Seduction (7 page)

‘Actually, I have two. I can't quite decide,' I confessed.

‘Can you sketch them up for me?' He shook his head softly like a man coming out of a trance.

‘Absolutely. And since I will be back tomorrow for lunch as usual, I'll bring them with me.'

‘Then lunch can be on me. A business expense,' he said.

I noticed for the first time how very imposing Samuel Radcliff was. How very blue his eyes were, like well-washed denims. And how very broad his shoulders were. My mouth
went a little dry but my pussy grew wet. When he stared at me that way, I didn't give two shits about getting his business or foiling the young Mrs Radcliff's plans. ‘Oh. Well, thank you.'

I stood a little too quickly and my heel turned. Samuel steadied me with a strong hand on my arm. Heat flooded me and my face flushed. His lips were very red and his stubble, just beginning to appear, was very dark. I suppressed the urge to run my fingers over his jaw to hear that coarse, somehow sexy sound. ‘Easy there, Jillian. Be careful.'

‘Sorry,' I mumbled. Somehow the tables had been turned and now I wriggled like the worm on the hook. ‘I'm so clumsy. Free lunch wasn't my intent,' I said just for the record.

‘I know that. But you eat like a bird! Even I can feed a bird. And the bird will bring me beautiful artistic sketches of a revamped restaurant. But I know it wasn't your intent.' He leaned in as if to give me the standard business peck on the cheek. Instead, he pressed his full lips to my ear and said, ‘I think you have malicious intent, Jillian. But that's OK. I like it.'

Then he kissed my ear so softly I shivered. Then he turned on his heels. I left a ten on the table and walked outside to catch my breath. My heart was like a jackrabbit, my belly full of butterflies, and the crotch of my purple silk panties was soaked.

‘Malicious intent. Yes, sir. I believe you are right', I said aloud. But the only one to hear was me.

I really did have two colour schemes in mind and I sketched them both out that night. It was truly one of those few times that I would joyfully let the boss decide because I loved them both. Thinking of Samuel as my boss gave me a delicious little shiver. It brought to mind having bound wrists and red bottoms freshly spanked and maybe a nipple clamp or two.

‘Get a hold of yourself, woman,' I said to myself, sketching furiously to keep myself focused. I tried to ignore the vivid
memory of his lips on my ear and the racing nerves along my neck and shoulders from his hot breath. I failed.

I dropped the sketch pad on the floor and hiked up my nightgown. The night was warm but not hot. The shades were up but I was below my neighbours' line of sight, I was almost sure. At that point, I didn't much care. My fingers played over my clit and my body hummed with a heat and desire that can only come from pure lust. Tight little circles pushed me so far so fast I hovered right there, Samuel's big broad shoulders and dark-blue eyes firmly in my mind's eye. The imagined picture of his hands gripping my hips as he moved into me. The fantastical fantasy of his cock ramming into me higher and higher until I felt like I would fly away.

I pushed my fingers into my cunt, stroking that spot deep inside of myself that always makes my breath catch. My hips shot up on their own as I let my mind take those lips of his from the shell of my ear down the back of my neck, trailing his tongue down the long, slender dip of my back to the swell of my ass. My brain played out light kisses over each buttock and big masculine fingers spreading me. And then him sliding into my cunt, yanking me back, fucking me hard. Slow for a moment and then frenzied.

I came on my cream-coloured sofa with a soft cry that sounded half-winded, half-confused. ‘Jesus.' I was panting and splayed out like a tart in my living room. All the lights burned, my sketches littered the floor, and a soft rain had started to beat at the window glass.

I poured a glass of wine to steady myself and tried to finish my pages. Knowing that I would be expected to present them to my new boss the next day did little to still my hand. The steady beating pulse in my pussy that seemed to be insisting on just one more orgasm did even less. But I didn't give in, I worked. And I went to bed still thrumming with the energy of a live wire.

I knew without a doubt that if Samuel Radcliff so much as kissed me the next day, I would probably spontaneously and shamelessly come. I was that tightly wound. And that horny. That hot for him. I was in deep trouble.

