Something that doesn’t make you look like a hooker.
Right. Aim for simple and classy. She pulled on the next possibility, and scolded herself for making a mountain out of such a molehill. She knew Montenido like she knew the freckles across her nose. When it came to things to do, the town didn’t present endless options. Dinner. Maybe a movie. The area around the university boasted a few clubs, and during summer people liked to picnic on the beach and watch the sunset, but the only fools hanging out on the beach on a January evening were sixteen year olds looking to get laid.
So…no beach. Tempted as she was to put on cut-offs, a Montenido University tank top, and Uggs for old time’s sake, she doubted Booker would laugh.
He might laugh at this, though. The generic black pencil skirt and fitted red blouse managed to scream I’m-trying-too-hard and I-have-absolutely-no-imagination at the same time. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser and added a scarf to the ensemble. Awesome. Now she looked like a flight attendant. She ripped the stupid silk square off, tossed it onto the chaise, and got to work on the blouse buttons.
She’d stressed about this date all day. Actually had to stop herself from calling him at a half dozen points during the afternoon and asking for some hint of what he had in mind for tonight. Pathetic.
Worse, she knew the indecisiveness stemmed from nerves. Booker trusted her with his problem, and asked for her help solving it. She needed to get her side of things right. Unfortunately, New Year’s Eve had shown that when left to her own devices, she looked like she shopped at Denise’s R Us. In an effort to muster up some classy, she ended up overthinking things and driving herself crazy.
He’s picking you up. If you’re dressed wrong, he’ll say something, and you’ll change.
Dressed wrong? She stepped out of her black peep-toe heels. Where had that come from?
Her temper started to simmer—mostly at herself, but also at him, for asking her out in the first place and turning her into a self-conscious freak.
Enough. How about you wear what you want, and if he doesn’t like it, he can change his plans for the evening?
She looked at herself in the mirror, wearing nothing except her lucky black bra and matching panties. The sexy curves of her white chaise beckoned from behind her. A sudden, vivid fantasy played out in the mirror. Booker sat on the chaise, with her astride him. One tug from him was all it would take to rend the thin straps of her bra. Then he tangled his long fingers in the back of her thong and slowly pull it off… Heat licked her skin, even as anticipation tightened it.
Hell, she should just meet him at the door like this. What was the point of the date anyway? Some kind of test? A dress rehearsal to make sure she cleaned up all right before he paraded her in front of his family? Because if it was, screw him and his six thousand bucks. He could find someone else—some debutant with the right upbringing who instinctively chose the perfect I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-we’re-doing-tonight outfit.
The doorbell chimed, interrupting her internal rant, and before she could talk herself out of it, she stormed to the door all horny and pissed, flung it open, and pulled him inside by his belt buckle. As soon as he cleared the threshold she slammed the door behind him, pivoted on her heel, and stalked down the hall toward her bedroom. “I decided we’re staying in tonight.”
His footsteps assured her he followed, but when she turned to face him, he didn’t stop coming at her. Instead, he backed her up, spun her around, and bent her over the high arm of the chaise. Next thing she knew, his big palm cracked across her ass, and a current of perverse pleasure ricocheted through her.
His voice rolled over her gasp. “Did you even look through the peephole? What if it hadn’t been me?” He brought his hand down again, but lower this time, hitting places between her thighs and making them sing.
“Who says I thought it was you?”
He bent her into a deeper angle, kicked her feet apart, and delivered an all-too-fleeting blow right over ground zero. The impact stung sensitive nerve endings and forced another gasp out of her.
“You’re spoiling for a fight, aren’t you? Tell you what, Lauralie, I’m going to adjust your mood, and then you’re going to get dressed, and we’re going out.”
“Don’t bet on it, Booker.”
“We’re betting on it.” He traced the line of her thong and she pushed her face into the cushion to keep from begging. When he grazed her clit with his knuckle she struggled not to chase his touch. “I’ll bet I can make you come in the next ten seconds. If I lose, send me home. If I win, we go to dinner, and you sit across from me in your drenched panties, remembering exactly who got you there.”
She wanted to warn him a smart man would run for the door, because when it came to her, even if he won, he lost, but what came out of her mouth was, “I hope you didn’t make reservations.”
Something landed on the cushion beside her head. His phone. She glimpsed ten seconds on the timer, but then he stroked her again, moving that diabolical knuckle in a circle, and her vision blurred. Trembles started in her knees and quickly migrated to her thighs. Everything ached. Everything throbbed. She held her breath and willed herself to endure. Do them both a favor and end this farce before one of them did something that couldn’t be undone. Ten seconds? Surely she could hold out for ten seconds.
He caught her clit between his fingers and squeezed. Pressure built in her lungs. Places deep inside her wound so tight tears stung her eyes. Every nerve in her body felt as if it originated at the stunningly sensitive knot of flesh trapped in his clasp.
He bent over her so his words flowed directly into her ear. “Tell me, Jailbait, how close are you?” She might have had it in her to tell him, “Close only counts in horseshoes,” but he didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he gave the tip of her clit a ruthless flick and sent her over, releasing a spasm of pleasure strong enough to curl her spine. Her breath escaped from her lungs on a moan of relief.
A second spasm waited behind the first. Seeing as how her noble intentions had failed, she rocked her hips and prepared for more, but the hand between her legs abruptly withdrew, and what promised to be an exquisitely intense aftershock immediately faded. Desperate to recapture the subsiding sensation, she clenched her thighs and tried to close her legs. His foot between hers thwarted her, and the maddening ghost of an orgasm floated off.
His lips brushed the rim of her ear. “I win.” He angled his phone so she could see the screen and watch the last two seconds tick by.
“That doesn’t count, and you know it.” Damn it, she sounded whiny instead of rightfully pissed.
“Why? Because I didn’t service you to your heart’s content?” His hand took the back route between her legs again, fingertips leading. She widened her stance and lifted onto her tiptoes to give him a proper opportunity to make it up to her.
Apparently he had different ideas. He swirled his fingers over the silk stretched across her sex, and then drew a lazy design on her bare skin with his fingertip. “That wasn’t our bet, was it?”
Damn him. “No.”