Authors: Cathy Yardley
Roger: Am I shocking you? Because if I’m not, there might be something you might want to try.
Was he shocking her? No. She felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. She was horny, ridiculously so. She wanted sex,
really
wanted it. And good sex, at that. “What did you have in mind?”
Roger: If you’re feeling…if you want, I think I can make you feel a whole lot better. You’re going to have to help me out, though.
“How? What do you want me to do?”
Roger: Use your hands the way I’m describing. Pretend they’re my mouth, my lips.
She felt warm, shockingly so. She glanced around, as if somebody could see. The window shade was drawn, the house was empty. Feeling the tiniest bit guilty—and excited—she slowly pulled her nightgown up, and put her left hand inside her panties. It felt strange. Naughty, she supposed. She tickled herself. “Now what?” she typed awkwardly with just her right hand.
Roger: If I were with you, I’d put you down on the bed, stroking your thighs…your inner thighs. Press kisses on you, until I got to your sex. Then I’d slowly open you, just a little, and dip my tongue in, tracing around…
Judith felt like she was in a trance. Both hands down her panties, one leg up on the desk, she did as instructed, reading the messages hypnotically through half-lidded eyes. Her fingers traced, dipped, caressed. Then they started pushing, getting faster. Her breathing shallowed. His words kept coming, faster,
and she was arching her back off the ergonomic chair. She couldn’t get enough of herself.
“Oh…oh…
OH
,” she yelled, as she hadn’t with David in years…not for real. The orgasm hit her like a fist, almost causing her to fall to the floor.
When she came to—no pun intended—she didn’t know how long the messages had been going—nor did she realize when they’d stopped.
Oh, my God.
She wasn’t sure what she had let happen. She felt light-headed. Guilty.
She wanted…
“What else would you do to me?”
Sarah walked into the darkened apartment with Raoul just behind her. They’d danced close there at the party, the DJ’s mix wrapping around them like chain mail, drawing them roughly closer, giving them a beat to grind to. He wanted her…she could feel that much. She wanted him—wanted what he represented. He was gorgeous, she didn’t know him, barely knew his name. With any luck, he was a dim bulb who barely knew his own name. He represented everything she now stood for—style rather than substance, enjoying the now rather than wondering if they had a future.
How would Martika put it?
She wanted to fuck the daylights out of Raoul, the Underwear Model.
Tonight.
Martika. She felt a teeny bit guilty, but somehow felt that Tika would probably be proud of her initiative tonight. She’d harangued her enough about her obsession with Benjamin and “picket fence syndrome,” chastising her for her Fairfield Farm Girl values. Well, now she was Sarah in the City, as it were. She could do this.
It would help if she didn’t feel so nervous.
She’d dated Benjamin for about six months before she’d finally slept with him, after having several dates, after knowing
him in social circles for approximately a year. Her first boyfriend had been her high school sweetheart, someone she’d lost her virginity to. This was going to be…
Nerve-racking.
She took a deep breath as she locked the door behind them.
“Nice apartment,” he said. She wondered if he felt nervous at all. Did guys get nervous? she wondered.
“Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “My room is over there.” She pointed. “My
bedroom,
I mean.”
He smiled, and it seemed like a knowing smile. Of course it was knowing. They’d been on the dance floor, and she’d asked him if he wanted to see her apartment. She’d basically meant to say “Would you sleep with me?” but didn’t know how she would get the words past her lips. Then, like now, she didn’t need to. He knew what was going on.
He led the way. She prayed her room wasn’t too much of a mess. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference to him—after all, he was getting sex out of this—but it would have definitely added to the edge she was already enduring. Thankfully, the room was fairly tidy. At least the dirty clothes were piled semi-neatly on her wing chair. She threw a sheet over them, then looked at him nervously.
He led the way again, reaching for her, kissing her. She kissed him back, feeling the first twinges of arousal battling back the nerves. Pretty soon they were both breathing heavily. She tugged at his shirt. He pulled it over his head.
Suddenly, things were happening. She tried kicking off her platforms, but that wasn’t working. She tore at her shoes, falling onto her pile of dirty clothes. He kicked off his shoes successfully, reaching for the fly of his slacks and stripping down to his, well, trademark underwear. He stood there for a moment, staring at her, a small smile.
Wow. I’ve got a living, breathing underwear ad in my bedroom.
Then he took off the underwear, and she stopped tugging off her boots to stare. “Well, okay,” she breathed.
