hours, but I reach out and press the button for the lobby. “Okay. Deal.”
“I had no idea you could pay for a hotel room with cash.”
“You can do just about anything, if you talk to the right person.” Voss threads his fingers in mine, stepping aside for the wait staff, who wheel in dinner and two of their best bottles of wine, per his request. I catch him slip a wad of green into the waiter’s palm as he passes, and the moment he closes the door, my heart flutters like it’s prom night all over again.
A whirlpool tub takes up the corner of the room across from the bed. Not in the bathroom. Across from the bed. As if to encourage sex afterward. To the right of it stands a wide dresser mirror that takes up half the wall, beyond the foot of the bed, offering a clear, unobstructed view. Like voyeurs. The whole damn room seems to be designed for one thing.
I can’t even turn around for fear I’ll end up doing something embarrassing, like passing out. The last time I was with a guy, other than Denny, was Spin-The-Bottle at age fourteen, when Jake Northcott pulled me into a closet to kiss me.
The age gap between Voss and me is suddenly apparent, as I stand here, feeling like an inexperienced girl, against this man who’s probably had a woman every way imaginable. I don’t even know what’s sexy anymore. I’m only glad that I wore matching underwear and shaved my legs during my bath the night before.
“Turn around, Nola.” He’s closer now. Close enough that I can feel the buzz of excitement vibrating off of him.
With a deep breath, I turn around to catch him unbuttoning his shirt, and everything comes crashing in on me with vivid reality. This is really happening.
“Take your panties off,” he says, popping his cufflinks.
The tickle of his command beats against my skin like a soft caress, and I steal a minute to focus on my breathing. Take your panties off. My stomach flutters, sending goosebumps across my flesh. His words reverberate inside my head, telling me there’s no going back to just Voss and Nola after this. Taking off my panties will be lowering my guard, letting down the walls and leaving myself open and vulnerable to whatever Voss has in mind.
Taking a moment to release a shaky exhale, I reach around for the zip of my skirt, only loosening the small latch, before he pauses his undressing.
“Not the skirt. Just the panties.”
“Just the panties,” I echo, abandoning the zipper. Part of me is relieved I get to shield some part of myself, but another part of me says that isn’t how Voss works. Somehow, even with my skirt on, this will undoubtedly be the dirtiest experience I’ve ever had.
He slowly peels his shirt over thick shoulders, exposing the lean, cut muscle of his body beneath as if he’s preparing me for a fight.
If that’s the case, his body is a momentary distraction of pure perfection—one that has me mentally calibrating our compatibility. Will that body hurt me? If he’s as proportionate as what I’ve seen so far, I’m in trouble.
A patch of white draws my attention to a bandage taped across his bicep. “What happened there?” I ask, tipping my head toward it.
He doesn’t even bother to look, as if far too distracted to care. “Nothing. Unbutton your shirt, and take off your bra.”
What is it with him, making me undress beneath my clothes like I’m some Houdini master?
The curiosity compels me to find out, so I unfasten the buttons of my shirt, one by one, desperate to remember whether, or not, I put on deodorant this morning.
Meanwhile, Voss unzips his slacks, pushing them down his thighs over hard, chiseled muscles that look strong enough to crush me.
I reach inside my shirt and slide my arms from the loops of my bra, pulling the garment out of my sleeve and letting it fall to the floor.
He corners me, setting a palm to the wall beside my head, like a cunning wolf happening upon a small and unwitting rabbit in the woods. Reaching down between us, he hikes my skirt to just below my bare sex beneath and takes a moment to squeeze the back of my thighs.
In the mirror across from me, I look disheveled. Messy. The embodiment of sexual repression unleashed.
Dragging his fingertip down along the edge of my crisp, white shirt, he grazes my nipple, seeming to study me as he drags it back up for another pass. The sensation of his finger over my diamond hard flesh sends another wet rush between my thighs.
“Stay put.”
