She’s right, of course, but it’s far easier to pretend that I don’t care. That way, when I disappoint them at every race, it kills me a little less. When I make a fraud of this historic sport every Sunday, it’s far easier to act like I don’t give two shits. When the media makes up ridiculous nicknames like the Paddock Playboy, it’s easier to ignore them than to educate them that I’m alone in my hotel room at night more often than not. I’m far from innocent but it’s easier not to argue.
Except for arguing with Mallory, which raises my blood pressure and gets my heart going, reminds me I’m alive, and for whatever reason, makes my dick harder than a rock. I keep silently signing photos, though. I still have balls and would rather they be buried up against Mallory right now than discussing my feelings.
“Running into Digby today wasn’t an accident, was it?” She asks, changing directions after studying my silence.
“Nope,” I admit to her, but no one else.
“You could have ruined your own race; you had to change your wing.”
“My race was ruined anyway.”
“I don’t understand you,” she sighs and reaches for a bubble mailer to open.
“I don’t understand why you’re still dressed,” I counter, running my gaze up her body, bare legs peeking out from the black Celeritas knee-length skirt she wore today just to tempt me.
Ignoring me, she opens up the bubble mailer and pulls out a white thong and an attached note. Across the front of the thong are the ironed-on letters, “Mrs. Gibbes.” “What is this?” Mallory shrieks and throws the thong at me like it’s covered in ebola. Sometimes they do arrive covered in… something, which even I’ll admit is disgusting.
I chuckle while Mallory reads aloud the index card note that came with the thong, thankfully free of any dry crusty patches. “I need you in my panties. Please sign and return.”
I sign them across the small fabric front, add a smiley face, and toss them back to Mallory to return.
“You aren’t seriously going to mail these back?” She objects.
“Of course. Unless you want to try them on,” I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “Do you want to try them on, Mallory?”
“Absolutely not, that’s disgusting!” She laughs and shoves them into a new plain envelope. “I’ll stick to wearing only my own thongs, thank you very much,” she adds.
Well, fuck, now that image is in my head. I toss my marker down. “What color are they?” She shakes her head and seals up the envelope, looking straight ahead and dismissing me. “You’re the one who put the picture in my head so tell me, what color are they?”
She crosses her legs and fidgets with the mail for a few beats of silence, I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind. “Black,” she finally gives in.
I lea
n back onto the loveseat and throw my arms over the back and side. “Show me,” I deadpan.
“I will not!” She giggles until she turns to face me and sees that I’m dead serious. “Lennox…”
“Show me.” The blush is back, creeping up her neck and her foot is wiggling nervously. When she bites her bottom lip, though, I know she’s considering my request. “You have my word, your job is safe no matter what happens between us.”
Her eyes dart to mine. “I have never, ever behaved this way with a client,” she murmurs. Good, I don’t want to think about anyone else touching her.
“Show. Me.” My voice lowers and Mallory’s eyes drop to the impressive tent in my sweatpants. She stares at the obvious bulge for a moment then meets my eyes and stands, watching me as she circles the coffee table and stands a few feet in from of me on my side of the loveseat.
I stay leaned back on the couch as she grabs the hem of her skirt and starts inching it up her hips, ever so slowly. The way she’s looking at me, determination and pride over what she’s doing to me - she’s goddamn intoxicating. I keep my eyes fixed on hers but the creamy white of her thighs is exposed, her breath picking up. The hotel room is silent but the sexual intensity between us beats like a snare drum.
A few more inches and the skirt is up around her curved waist revealing a tiny patch of black fabric covering her perfect little mound. I suck in a breath and lean forward with my elbows on my knees as I envision burying my tongue inside those folds I can scantly see the outlines of. I lift a hand and rotate my fingers instructing her to turn.
She pirouettes and looks back at me over her shoulder, her juicy peach-shaped ass facing me. Two flawless, milky cheeks are totally exposed, just the thin string of her thong run between. My cock is throbbing with the need to sink my teeth into her ass, to bend her over this couch and bury myself deep inside her.
“Fucking perfect,” I growl at her as she turns to face me again. Her nipples are hard beneath her shirt and as I lean back on the loveseat and wave my finger for her to come hither, she runs her hands up her torso and cups her tits in her hands. The way she holds my gaze, not even a little intimidated by me like most women, ignites the competitor in me and I reach out to pull her onto me.
Grabbing her bare ass with both hands, I drag her over my lap to straddle me and her hands wrap around my head as I bite and suck at her pebbled nipples through her shirt. She gasps and pulls me in harder, thrusting her chest at me. I slip my hands under her shirt and over her smooth skin and start to pull her shirt off.
“Lennox, wait.” She gasps and puts her hands on my bare chest and leans back to look at me.
“I swear to christ, Mallory, if you give me the job excuse again…” I don’t know what I’ll do if she gives me the job excuse. Probably go beat off again, in reality, but that’s a piss poor substitute for the smoking hot woman with her barely covered pussy an inch away from my dick.
“No, that’s not it. I mean, that’s also bad, very bad, but…” she mumbles and takes my face in her hand, thumbs running over two days worth of stubble I haven’t had the inclination to deal with.