He started to reach for her. She still had panties and her strapless bra thingy on. She kissed him, felt him reach around and unclasp the top, disengaging long enough to gently tug the thing away from her. So now there was just panties between them.
He started to guide her to the bed, totally in control.
Problem,
she thought. “Do you have a condom?”
He frowned. “Well, no.”
She blinked at that. “You weren’t expecting to have sex without one, were you?”
“Do you have one?” he answered instead.
She frowned. “Honestly. You could be carrying all sorts of…you could risk exposure to all sorts of diseases without one!”
He sighed, leaning back on the bed, his body looking like a statue…his erection looking very much like a flesh-colored flagpole. “I thought we were here for sex, not a service announcement.” He paused. “Sometimes passion affects me this way.”
Dim Bulb,
she thought disparagingly, feeling the flame of her passion douse a bit.
He reached for her, tugging her down, kissing her neck, her breasts. She was taken aback by the suddenness of it. To her surprise, her breathing sped up again. She could feel his dick pushing at her.
“Wait a second. Wait a second.” She managed to tear herself away from him, and made a naked dash for Martika’s room, praying she wasn’t there. The room was a mess—bed unmade, clothes strewn around, bra on a lampshade…she wasn’t even going to question how that got there. She went to one of the bedside tables and opened the drawer. She was greeted with what looked like a diary and what looked like a vibrator. Okay it
was
a vibrator. She winced, closing the drawer, then went to the other table.
Paydirt.
She grabbed a couple of condoms—the drawer was full of them.
She rushed back to her room and almost slammed the door.
Okay, the flagpole was still there, ready to go. She handed him a condom. He gave her a sweet, patronizing sort of smile, then ripped into the foil, grumbling slightly as the thing managed to negotiate his size.
Sarah was really feeling pretty proud of herself as she pulled her panties off, leaving them on the floor by her bed. “Um, did you want the light on or off?”
He thought about it. “Doesn’t matter. Whichever you like.”
“Under the covers, I suppose?”
“Sure.”
She bit her lip, pulling back the blankets and reaching to shut off the light. “You didn’t want music, did you? I could put on some
…mmmrph.
”
He’d silenced her with kisses. He seemed to have grown three extra sets of hands. He was touching her all over. His kisses left a trail all over her face, neck, torso. He was everywhere at once. She wasn’t being made love to—she was somehow being assimilated.
“Erp.” She tried to protest, but there was suddenly tongue, and not hers, in her mouth. She concentrated on kissing and breathing so she wouldn’t pass out and miss anything.
She felt sort of turned on, she supposed. It would be easier to tell if she could figure out where her body ended and his started….
Fwoomp.
He entered her suddenly, and she gasped. Something that big slides into you when you’re not expecting it, and it’s no joke. She threw her head back, trying to angle a little better so she’d get friction where she needed it. She was used to accommodating herself with Benjamin—this wasn’t as tough as she thought it would be.
He was going a little quicker than she would have liked, though, and he was breathing hard. She reached up, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Could…”
“Oh, yeah. Ohhhh…”
He pushed against her hard enough to think one of her ovaries had been dislodged. Then he shivered and almost crushed her.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.
She tapped on his shoulder, twice, like a high school wrestler acknowledging a pin. “Raoul?”
He groaned, then rolled off her, taking forever it seemed to pull out. He removed the condom, taking a tissue from her bedside table to wrap it up and throw it out. Then he just lay there, still.
She was lying there too, stunned. O-kay. Now what?
She waited for him to initiate conversation. Or maybe he’d get dressed and go home. Or something.
He started to snore.
She blinked. Okay, this could
not
be happening. Just couldn’t.
She waited a little longer, then nudged him. Then nudged a little harder.
He rolled over, taking a lot of the blanket with him.
Oh, for the love of Pete.
She got up, an easy feat considering she wasn’t hampered by covers, she thought with a grimace. She pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, and went out to get herself a drink.
She heard the shower running. Martika was home?
She thought about what she was going to say about all of this when she got out of the shower. She poured herself a glass of orange juice, debated about putting vodka in it, but decided to stick to the straight stuff. Then she sat at the table and waited.
Martika came out, a towel wrapped around her head and a slinky nightgown on. Her glance at Sarah was full of unmitigated surprise. She glanced at the shut door to Sarah’s bedroom. “You’re done?”
“Yup.” Sarah frowned. “Correction. He’s done. I’ve been done but am not done. Does that make sense?”
Martika’s finely sculpted eyebrows jumped so high they were hidden by the towel, and then she started to laugh.
