Private Pleasures (15 page)
But the thrill of the hunt couldn't begin to explain the strange, slightly hollow feeling in his chest, the sting of embarrassment over the fact that even though he'd gotten in the last word—or the last fuck as it were - she'd all but told him to get out and not let the door hit him in the ass. He sure as hell shouldn't take it so personally.
Had the women he'd dated before felt like this, he wondered. Sure, in the past there had been tears and total meltdowns from some when he made it clear that he hadn't been kidding when he said he was never going to get serious.
But even the ones who claimed they knew the score and were fine with it, did they leave his condo feeling a little sad, a little humiliated? A little used?
He shook the thoughts from his head.
All he knew was he had three weeks to work Wendy Carmichael out of his system for good.
And if he wasn't up to this challenge, there would be hell to pay.
Wendy yawned and stretched in her desk chair, trying to focus her gritty eyes on her computer screen.
Thank God Drew was leaving in less than two weeks. He was starting to become a distraction. Everything would go so much more smoothly once he was gone.
That's what Wendy told herself, ignoring the pinching feeling she got in her chest every time she thought about Drew's inevitable move across the country. Out of her life for good. Because neither of them had any illusions about continuing this... arrangement long distance.
Because it wasn't anything, didn't mean anything, beyond two people scratching an itch.
And Drew was oh so very good at scratching her itch. That's all she would miss, she reminded herself as the words on her computer screen blurred in front of her.
She wouldn't miss the way his voice sounded on the phone every night when he called her to tell her was coming over, low and gravelly and laced heavily with sexual promise. After that night a week and half ago, he'd called the next night at ten and told her he'd be there in fifteen minutes. When she'd reminded him that she was busy, and he couldn't just expect that she would be ready and willing any time he wanted it he'd cut her off with a curt, "I've been thinking about you all day and now my cock is hard enough to pound nails. You know I can make you come inside of two minutes, and don't pretend you don't want it as bad as I do."
And damned if that didn't make her instantly wet and ready. So much so that by the time he got to her place it took him much less than two minutes for him to send her spiraling out of control.
She wouldn't miss his casual courtesies, the way he seemed to know exactly what she needed without her having to say a word. Like the night he'd shown up with takeout from her favorite restaurant, as if he'd known she hadn't eaten since breakfast and had nothing in her kitchen but stale crackers and jar of peanut butter that had been scraped clean. Or how, three nights ago, he'd watched her remove her heels with a wince and wordlessly settled her down on the couch and proceeded to give her the best foot massage of her life.
"You don't have to do that," she'd said, trying to jerk her feet from his grip. It was stupid—the man had had his tongue between her legs almost every night for the past eight, but somehow this casual affection—along with the dinners, the quiet conversations over bottles of wine and the long run they'd taken over the Golden Gate Bridge last Saturday—felt like it was crossing the line.
It was too much like what people did when their relationship was about more than sex. Like a real couple.
"But you like it," Drew had said, pressing his thumb into the pad of her foot in a way that wrung an involuntary moan out of her, more than proving his point.
Wendy tried to pull away again, albeit a little more weakly this time. "You don't need to bring me dinners and wine and rub my feet. You don't have to be so nice to me," she'd said, wincing inwardly at her petulant tone.
"Call me crazy," Drew said, his hands now working their magic on her sore arch, "but when I'm getting well fucked every night of the week, it puts me in the mood to be nice. Especially to the woman doing the fucking. But if you want me to order you to give me a blow job while I rest a beer on top of your head I can probably manage it."
A surprised laugh burst from her chest, and she'd relaxed back against the couch cushions and given herself up to his ministrations. "I suppose one foot rub isn't going too far," she murmured as his hand traveled up her calf.
Then he'd surprised her by taking the relatively innocent foot rub into something decidedly naughtier. "If it makes you feel better about it, we can turn it into a game."
"What kind of game?" she'd asked as her eyes drifted closed.