I wanted to fuck him. I knew it for a fact as I got dressed. A calf-length diaphanous black skirt that somehow managed to be flowy but hugged me in the most perfect way. Underneath it, I wore fishnets. The diamonds were tiny, professional, but still . . . fishnets. My tall black boots and a colourful, soft and, let's not forget, form-fitting cashmere sweater with a plunging neckline. Not so plunging that people wanted to ask what I charged for a blowjob; not so demure that I was mistaken for the kindergarten teacher.

I let my long honey-brown hair hang loose and in soft natural waves. A little perfume, a bare minimum of makeup. Under it all, black lace tango pants, and a black demi-cut bra that didn't quite match. I have issues with matching sets of anything but shoes and earrings. If you tell me it's a set, you have just lost a sale.

With my sketches under one arm, I grabbed my purse and my coffee mug and let myself out. My heels beat an anxious tattoo on the marble floor in the hallway. Honestly, I had hours before I could arrive at The Tarnished Spoon for lunch, so why was I in such a hurry? I knew the answer, though. I always walk too fast when I am nervous and excited. I was both.

I dropped off the drawings, booked some appointments, visited a site and schmoozed a client who was on the fence, all while keeping an eye on my watch. Lunchtime had finally arrived. Eleven o'clock and I was ready for some soup and bread and veggies. And Samuel. Maybe a bottle of wine to calm my nerves.

‘No, no liquor,' I chided myself, walking briskly to my destination. ‘You do that hyena laugh when you drink. No
hyena laugh, Jillian. Water or tea with lemon, just like every other day.'

A man passing me on the street squinted as I chattered to myself. Then he smiled. Then he stared at my boobs and I didn't care.

‘Sorry. Nervous! Talking to myself!' I said half to him and half to me. Then I laughed like a hyena and scurried down the alley that was a short cut between Bradley Avenue and Disher Street, where the restaurant was.

I rushed in and my eyes went crazy. Out of the bright sunlight into the low, romantic light of the dining room. He was waiting there. At his little booth in the corner, Samuel sat, with his mound of papers and his ever-present mug of coffee. He looked up, denim-blue eyes smiling along with the rest of his face when he saw me. ‘You OK?'

I laughed, high and definitely hyena-like, and then I cringed. ‘I forgot my sunglasses. I'm practically blind in here. I can't see.' More laughing. More cringing.

I felt more than saw him rise from his seat and come for me. My breath stalled when his big hand wrapped around my wrist. His warmth seemed to brand my skin and I pressed my thighs together, which was stupid because it made me wet and a little crazy from want. ‘Come on then, jillian. You should be able to find your table in the dark by now, but here, I'll help you.'

I let him guide me but he was right. I sat at the table almost every time I came here to eat. And I ate here three or four of my five work days. I should have been able to go in totally blind and find my chair. But Samuel had scrambled my brain and the arousal that rushed through me, feeling very much like heavy beating wings, was making me want to stand on tiptoe and kiss him until he fucked me on one of his tiny little tables. Right on the white tablecloth, with broken dishes and crumpled napkins scattered around us.

‘Thank you,' I said in a breathy little voice, and touched his hand. But just for a moment. It was all I could stand. The electrical current that shot across my skin was borderline uncomfortable. I sighed.

‘You sure you're OK?'

‘You're electrocuting me,' I said before I could stop myself.

He stopped and faced me. His shoulders were incredibly broad. How had I never noticed that before? I had seen how manly he was, how athletically he was built, but never before had I really seen the sheer magnitude of his shoulders. ‘I don't think so,' he said, cupping the sides of my head with his big hands. His fingers pressed into my hair and my heart fluttered wildly in my breast.

I nodded. I didn't really know what to say. So I nodded until he leaned in further. His lips were a hair's-breadth from mine, I could feel his hot breath on my lips. He smelled of coffee and warm cotton and tobacco. ‘I think it's all in your head, Jillian,' he said and my pussy thumped in an ever-increasing pulse.

God. Wouldn't he just kiss me? Didn't he want to kiss me? Didn't he want to press his full mouth to my mouth and kiss me until I just came right then and there?

I waited and he chuckled softly. ‘I'll bring you your lunch,' he said, pulling back and leading me the rest of the way.

When he pulled out my chair and seated me, it was all I could stand not to masturbate under the table. My body had gone haywire and my mind had too. Was I crazy? Was I the only one who felt that insane attraction? And the need to touch him, well, that was staggering. Was I the only one?

