His To Have Read online

  “You need a man whose breath in your ear is enough to make you yield all control.” Again, I can feel his breath, and its warmth makes me shiver, all the way to my nipples, which instantly tighten. Then he straightens up and, without another word, turns around and walks away from me.

  I am rooted to the spot, incapable of doing anything more than watch him go. He’s also wearing gray jeans, hanging loose on what looks like a very well-shaped ass. His shoulders are muscular; I can tell from the way the light fabric of his sweater clings to them.

  Anger and confusion ride through me in waves. This could be the most bizarre encounter I’ve had with another human being. And yet my nipples are still hard, my clit is throbbing, and when I move my hips, I can feel that there’s a little moisture between my thighs. What’s wrong with me? I clamp my jaw shut and put the crop back where it came from.

  “There you are!” Dominique appears, now wrapped in her fluffy black coat that practically engulfs her frame. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! How did you go with the flyers?”

  I swallow hard, forcing myself back to normality. “They flew out of my hands. Everyone loves you!”

  “Really?” Her eyes are glittering with excitement.

  “Yup. People were asking all about you, when your next show’s happening.”

  “I thought the show went well. I mean, nothing went wrong, at all. And people were clapping.”

  “There was a lot of clapping. And cheering and whistling. It was amazing! You’re a star, Dom!”

  She flings her arms around me. “Thanks, Reagan! You’re the best.” But then she draws back and peers into my eyes. “Are you okay? You look a little—I don’t know—stressed?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little shell-shocked by all this pervery, I guess,” I say lightly.

  Her eyes widen. “Are you serious? Was it too much?”

  “No, I’m kidding. I actually had fun.” I want to tell her about the freaky conversation I just had and about running into my boss—probably soon to be ex-boss—but now’s not the time to rain on her parade.

  “Good. I knew you would. Shall we go? I’m starving!”

  “Yes, let’s,” I reply, already heading toward the exit.

  To my annoyance, I find myself looking around for the guy as we leave. Those strong shoulders straining beneath his sweater, that just-too-perfectly messed-up brown hair. That cocky smile. But there’s no sign of him.

  “Meet anyone interesting?” Dominique asks as we step out into the frigid air, a sprinkling of snow instantly coating our hair and shoulders.

  “There was a guy—” I shake my head hard, trying to displace his image from my mind. “But no.”

  “What?” She clutches my arm, half in excitement, half for balance as we skitter along the slippery sidewalk.

  “No. I mean, he’s good looking.” Those big brown eyes rise up in my mind again. Up close they were less puppyish and more leonine. Full of certainty and self-possession. “He’s not my type. At all.” We both shudder as a blast of wind rips right through our coats.

  “Why not?” Her words are slightly slurred, and I realize that her lips are as numb as mine. We arrive at the bus stop.

  “I like all-American guys, I guess. Clean cut. Usually jocks.” The thought of my ex-boyfriends makes me snigger. Tom, Jack, and Hugo. All dark-haired and blue-eyed with strong, straightforward bodies and a closet full of T-shirts and sweatpants.

  “Every guy I’ve dated has looked practically identical. They could be brothers. Or cousins.”

  Dominique grins. “And this guy?”

  “He’s a hipster. Well, he looks like a hipster. But the way he talked to me…” Yield all control. All of a sudden, my mind is full of his words, and they seem to have a direct connection to my clit.

  “You’re practically panting, girl.” Dominique is looking at me sideways, amusement tugging at her lips. “He was giving you some sexy talk, wasn’t he?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t try telling me you didn’t like it.”

  The bus arrives and we get on. I use the break in conversation to gather my thoughts. “It was weird,” I say as we take a seat at the back. “I’m a mainstream girl. I like normal sex. I always have done. I don’t get why people feel the need for S-and-M.”

  “A guy’s never given you a little slap on the ass when you’ve been doing it?”

  My cheeks warm, and with the contrast in temperature, they’re burning. “Maybe.”

  “Case in point.” She stares out of the window, lips pressed together, knowingly.

