Wild Temptation (9 page)

I
think my vibrator is broken.

It must be. I’m not willing to admit the alternative—that my orgasm is maybe a little broken.

At least I
have
my orgasm, I rationalize while pouring a cup of coffee. It’s lackluster and the spark seems to have disappeared somewhat, but it’s there. It’s enough to get rid of the sexual frustration.

Of course, I know how to fix it. All I have to do is think about a certain British man and wheeee! There she is. But that is not a smart move.

I’m beginning to crave a man I barely know.

The sound of his voice, the brush of his fingertips across my palm, the darkness of his gaze. Every minute I spend with him only adds fuel to the fire. I’m wanting him in a way that’s forbidden, if only by myself. I want him in a way that’s oh so tempting.

Want and crave are different. Want is safe. You can be on a diet and want a chocolate bar, but it doesn’t mean you’ll give in. If you’re on that diet and you crave a chocolate bar, you can bet your ass you’ll have that chocolate. And when you crave, you’ll rationalize it. You’ll give yourself a thousand good reasons why it’s okay to have that one little chocolate bar. It won’t hurt. It’s just one.

My body tingles with the very thought of having Tyler inside me once more. All it will take for the want to turn to a craving is perhaps something as simple as a single touch from him. Then I could have him, have his body, just one more time.

And I could rationalize that it’ll be okay because one more time won’t hurt. One more time of having his lips across my skin, my breast in his hand, his tongue across my clit, my hips tilted as he drives his cock deep inside me… It wouldn’t hurt.

But it would. It would sear into my skin. Burn me. Consume me. Possess me.

I know my limits. I know my boundaries. And Tyler Stone breaks every single one of them.

I sip my coffee slowly, absently scratching under Angus’s chin. His purrs echo through my silent apartment, the low thrum of it relaxing to me.

What am I doing, really?

How can I realistically expect Tyler to stay away from me when I can’t accomplish the same thing? How can I expect him not to touch me when I don’t push him away? How can I expect him not to kiss me when, whenever he does, I respond as enthusiastically as he does?

“Oh, Angus. I need a vacation.”

He meows and dips his head to rub it against my palm. I smooth the fur along his back.

“That wasn’t a vacation. I was working. Then I went to see my parents. Yes, I know you’re upset you didn’t come, too.” I pat his head. “I’ll take you next time. I promise.”

Talking to your cat: the first step to spinsterhood.

“Maybe we should get you a lady friend,” I sigh.

He jumps from the counter and sidles over to the door. I open it and follow him downstairs. He nudges the main door with his head, and when I open that too, he rewards me by walking a figure eight around my feet before darting through the door.

A foot blocks my shutting it, and I look up, set for another argument with Tyler. But it’s not him.

“Where’s Lord Grumpyass off to?” Dayton asks, following me up the first flight of stairs.

“Gone to get him some,” I mutter.

“Good. He needs it.” She laughs. “Little shit.”

There’s no arguing with the truth. He really does need to get him some. A bit like his mama.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask when we reach my apartment.

Day takes her shiny, new camera from the bag and examines it before setting it gently on my kitchen table. “Your thing,” she replies. “Can you wear that pink camisole? It looks good with your hair.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure.”

I leave her in the kitchen to play with her camera and head into my bedroom. The camisole in question is hanging in my closet, the powder-pink color my favorite shade. That’s the only reason I bought this, really. The color.

I rifle through my “good panties” drawer and find the pair that matches. The lace is soft against my skin as I pull them up my legs, and a minute later, my breasts are safely ensconced in the bra-top of the camisole. Just about.

Standing in front of the mirror, I give my boobs a jiggle and readjust the top. Aha. There we go.

Day is on the phone when I pad back into the kitchen, a white pair of stockings in one hand and a black pair in the other. “Uh-huh. Yes, I know… All right…” She points to the white pair. “I don’t give a crap if you’re my teacher, Tyler Stone. Talk to me like I’m one of your bitches and I’ll have your balls for dinner.”

I freeze, my leg bent in front of me and the stocking poised by my toes.

“That’s what I thought… No, you can’t come over… Because it’s not your fucking shoot. That’s why!”

“If he comes over here, my clothes are going back on!” I yell, dropping my leg and waving the stocking in her direction.

She smiles smugly. “See? ... Yes, she’s totally naked… You think I’m lying? She has great tits. Real perky.”

My mouth drops open, but the shock only lasts a minute before laughter bubbles in me. I grab a couch pillow and bury my face in it as she carries on.

“Really? You don’t believe me?” she says through restrained laughter. “Uh-huh… Okay, I wasn’t going to push it, but she’s totally waxed… Mhmm.”

My howl of laughter is, thankfully, swallowed by cushion. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Let’s be honest—Tyler knows exactly what my pussy looks like. And Dayton only knows because our waxes coincide.

“Oh, imagine that. I’ll see you tonight. Bye, Ty.” She drops her phone with a smug-ass grin. “Conveniently, he’s unable to come and oversee this photoshoot. Something suddenly came up. Imagine that?” Her eyes twinkle.