"You can pretend you're my mistress and I'm your slave, bound to do your bidding in all things."
She gave a half smile. "You know, there is this load of laundry I haven't gotten around to—"
He ran his hand up inside her thigh. "I'm sorry, mistress, but you explicitly said I'm not to do any physical labor, as it might result in injury and my inability to pleasure you properly."
Just the way he said the word pleasure was enough to summon a rush of moist heat between her thighs. And when she opened her eyes to see the heat in his....
"Go ahead. Tell me everything you want me to do."
Wendy shook herself from the memory of exactly how well he'd followed her directions, willing herself to focus on the contract in front of her. The deal was about to fall through, and this was no time to be indulging in the scorching memory of how Drew had skimmed first his hands, then his mouth up the insides of her thighs. How, at her direction, he'd slipped off her panties, sucked and tongued at her clit while finger fucking her.
How he'd then stripped them both naked and stretched out on her couch, his cock jutting out like the empire state building, huge and rock hard, ready for her use as she sank down on him and rode him until they both came, crying out so loud she was surprised the neighbors didn't start pounding on the wall.
Oh, God, just the memory was enough to make her come, right here in her office chair. Her face was hot, and glancing down she saw her nipples standing out in hard points against the silky fabric of her blouse. And lower.... She shifted against the seat of her leather chair, giving a little cry as the movement sent a jolt of electricity between her legs.
She took a huge gulp of water from the bottle sitting on her desk. When that didn't do anything to cool her raging body, she shoved all thoughts of Drew from her head and visualized snow capped mountains, the arctic tundra, and icebergs floating in the North Sea.
It didn't help much, but at least she wasn't on the verge of orgasming right here in her office in the middle of the afternoon when she was supposed to be reviewing a term sheet for her upcoming meeting.
She wouldn't miss Drew, wouldn't miss any of that when he was gone.
Right, like you don't miss him right now?
Wendy tried to ignore the evil little voice, but there was no denying the truth. Drew had been gone for two days now. He was in Boston, meeting with his new company's board and the existing executives. Going through all the last minute details before the big move.
Only two nights, and she was already climbing the walls, unable to think of anything but him, his hands on her, his mouth on her, his cock deep inside her. Her skin felt two sizes too small, tight and itchy, and inside her there was a yawning emptiness that the evil little voice inside her tried to convince her only he could fill.
Okay, fine, her body missed him. It made sense, she reasoned, that after such a long dry spell her body would quickly come to crave the amazing sex that Drew was giving her.
That was all it was, she inwardly insisted. Purely physical. She'd survived without sex for half year. She'd survive just fine without Drew. Better, in fact, because he wouldn't be around to distract her from work and keep her up late with the aforementioned awesome sex.
When the time came that her itch got too big to scratch herself, she'd find another suitable partner. Someone just as skilled as Drew who would satisfy her just as much if not more.
She kept that thought firmly in mind for the next several hours as she spent the afternoon in a series of meetings and on phone calls. And yet, when one of the senior partners praised her for bringing a deal back from the brink of collapse, she couldn't muster up more than a smile and a quiet thanks. Praise that a month ago would have had her over the moon and practically floating home now rang a little hollow as she plodded back to her office to dig in for several more hours.
Because even though it was past dinner time, there was no reason for her to go anywhere else. Even if it was Friday night and most of her friends were out partying like rock stars.
She gave herself a mental slap. Was she really going to do this? Get all mopey just because her fuck buddy was out of town for a couple of days.
With one eye on her email box full of unread messages she reached for her cell phone. Her friend Courtney answered on the third ring. Wendy couldn't help smiling at the surprised delight in her friend's greeting. And there was no mistaking the shock in Courtney's voice when Wendy asked where she should meet her. "No way! You're actually crawling out of your cave? Hold on, let me get my smelling salts."
Wendy rolled her eyes. "It's Friday night. It's not that big of a deal."