He crosses the room to the tray that stands beside the small kitchenette, and opens the bottle of wine, popping the cork, before pouring two glasses. Setting the bottle back on the tray, he pauses and lifts what looks to be a long, silicone stopper for the bottle, twisting it around with some unsaid curiosity. A quick glance back at me, and he moves to the sink, pumping a small bit of soap over it, and flips on the faucet.
Washing it?
Instead of pushing the stopper into the bottle, he flips the cork and plugs the opening with it, then returns carrying a glass of wine and the stopper.
Eyes narrowed, I instinctively back up a step. “What are you doing?”
“Drink some wine.”
“Not until I know what you plan to do with the wine stopper.”
“I plan to fuck you with it, Nola.”
I back up another step and frown.
“I’m a bit of a naturalist when it comes to sex. We’re surrounded by things—props and toys—that make it so much more exciting. Yet, half the time we don’t even use the shit.”
“So, you brought me up here to get yourself off, is that it? To get your fucking jollies watching me bang a wine stopper?”
“When was the last time you went outside of your comfort zone?”
“Never. I’m pretty sure that’s why they exist, ya know? Boundaries.”
“Boundaries exist to box you in. To make you fear what’s on the other side of them.”
“Boundaries keep others from venturing into places they don’t belong.” I wriggle my finger toward the stopper. “Keeps you from feeling unnecessary pain.”
“No one knows that better than me, Nola.” Snorting a laugh, he sets the wine down on the nightstand beside us. Without warning, he slaps his hand to my mouth, his big, imposing body pressing into me, until the wall hits my spine.
The shock tightens my muscles into a strange paralysis, every muscle trembling with adrenaline.
“But let’s say, for a second, that you step outside those boundaries,” he whispers, and licks his lips. “Say that you make yourself vulnerable for a minute.” He twists the stopper in front of me. “What if it felt fucking incredible to let go like that? Could you, in all your tightly-wound up morals and virtues even imagine such a thing?” His eyes are on me, thick with lust and challenge, and I can feel my heartbeat soaring
in response. The cool silicone tickles my thigh as he traces it up and down my leg. “You think it’s appalling to fuck something so common as a wine stopper. But what if it felt good, Nola? How ashamed would you feel getting off on it?”
Teasing the hem of my skirt with the object, he keeps his hand pressed to my mouth, his warm cinnamon breath beating against my throat, where he drags his tongue, just before his lips clamp down.
“Ah!” My muffled cry arrives as more of a whimper behind the barricade at my mouth.
The stopper trails up my skirt, only grazing my exposed slit. “I’ll make a deal with you. Let me fuck you with this, and if you don’t come, I’ll let you watch me fuck myself with it.”
Part of me wants to laugh at such a bold statement. This man doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does about my body to make that kind of a deal.
“Are you willing to go outside your boundaries, Nola?”
The tip of the stopper presses against my seam as he gently draws up and down over my clit. Penetrating gray eyes study me, burning with intrigue and what I surmise to be a small bit of amusement.
My knees turn weak, eyes heavy with a foreign rush, and I nod.
“Good girl.” Pressing his knee against my thigh, he spreads my legs as far as the skirt will allow, still pinning me against the wall. Kissing along my jaw, he drags the tip down to my entrance and pauses there, circling it against my flesh, teasing me. My belly is tight with anticipation, my hands balled into fists against the wall at either side of me. “I want to watch you come all over this,” he whispers and pushes the stopper up into me.
I gasp against his palm at the unexpected pleasure of the ribs rubbing along my walls, and flex my fingers in an effort to hold onto something. The ridges of the stopper add just enough friction to each glide, and I can’t help but moan at the delicious intrusion.
No, it’s wrong. This isn’t romantic, it’s dirty and humiliating, and I tell myself not to be lured by such wicked pleasures my mother always referred to as carnal and unbecoming when she talked to me about sex.
“It should be pure and discreet, and only between two people who love each other,” she often said.