  “But that’s different. It’s really not on the same scale as all that stuff at the Sexpo. All that equipment. It just seems kind of convoluted.”

  “Maybe you’d feel differently if you tried it out.”

  I stay silent, turning over his words. You don’t need all that crap. It didn’t make much sense at the time, and it still doesn’t now.

  “Did he give you his number?”

  “No.”

  “And he didn’t get yours?”

  “Nope.”

  “What kind of a guy engages a girl in sexy talk, then doesn’t exchange numbers?”

  “I guess a guy who doesn’t have the guts to follow through.”

  “Or someone who’s ve-ry patient.” She closes her eyes, as if she’s suddenly been sedated, and seems to fall asleep. It’s a habit of hers, I’m beginning to understand. I stare at her profile irritably. I seem to be the only one not in on the joke. What was this—take your straight-laced roommate to a sex show and laugh at how awkward she is?

  I reach into the side pocket of her purse for my phone. Maybe Monica will be online. But it’s not there. Weird. I pull her purse onto my lap and root through it, going through every nook and cranny with increasing panic. It’s not in my coat pockets either. Fuck.

  When I get back home, I empty the whole thing out, but it’s not hiding anywhere. It’s gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I groan.

  “Is it locked with a password?” Dominique asks sleepily.

  “Yeah.”

  “It should be okay then. Call the venue in the morning and see if anyone turned it in.”

  I sit on the edge of my bed, head in hands. What the hell happened to my phone? I try to retrace my steps. There was no reason why it would’ve been out of the purse. I looked at it a couple of times during the night, but not very much because I was trying to be professional. Did I have it in the bathroom? Yes—I took a selfie because I wanted to see if the bathroom lights were unreasonably harsh. And then? Did I put it back in the purse? I can’t remember. And there’s no point doing this. It’s not going to help me find it. I grab my laptop and try Find my phone. It’s off, and the last known location was the Sexpo venue. Most likely, the battery died. It’s always going flat. Dominique’s right. I’ll call tomorrow.

  When I finally lay down, I can’t sleep. Why did I agree to come out tonight? I should’ve listened to my instincts. Not only did I run into my boss and get propositioned by a weirdo, but I no longer have a phone. And, to my annoyance, my panties are damp, and I’m restless and antsy. I haven’t had sex since I broke up with Hugo, which was almost six months ago. I haven’t even thought about sex for weeks, since right about the time I started at Koln & Mathers. The thought of my employer delivers a stab of panic to my stomach. Jeremy Standish in a latex tank top. Oh, god. I really don’t want to think about this now. But, of course, the more I try to force it out of my mind, the more it drives me crazy, and my mind snowballs and snowballs. By two a.m., I’m convinced that come Monday morning, he’ll have sent instructions to security to stop me from entering the building. He did look kind of good in the tank top, though. I pummel my pillow for the hundredth time, and I giggle to myself like a maniac. He’s got a silver fox thing going on, and he evidently works out. I wonder why Mr. Riding Crop didn’t dress up, too. He looked like he’d just happened to be passing and decided to come in for a minute. I try to imagine him in latex. No, that doesn’t work. Bare ches
ted, then. I like guys who are stacked with big, bulky muscles. A big, artistic tattoo covering one of his pecs. Pants slung low, those sexy diagonal grooves muscular guys have out on show. I can see he’s hard, his cock straining against the zipper. I’m lying on the bed, naked and vulnerable. He strides over to me. One hand pushes my legs apart, the other eases his zipper down.

  I give up. I reach for the drawer in my nightstand and grope for my little purple bullet. It buzzes discreetly as I press it to my clit, and I come in seconds, a sharp jolt of a climax that leaves me shocked and feeling a little seedy. Since when do I fantasize about weird strangers? But at least I’ve gotten him out of my system now, and I can forget about him. And finally I sleep.

