Only Trick

Trick grabs my hair and smashes his mouth to mine giving me an instant case of whisker burn. The best burn ever! I grab his biceps for balance. He’s hungry and I’m starving. Releasing my lips, he shrugs off his shirt.

“You’re going to come alright, but it’s going to be in the next two minutes.”

Fuck. Me! I think I just did.

“B-But your receptionist is out there,” I say with a breathy voice as he unfastens my jeans and yanks them down with my panties while I grip his hair for support.

He looks up at me with a quick flash of confusion, then smiles. “She is, so I’d tell you to keep it down, but I’m not sure that’s going to be possible.”

“Why do you say th-thaaaat!” I scream as he simultaneously thrusts two fingers into me and sucks my clitoris, claiming the world’s fastest orgasm. NOT a gentleman! “Trick! Oh my God … O-oh. My. God!” The choir singing hallelujah echoes in my ears while the ball drops in Times Square with a mind-blowing fireworks display behind my tightly closed eyes, and every nerve in my body cheers in a pandemonium of celebration.

My legs give out, but he has me—my breasts—my neck—my lips. Then he’s inside me and my body does what it always does—chases him. I’m … I’m barely coherent. I can’t even open my eyes. Every time I start to come down, start to regain consciousness, his hands and lips navigate like magnets to all the erogenous zones on my body and it knocks me out every time.

“Fucking hell! You feel good,” he rasps.

I think he just came, but honesty I-I don’t know. I-I can’t think. He’s still for a brief moment, then he’s releasing his grip on my ass.

“I’m trying to help you out, sexy, but you have to try. Maybe lock your knees or something.”

Stand up. I think I can. Oh God, he’s cleaning me up! A decade or so passes in my brain, and I’m magically dressed again and sitting in the corner of the supply closet.

“Gotta go. I’ll take you to dinner later, okay?” He tosses me a key. “Lock the door when you come out.”

Nod. I think I can do that too. He bends down and kisses me, then leaves, shutting the door behind him. Why is he always leaving me behind?

What just happened?

Crazy. There is no other word for what just happened.

*

Forty-five minutes later—I’m still in the supply closet. Why? I haven’t yet gathered the courage to show my face. His receptionist and everyone within a mile radius heard me; I just know it. As good as … well … whatever that was, it doesn’t excuse the fact that he’s out there with another client and ignoring me stuck in here, paralyzed with humiliation. Kudos to him for walking out like he just came in here to grab a tube of lipstick, but some of us don’t have the special ability to hide all emotion.

Damn! I have to pee.

Surely he will be done soon and come rescue me.

Twenty minutes later …

Eye balls floating.

Thirty minutes later …

Time’s up!

I have to make a choice: wet my pants or face his perfectly put together receptionist. The fact that I’m even contemplating this decision is a real testament to what my BFF does to me. I’m going to kill him!

With a slow turn of the knob, I open the door. The sun has set and it’s dark outside and in here too.

What the hell?

No one’s at the reception area. I shut the door and grab the key from my pocket to lock it, but there’s not a lock on the door.

Seriously … What. The. HELL?

Tiptoeing forward I peek around the corner. The place is empty. My anger heats to a fiery red that matches my hair. I stomp back to the bathroom that I passed and relieve my bladder. I’m so pissed, in the literal and proverbial sense. After I wash my hands, my phone rings. It’s him!

“Yes?” I snap.

“Hey, where are you? I figured you’d wait for me at my place.”

“I am at your place.”

“Really? Um … are you hiding? Because I don’t see you.”

“Very funny, but guess what? I’m not laughing.”

“O-kay … Am I missing something?”

“You left me in the storage closet!”

“Darby, I had to go. I only had ten minutes to get to my next client. I assumed you needed a few minutes to … get it together.”

“What do you mean get to your next client?”

“It was an on-location job in Streeterville.”

“What about your receptionist?”

“My reception—oh, she came with me.”

I stare at the key then open the front door and stick it into the lock. It fits.

“You’re not still in the closet are you?” He laughs and I can tell he’s joking because really … what idiot would still be in the closet?

“Uh … no, of course not.” I lock the door and hustle around the corner to his place.