"I haven't seen you in over eight months. You wouldn't even let me take you out to drink away your sorrows after Alan dumped you."
Wendy could hear the genuine hurt in Courtney's voice and felt a pinch of guilt. "Work's been insane," she said lamely.
Courtney's snort echoed over the phone line. "It's always insane, which is why I got out of that sweatshop before it swallowed me up." She and Courtney had gotten to know each other right after Wendy got out of law school, when Wendy started at Chapman Cooper. Courtney was a second year associate and had taken Wendy under her wing. They'd immediately bonded over all nighters eating pizza in the conference room while they went through boxes of old cases.
Then, three years ago, Courtney had gotten fed up with the dog eat dog culture and the work schedule that ground lesser people into dust. "What about all of the groundwork you've laid here? If you leave now, that all goes away, and you'll never make partner if you try to come back," Wendy had said when Courtney had told her that she was taking a new job as in house counsel for a large software company.
Courtney had gotten a funny look on her face then, almost like she felt a little sorry for Wendy. "You and I both know we can work ourselves to death and there's no guarantee of making partner. That's it's just a carrot they dangle so they can treat us like slave labor."
"Slave labor pays pretty decent," Wendy had pointed out. "And even better once we make partner," she'd said, firm in her conviction and ambition to be one of the youngest associates ever to make partner at Chapman Cooper.
Courtney had shrugged. "That may be true, but I'm not going to give my life over to work for the foreseeable future when there's no guarantee I'm going to make it to the next level."
At the time, Wendy had secretly thought Courtney was making a mistake, basically scrapping all of the hard work she'd already done. Now as she listened to the background music and chatter over the phone, thought of all of the pictures Courtney had posted on her Facebook page of all the places she'd traveled and parties she'd been to in the past few years, she acknowledged that maybe Courtney was on to something.
She smacked the thought down almost as it formed. "Even us salt-miners are entitled to a little fun sometimes," Wendy said as she shut down her computer. "I'll meet you in half an hour. Just tell me where to be."
After a stop at her place to change into something less Law and Order and more Sex and the City, Wendy spotted Courtney at the end of the crowded bar of a new hot spot Wendy hadn't even heard of. Located just a few blocks from San Francisco's Tenderloin district the bar was one of many capitalizing on the popularity of shows like
Mad Men
. A huge cocktail menu over the bar showcased old school drinks like manhattans and whiskey sours. Wendy ordered herself a glass of cabernet, which got her a disdainful sniff from both the bartender and the hipster next to her, and made her way over to Courtney.
Courtney quickly introduced her to the two women she was with, friends she'd met doing morning boot camp at Crissy Field, and the two guys who had been snared in the orbit of the three attractive, apparently available women.
"This is Greg," Courtney said, indicating the blond guy who was above average height, dressed in jeans and a black shirt. Wendy smiled and gave him her hand to shake, but it was clear he was all about Courtney and the feeling was mutual.
"And this is.. Kyle, right?" Courtney said. Wendy smiled at Kyle, who was nodding. He was taller than his friend, and broader too. With his thick sweep of dark hair, strong chin, and dark eyes that glinted with humor and unmistakable interest as they scanned Wendy from head to toe, he should have sparked something in Wendy. She shook his hand and smiled back and willed something... any spark of attraction to make itself known.
Instead, as she made small talk and sipped her wine, she found herself thinking of Drew and listing all they ways this perfectly good looking, funny, friendly guy suffered terribly in comparison. First, there was his face. Perfectly sculpted, so good looking he was almost pretty.
Immediately Drew's harshly drawn, rugged features flashed in her mind. Nothing pretty about that.
Then there was Kyle's body. He mentioned competing in a triathlon, and from what she could see through his clothes it had given his tall frame a lean, honed look. But Wendy felt herself craving a body that had a few more pounds of muscle packed on. The kind of tall, broad body that spoke of barely restrained power, the kind of strength that made her feel at once vulnerable and feminine in a way she'd never felt before.