“It is funny,” Sarah admitted, chuckling a little herself. “Tika, I’m sorry. I knew you were interested in him…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Martika said expansively, going and getting herself a glass of water and a handful of vitamins. “I
mean, I was pissed initially, but after all, I
did
train you. Your first time out, your first one-night stand, and you hit a home run. How could I not be thrilled by it, right?”
Sarah smiled. This was the Martika she knew—the den mother of Hollywood Boulevard. “Thanks, Tika. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do, although the full story of Raoul’s bed prowess ought to do.” She laughed, then stopped abruptly. “Wait a sec. He’s still here? Shouldn’t you be…” She paused. “Don’t tell me. Is he in there sleeping?”
“Snores and all.”
Martika threw back her head and let out one of her full, leonine laughs. “This just gets better and better! Did he have a little dick?”
“Certainly not,” Sarah said, still remembering that last jarring push. “But he was a little haphazard with it, if you know what I mean.”
“We’ll have to rename him Lightning and the Wrecking Balls. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Taylor.”
“You’d tell Taylor?” Sarah said, scandalized.
“Of course,” Tika said, with a wave of her glass. She downed the pills. “You’ll understand tomorrow, believe me.”
“One thing,” Sarah said. “Now that I’ve, er, slept with him…how do I get rid of him?”
Martika’s eyes widened, and her grin turned evil. “Ooh. If you really want to make it up to me…can I throw him out?”
Sarah smirked, pointing to the door. “Have a good time.”
S
arah stood in the “Love & Relationships” section of Waldenbooks on her usual two-hour lunch break. She was feeling…well, probably the best way to describe it was worked up. She was feeling too adventurous to just brush it off, but too particular to be indiscriminately horny. That was what she supposed she’d felt with Raoul.
And look what a disaster that turned out to be.
Not this time, she thought, picking up
The Kama Sutra
and looking at the diagrams, trying to steel herself against any curious bystanders’ gazes. She wasn’t going to charge into a one-night stand. She was going to test—and plan—and next time, she was going to find a guy who could truly make her sexually happy.
As Missy Elliot said, she wasn’t lookin’ for some one-minute man.
If she could manage another guy with Raoul’s looks, that would be great. But she was willing to trade drop-dead glam for a little staying power. No, make that a
lot
of staying power. And he had to have skill, and be open-minded. She’d had Ozzie and Harriet. Now she was looking for Henry and June.
Now, where am I going to find a guy like that?
“Sarah?”
Sarah looked up, shutting the book with a snap.
It was Jeremy. Cute Jeremy, from her Temps Fugit assignment. The one she’d made labels for.
Hmm.
She smiled. “Jeremy. It’s nice to see you.”
He stepped up to her, looking yummy as usual in a white oxford shirt, dress pants and a crimson tie. His smile was slightly crooked, and his stare piercing, just like she’d remembered. She stood straight, all but pushing her breasts at him, and smiled coyly.
Now, all that practice comes into effect.
He didn’t have a wedding ring, and she thought she’d heard around the office that he was a player of some sort.
Oh, he’d do
very
nicely.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” he said.
“You were?”
“I was so disappointed to hear about what happened to you,” he said, his gaze only briefly dipping to her chest before he managed to make eye contact again. She smiled. “I mean, the accusations…they didn’t seem like you at all. You seemed like such a
nice
girl.”
Sarah frowned, not sure if this was going to help her eventual case or not.
“I couldn’t believe that you were working for somebody else and had deliberately deleted financial files. I mean, corporate espionage…it was just inconceivable.”
Sarah chuckled. “Oh, yeah, that’s me—the Mata Hari of the secretarial pool.” She batted her eyes at him.
Mata Hari. Sexual dynamo. Get it?
“So I did some research.”
She paused, momentarily shaken from her seductive path. “What?”
“Yeah, and guess what? Janice had us fifteen million over budget, the budget she was responsible for, and she didn’t even know what was happening. She deleted those files
and
the backups, and then tried to pin it on you to buy herself some time. When there was no way she could salvage it when the numbers reappeared, she tried to blame a bunch of other people. It
brought down an audit, and it turned out that not only had she badly bungled managing the money, but she’d spent about fifty grand on stuff for herself.”
“No way!” Sarah was flabbergasted. “On what?”
“The usual—charging massages and hotel rooms and whatever to the corporate account, saying they were for various clients when they were really for her.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I put in a call to Temps Fugit, explaining what had happened and trying to clear your name.” Sarah was thrilled to see his smile turn a little wicked. “And they didn’t even have the decency to give you my phone number.”