  2

  My guilty orgasm seems to have propelled me into a full-on sleep-athon, and I can tell that it’s late when I open my eyes. I reach for my phone to find out the time and remember it’s gone. I creep out of bed, grab my laptop, and crawl back underneath my warm comforter. It’s two p.m. and I never sleep that long. I hit Find my phone again and blink as the map zips across the screen until the little green dot lands someplace else. It’s in Maine, several hundred miles away. Someone has stolen my phone and already taken it all the way to Maine. And charged it. What the fuck? I should probably notify the police. The usual me would call them right away, but the current me can’t be bothered. Too many things to deal with. It was a crappy old phone anyway, and the contract’s up in a couple of weeks. I press the Erase phone? button, and it’s gone.

  Dominique is out, and I use the opportunity to take my comforter to the sofa and spend the afternoon eating mac and cheese, watching romance movies, and thinking gloomy thoughts.

  Early in the evening, my best friend Monica Internet calls me when she’s finished her shift at the co-op. At the sound of her voice, I almost burst into tears. I miss her like crazy. She sounds like home, and everything else I miss about sleepy Springfield. I’m tired of life being so hard in the big city, of hardly knowing anyone, of my cramped apartment, of work. I used to think that once I nailed my first graduate job, that would be it. I’d be crossing the finish line. I could finally relax and enjoy the fruits of my labors. But I’m coming to realize that it’s just the beginning. I feel like the guy who was doomed to spend eternity rolling a big rock up a hill, only to have it fall back down again.

  “Tell me everything!” Monica says. “It’s so quiet here. I can’t wait to hear your news!”

  I take a deep breath and launch into the Sexpo story. Monica laughs a lot, as I knew she would.

  “I’m sure your boss feels worse about seeing you than you do about seeing him.”

  “And that’s exactly why he’s probably going to downsize me.”

  “And then you can come back to Springfield!” It’s an old joke. Every time I moan about my difficult life, she tells me to come home, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. In parallel with my lifelong ambition to make something of myself, part of me has always yearned for a simple life. A good-hearted husband working for his dad’s company. Me doing a nine-to-five job. Two kids. A pretty Victorian with a big yard out back. And I’m starting to wonder what’s the point of it all. Why I was so eager to leave my home town where I had close friends and a decent family.

  “Maybe I will,” I say.

  “Are you okay, Rea?” she asks, concern tinging her voice.

  “Yeah. I’m overworked and underpaid, but everything else is good. The apartment is nice, if small. And Dominique is a lot of fun.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “I guess I’m a little lonely, too.”

  “You just need to find a boyfriend. Someone to hibernate with through the cold months.”

  “I met a guy last night,” I say without thinking. I’d been trying to forget about my weird encounter, but Monica and I have been best friends since we were five years old, and it’s impossible to keep anything from her.

  “Tell me.” Her tone immediately becomes mischievous.

  “Not a guy, guy. I just had a moment. He’s not even my type.”

  “I love it when you get cryptic.”

  “Stop. At the Sexpo, when I was by myself, this guy came over and said some stuff to me.”

  “Like freaky stuff?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Was he a weirdo?”

  “No, he was good looking, actually. Well, maybe a weirdo, but a good-looking one.” Again, I think of those eyes—fathomless pools of intensity. “Just not my kind of look, though.”

  “Too emo?”

  I giggle. “Nope.”

  “But not clean cut enough?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. What did he say to you?”

  “It’s hard to explain…” I falter, try to collect my thoughts. “I happened to be holding a whip, and he basically offered to use it on me. And when I said I wasn’t into S-and-M, he said he could get the same effect using just his voice.”

  “Huh? What did he say exactly?”

  I repeat his words, speaking way too fast in my embarrassment. I’m expecting Monica to laugh, but instead she lets out a long breath.

  “Hawt,” she says at last.

  “You think so?”

  “A sexy guy offering to do dirty things to you? Dominate you? Hell, yes.”

  I sigh. “Am I a prude?”

  “No. But maybe you need to spend some time having fun instead of throwing yourself into long-term relationships.”