I drop the pillow. “I know exactly what came up. Unfortunately for him, it’s not up the right place.”

I roll the stockings up my legs as she gets her giggles out and return to my bedroom. I open my closet doors and stare at the shoes.

“Is it a coincidence that you have pink heels that match this camisole?”

“Nope.” I pull them out of the closet and dangle them from my fingers. “Lingerie and shoes in the same shade is never a coincidence.” I pull the shoes on and stand, my hands on my hips. “All right. Tell me where you want me.”

I pull the shoes on and stand, my hands on my hips. “Alright, tell me where you want me.”

If she takes my photo one more time, her finger will fall off. Click. Click. Tap. Click. That’s all I’ve heard for two hours now. And don’t get me wrong. I’ve been at shoots longer than this, but I didn’t get in until three thirty this morning. This is not what I want to be doing after a long-ass shift, especially not when I’m back there tonight.

“You have to have enough now.”

“I do, but you’re so pretty to photograph. You make my job real easy, Liv.” She sighs and sets the camera down. “You’re gonna help me finish this degree. I know it.”

“Great. Can I get changed now?”

“One more.” She raises her camera again and I pout exaggeratedly, leaning into her with one hand on my hip. She laughs, snapping the picture. “Okay, okay. I get it. Ms. Model is all tired out.”

“Ms. Model has to go to work soon,” I correct. “And she’s hungry.”

Dayton looks at the time on the clock on my nightstand. “Takeout?”

“Pizza?”

“Pepperoni?”

“Double.”

And that right there is why we’re best friends.

She leaves my room to call Dominos and I get changed, sadly this time into my work uniform. Or what passes for a uniform. Donny, my boss, doesn’t care what we wear as long as our shirts are black and tight.

He’s a bit of a pig, but he pays well, so I put up with it.

I grab my black flats and carry them through to the front room. Day is on the phone again, this time telling Aaron that she’s having dinner with me and she doesn’t care if he booked a table somewhere. The call lasts approximately thirty seconds before she hangs up with a triumphant, “I love you!”

She looks up, shrugs, and waggles her baby finger with a smile.

I don’t doubt he’s wrapped around that tight. She could talk steel into bending itself to her will.

I drop onto the sofa next to her and prop my feet up on the coffee table. “Can I see the pictures?”

“I didn’t bring my laptop. Where’s yours?”

I fish it out from the side of the sofa and start it up while she grabs her camera cable. She takes the laptop from me when she sits back down and plugs the camera in. We wait as they load onto the computer, staring at the little box in the middle of the screen.

The second they do, she double-clicks on the first one. We flick through them one by one, and she drags her favorites into a separate folder as we go. We’re so engrossed that we almost miss the call from the pizza boy. I buzz him up and ignore the blatant way he stares at my boobs as I hand him the money.

“You’re in there, girl.” Dayton waggles her eyebrows.

I laugh. “Yeah, baby, I love them when they’re about to graduate high school.”

She snatches the pizza box from me and searches for the biggest piece like she always does. I’m not even bothered by it now. She’s been doing it for fifteen years.

“Do you remember,” she says around a mouth of pizza, “the time I dated that pizza boy?”

“I miss him. He got us free pizza all the time.”

“And he got me a big tum.” She pats her belly. “I dumped him because his free pizza was making me fat.”

I laugh, looking at her flat stomach. Unfortunately, neither of us was blessed with those incredible genes that mean you can eat crap all day and stay slim. We both know we’ll spend an extra hour working out tomorrow because of this pizza.

Before I know it, an hour has passed and I’m close to being late for work.

“Shit!”

“I’ll drive you,” Day says, packing her camera away.

“And how am I supposed to get home?”

“Call this number.” She digs her hand in her purse and hands me a card. “It’s Aaron’s car service. Just tell them to charge it to his account under my name.”

“Won’t he care?”

She opens my door and turns back to me, her eyebrow arched. “Liv, he won’t even notice.”

“Must be nice,” I mutter, following her out.

I collapse back onto my sofa. Pizza, a late night working, and the 30 Day Shred are not an ideal combination. In fact, they’re not desirable. Not in the slightest.

My phone rings and I reach for it lazily, not moving from my slouched position. “Hello?” I groan into the receiver.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The British accent makes me sit up. I moan at the ache in my muscles. “Yes. You interrupted my post-workout collapse.”

“Post-workout? Does that mean I’m talking to you and you’re all sweaty?” His tone is suggestive, and I want to rip his face off through the phone.

“If I’m not sweaty, I’m not doing it right,” I retort, swinging my legs around so my feet are on the floor. “Bypassing the question of how you got my number, why are you calling me?”

“Dayton wants me to invite you for lunch.”

“Why can’t she call me herself? Wait, why didn’t she ask me yesterday when she was here?”

“She’s run into the office with Aaron for some emergency, and it’s an impromptu lunch.”