She was about to thank him, when she realized that his interest wasn’t purely that of a Good Samaritan. She licked her lips. “Well. What in the world can I do to thank you?” she said, her eyes going wide.
His grin grew a little more wolfish. “I really can’t imagine.”
“Dinner might be a good start,” she said slowly, studying his expression. To her chagrin, it grew a little bored.
“Well, maybe we could improve on it.”
“Dancing,” Sarah said. “I’d have to insist on dancing.”
His eyebrows rose at that one, but he was still smiling when he asked, “Why dancing, in particular?”
Go for the gusto, Walker!
Sarah took a deep breath. “Because everybody knows the best way to evaluate how somebody is in bed is to see how they are on the dance floor.”
She prayed she wasn’t blushing.
She’d succeeded in shocking him, if only for a moment, but his answering smile was pure, sinful
sex.
He leaned close to her…she could feel the heat from his body.
“I see,” he whispered. “Am I being evaluated?”
She looked up at him, barely moving when he brushed a quick kiss across her lips, now shocking
her.
“You’re going through tryouts,” she said cavalierly, unable to stop herself from glancing around to see if anybody noticed. Man, he smelled good.
“I see. And dancing is the next step?”
She nodded, her breathing became more shallow.
His voice went even lower, his breath tickled her ear. “What’s after that?”
She smiled. “Oh,” she said, deliberately putting the book down with its cover showing. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
He glanced at the book, then made a low, almost feral sound.
“I think I like you,” he said simply, although his eyes were lit like bonfires. “Tell me you’re giving me your number.”
Martika was sitting on her customary couch at Pointless Party, her club du jour. She’d been frequenting the Hollywood club for the past two months—she didn’t think it was going to last too long. She hadn’t picked anybody up in about two weeks—in fact, the last guy she’d tried to pick up had…
She frowned, pushing at her stomach. Damn. She needed to stop eating at the roach coach that cruised by her design studio for lunch. She sipped at a Coke, hoping it would settle her down.
Not that the guy wouldn’t have fucked me. It was just I wasn’t interested.
At least, that’s how she remembered it playing out. The bottom line was, her sex life was beginning to suck (although not literally, for a change)…and the social scene in L.A.
swallowed,
not to put too fine a point on it.
She wasn’t interested in partying too much tonight, anyway. She had a mission: making Taylor feel better. His latest breakup with Luis finally stuck—the repulsive little lizard-boy hadn’t shown up for
weeks.
She thought she’d seen him with someone else at Beer Bust, anyway. She wasn’t going to that as much, either—while she loved being a girl in Boystown, the gay-guy scene had begun to pall on her. If she wanted that much drama, she’d just hang with Taylor.
“Can I get you another drink, sweetie?” she asked. He wasn’t even dressed up—for Christ’s sake, he looked like Kit had put together his ensemble. She couldn’t remember the last time she
saw him in wrinkled jeans and a regular T-shirt. He shrugged. A bad sign.
She scooted over the vinyl seat until she was leaning against him. She put an arm around his shoulders, squeezing it for comfort. “I’ve said it before…you’re better off without him.”
“Yeah, but I
knew
him. I was used to him. Even his pissy qualities were familiar.”
“That’s enough of that,” Martika said briskly. “Just because he was easy doesn’t mean he was right. You deserve better.”
Taylor’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his normally sardonic face held a look of—what the hell was that? Sorrow? Or…contempt?
“Martika, you’re not helping.”
She frowned. “Well, I’m trying to. I mean it, sweetie, you deserve the best.”
“How would you know what’s best for me, Tika?”
She smiled, leaning back a little. “Because I know what’s best for everybody.”
“Then what’s best for you?”
She shrugged. “This. Hanging out, enjoying myself, and comforting my very best friend in the whole world.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said slowly, and she wondered if his couple of drinks were making him lethargic, “but have you considered getting a life?”
His tone was so comfortable and familiar that it took her a minute to register what he’d just said. “What the fuck…?” Her voice went up an octave, and she pulled away from him, eyes narrowed.
He held up his hands protectively, motioning her to settle down.
Like hell,
she thought. “Tika, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts. I do. But you never really understood about Luis. You don’t understand about loving somebody like that—where you’d do anything for them.”
“Oh, that is such bullshit,” she snapped back. “Look at everything I do for you! Hell, I even take care of Sarah…okay,
so I don’t have a committed
relationship.
But fuck, who needs one?”