  “You know too much about my sex life.” I smile to myself. In our late teens and early twenties, while I was always Miss Settled, Monica had a wild sex life. She always dated alternative guys who were only too happy to indulge her desires. Even now, she and her new husband have a sex swing in their bedroom.

  “Did he ask you out on a date? Or anything else?”

  “No. We didn’t exchange numbers.”

  “Shame.”

  “That’s what Dominique said.”

  “So he just came up to you, said some stuff, and disappeared?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Interesting. Wait—where did you say the Sexpo was again?” I tell her, and I can hear her typing furiously. “Okay, I’m sending you a link. Open it up and tell me if you see him.”

  It’s a page from the Sexpo website, displaying a ton of photos from the night. The first row are all action shots of Dominique, looking fabulous, followed by the rest of the performers.

  “They’re official photos. I can’t see any of the audience,” I say.

  “Protecting attendees’ privacy.”

  “So he’s not going to be there.” I scroll almost to the bottom, and then I see him. There’s a girl on stage, tied up with a series of intricately knotted ropes that suspend her more than a foot off the ground, face up in an almost horizontal position, legs hitched up high and wide apart. There’s a man standing beside her in his forties, shaved head, in a black T-shirt and jeans. And to the right of him, at the edge of the stage, is the guy.

  “That’s him. Image two-sixty-two, beige V-neck.”

  “Holy shit! He is insanely good looking!” Monica shrieks. I enlarge the photo and peer at it. He is, by anyone’s standards. He should be modelling for Hipster Daily. Monica makes her trademark sound of appreciation—somewhere between a purr and a yowl. “And what a body. I love it when a guy’s pecs are really big and his shirt just hangs off them. He looks like a nice guy, too.”

  I laugh. “And how can you tell that from a photo?”

  “He’s got a nice smile. It’s not cocky or arrogant.”

  “He’s smiling at the other guy as if they’re sharing a joke. Do you think he’s just finished tying the girl up?”

  “You didn’t see the whole show?”

  “Nope. I was too busy handing out Dominique’s flyers.” As I scan the trussed-up girl again, there’s heat in my chest. Something akin to envy.

  “He’s not dressed for the occasion. He’s just wearing street clothes.
I think the guy in black tied her up.”

  “Maybe he’s friends with the guy.” I zoom in on his lips, and I imagine him whispering those things to me again. Abruptly, my clit wakes up with a spark of arousal, and there’s a little twinge between my thighs.

  “Maybe he’s the girl’s boyfriend.”

  “No. He wouldn’t stand by while another man tied her up,” I insist.

  Monica breaks into a gale of laughter.

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe.” My cheeks warm.

  “I think he might be just what you need, Rea.”

  “No. It’s not me. You know what I’m—”

  “I know—friends first,” Monica interrupts, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  “Exactly.”

  “Which is fine if all you’re looking forward to is warming your slippers by the fire. But if you want a real, passionate connection, there’s nothing wrong with starting with sex.”

  “Not that kind of sex.”

  Monica hmphs.

  “Anyway, enough about me,” I say quickly. “Tell me all your news.”

  I’m relieved to change the topic, as talking about the sexy stranger has gotten me all hot and uncomfortable, and I relax as Monica lulls me with stories from home, of all the people I’ve known all my life.

  By the time we’ve finished chatting, I have a warm feeling in my belly. I stay in for the rest of the night, watch a comedy, and manage to forget about work for a few hours.

  Early Monday morning, I approach the black glass monstrosity that is Koln & Mathers, my palms sweating beneath fleece-lined gloves. When I slide my ID card through the slot on the automated gate, it goes bleep, and the two glass barriers ahead of me whoosh open. Okay, I haven’t been banned from the building. My anxiety notches down to a manageable eight out of ten. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me at my desk. I enter the elevator, and one of the other account execs dashes through the doors just as they’re closing.

  “Hi, Reagan! Good weekend?” Catherine chirps.

  “Yeah, quiet night on Friday, party on Saturday,” I say, being as vague as possible. “And yours?”