He set my water glass in front of me. Then came the bread basket, the butter, and my cup of the soup of the day. ‘Cream of Crab,' he said.

‘That's my favourite!' And it was. Plus, his place beat all other restaurants hands down when it came to cream of crab soup.

His eyes darkened just a bit as he looked me over. ‘I know. And as I said, lunch is on the house since this is work.' Instead of sitting across from me, he pulled out the chair directly to my left and sat. Under the table, his navy-blue-clad thigh pressed against mine. My pulse ratcheted up and heat flooded my face. I clenched my thighs tight which only served to trigger a tentative flutter of pleasure inside my cunt. I bit my tongue.

‘Aren't you going to eat?' He leaned in and I smelled his shampoo. Something woody and subtle.

‘I don't think I could swallow,' I said and then blushed at the double entendre.

Samuel grinned. ‘Oh, I bet you could. Show them to me,' he growled.

For a dizzying beat I thought he meant my breasts, and God help me, I was ready to hook my fingers in my sweater and bra and tug them down to bare it all. ‘What?' Who was seducing who now?

‘Your sketches, Jillian. Show them to me.'

I swallowed what felt like a stone but was only air. ‘Which first?' I took a teeny tiny spoonful of soup and it went down easily. My favourite soup barely had any flavour, I was so worked up.

‘You choose. You're in charge.' His voice was whisky and smoke and dark nights with glowing fires. I shivered because we both knew that was a lie.

‘Let's start with the brown and blue scheme. Now what sets this off from what has become the norm of browns and blues is that the blue is really bright and the brown is so dark it's nearly black, actually. And the blue has such a turquoise undertone that it really pops. There are some cream accents and orange –' I threw my hand up to cut him off and he gave a sexy half-smile that nearly made me choke. ‘Now I know you think I'm crazy suggesting orange, but just see the sketches before you balk. Orange is really quite versatile if you know how to use it.' I was loosening up with my designer chatter.

When Samuel took the sheets from me his finger brushed over the top of my knuckle. How could such a tiny touch hold so much sensuality? And how could I possibly keep my ass in my seat and eat? That was the true stumper.

‘I like the orange,' he rumbled, really looking at the sketch. He was all business at that moment and I could catch my breath. ‘And I like this idea of built-in extended benches that look like one continuous line but still offer private dining. Excellent. Your brain is gorgeous. But I'm not surprised.'

He handed the sketches back and this time all of his fingers took a gentle tour along the back of my hand. My nipples spiked like little slutty nubs eager for his touch or his tongue or even his hot breath blowing across them. I squeaked. Just a little. But still, it was a squeak.

‘You hanging in there?'

I nodded and shifted in my seat. This rubbed my panties against my clit and I really did expect to simply burst into flames right there in my seat. ‘Let's do the red, shall we?' I practically shouted and brandished the other sheaf of papers. ‘I like this one, too. Very much. The barn red is not as offensive as a true red. A true red would seriously give the place the appearance of a rather brutal crime scene.'

Oh God. I was babbling. Honest babbling, but it was still a nervous running monologue. What had happened to the self-assured, cocky woman who had started this wooing venture? Well, that was easy. She had wanted a decorating job. Now she wanted cock. To be specific, Samuel's cock. In my mouth, in my cunt, I wasn't really picky. It had been ages since a man had made me feel half-insane with want.

‘Crime scene wasn't the look I was going for.' He kept a straight face when he said it. He pointed to the ceiling fixtures I had drawn. ‘Don't you think the ceiling is too low in here?'

‘No, no, no!' My voice was hitting a pitch I was almost sure
only dogs could hear. I took a great deep breath and blew it out, steadying my nerves. ‘Look,' I said, grabbing my chair and hauling it to a current fixture. Samuel offered his hand and I took it, stepping up onto the wooden seat in my boots. ‘This fixture hangs down about twenty-eight inches, thirty max. These are only thirty-two. Two inches is really no big deal.'

He grinned and I snorted. After the snort the ridiculous hyena laugh followed and the next thing I knew, I was teetering on my heels and losing my balance.

‘Whoa, Jillian.' He grabbed my hips in his hands and steadied me until I stopped swaying. ‘OK?'