He sighed. “I’m not saying you need to find somebody to be happy.”
“Damn right.”
“I’m saying,” he said, and his voice was heartbreakingly gentle, “that you’re
not
happy. And you’re hardly in a position to tell
me
how to be happy.”
She blinked. If he’d gotten up and slapped her, she wouldn’t have been more surprised.
“How long have we known each other?”
She shifted gears, trying to move away from his words. “Since I was sixteen.”
“Since you ran away from home,” he said. “I’ve known you since you changed your name. And you know what the weird thing is? Other than growing out a little, you haven’t changed a bit.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
“Listen, I know I’ve made some dumb choices, but I’ve lived with them. Remember when I got married?”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, Christ. I’d blacked that out.”
“Well, it was stupid, but I made a go of it until he divorced me.” She frowned. “I gave it my all for a year and a half. You helped me pick up the pieces… Don’t tell me I don’t know about loving somebody. I just choose not to waste it on men I fuck, that’s all.”
He shook his head. “Tika. What am I going to do with you?”
She shrugged. “It’s my life. I play, I pay.”
“And that,” he said, “is my point. To you.”
She frowned.
“I’ll be fine, Martika. Just…let me do this on my own, okay?”
She thought about it, but her stomach hurt too much.
“Nope,” she said, finally. “Like it or not, you’re getting taken care of. Now what do you want to drink?”
Judith looked out over the lawn party being held at the dean’s house for the relatively small (
but just as good as USC,
her husband often remarked) law school. It was certainly trying to be as opulent as USC, she gave them that much. It looked like something out of a forties movie—men in dinner jackets and black ties, women in cocktail dresses. She herself wore a pale pink silk dress, cut like something you see madams wearing in Chinese whorehouses in films of the Old West. David liked her to emphasize her heritage. The fact that she didn’t speak it, wasn’t pure Chinese, and hadn’t been to the country meant relatively little. Her mother would have found the whole thing funny, actually.
She looked out over the lawn, with the milling crowds of people, and looked into the windows. She could see the dean’s library, his home office setup. He had a computer, she thought.
No. You’re not checking e-mail now.
She’d tried to put the previous experience out of her mind, and she hadn’t read Roger’s e-mails since…and there had been more of them. But she’d thought about him, and his words. Even after David got home. He was a little shocked when she wanted sex on his return, and she participated more wholeheartedly than she had in a year.
She had done more than that, though. In the tub, by herself, remembering Roger and that flow of description, his words, her hands. She felt vaguely guilty, even now.
She smiled at someone passing by. “Hello…”
Michael? Daniel?
“Eric. So nice to see you again.”
Eric introduced his date, Phyllis. He then went on to describe the weather (“unreasonably cold!”), his new job with David’s firm (“so happy!”) and the latest film project that Phyllis was working with (“she’s an intern!”). Judith smiled politely through it all.
David came up, and the shift of conversation and everything else went to him. She felt relieved. The dean came over to join their knot of socializing. She noticed Eric got flustered and
dragged Phyllis off to the bar. The dean motioned to his wife to join them.
“What is this, six years now, David? And you still keep coming. I’m so glad you’ve stayed loyal to the school.”
David smiled and sipped at his Scotch, making that little clicking noise with his tongue after the sip. “I loved going to school here. It made me who I am.”
The dean’s wife floated over in a pale yellow dress that she shouldn’t have been wearing. It made her look sallow, Judith noticed. She linked her arm with her husband. “And you’re a fantastic lawyer, David dear. But you really might want to think about being a teacher someday.”
“Someday.”
Judith and David had thought it over. Were thinking it over to a certain degree now. But there were plans, timelines, goals.
“Well, I know I’m thinking of it more lately.” David smiled broadly. “I figured, being a teacher might be better when we have kids.”
Judith choked on her drink.
“Are you all right, dear?” The dean’s wife asked kindly, but the dean moved on after a cursory glance in her direction.
“Kids…you’re past thirty, David, it’s about time you started thinking of it. I’m sure Judith has, isn’t that right, Judith?”
“Of course we have,” David answered instead, which gave Judith the option not to answer. Or took the option, depending on how you looked at it. “But the time isn’t quite right yet. I’d like to make partner first, lock that in, put in some time.”
“You don’t want to be sixty-five when you watch your son ace through law school, Dave,” the dean said, with an all too knowing laugh, motioning to his own son, trying to look surreptitious as he copiously drank margaritas from the free-flowing pitchers. “You definitely don’t want to be in your dotage when they surpass you.”