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But I’m not imagining it. He really said that.
Am I having phone sex with Will Lotham and I don’t even realize it?
“This is, without a doubt, the strangest client conversation I’ve ever had,” I blurt out. Innuendo dies when exposed to bluntness.
“TMZ has photos to prove that’s not true,” he counters. “I cannot imagine that your interactions with Spatula and Beastman weren’t worse.”
“You have a point.”
Laughter booms through the phone, along with a sigh, then a swallow that goes straight to my bloodstream. “How’s the house?”
“It’s beautiful.” Now we’re on firmer ground.
Firm.
No, Mallory! No! Stop thinking about firm and twelve inches and Will touching his balls while you touch your breasts and—
“It is. Why isn’t it selling?” Will’s voice is rich and complex. It reminds me of college radio, when you’re listening late on a Saturday night while everyone else is out on their third drinking binge of the week and you just want to catch up on political philosophy and introductory Spanish. The quirky, smart guy with the whiskey voice who plays a mix of Depeche Mode, Thermal and a Quarter, and college bands that are going to break out five years later and be called an overnight sensation but you’ll know better.
You and your local college DJ with that voice that lights up your limbic system and melts your panties.
“Why isn’t this house selling? Because you have a secret porn production company running out of the house?” I choke out, trying to lean casually against the cool marble counter with panties that are in flames.
“Ah, so you figured it out,” he says in a conspirator’s voice, amusement tinging his words. “You’re a smart woman. I should have known you’d put the pieces together.”
“You mean there was no rental? This house really was a movie set? You’re actually Spatula and Beastman’s boss? I knew it. Will Lotham–former Harmony Hills quarterback, Rhodes Scholar, and king of the creampie scene.”
I didn’t know you could feel a spit take through the phone.
“For someone who claims she had no idea what a fluffer was, you’ve got a dirty mouth, Mallory.” He makes a sound, deep and amused, that connects to every red blood cell in my body, setting it aglow. “A dirty, filthy mouth.”
My dirty mouth goes dry.
Other filthy parts of me get very, very wet.
I breathe. I know I breathe because I don’t pass out, and generally speaking, that’s a good indicator of consciousness. Silence fills the air between us, no one making a sound. Nothing but the heavy rasp of breath.
As seconds tick by, I become more turned on, the outrageous cocoon of this surreal conversation spinning me into a hyper-aware state. He’s not even in the room with me. Not within my visual zone. We’re miles apart, connected only by jokes and innuendos.
And yet, what he does to my body.
And oh, what this man does to light up my mind.
“I—”
I have no idea what I’m about to say, but whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll humiliate myself.
And just then, my phone dies.
Chapter Nine
“You still have the best apartment of all of us, Mal, so if you ever can’t make rent, you know we’ll take this place off your hands,” Perky announces as she walks in with bags of Indian food in her arms and plunks them down on the big, reclaimed barnwood counter. She looks up at the ceiling, wide beadboard painted a soft, glossy white. No common plaster here.
This is the real deal, all finishes considered.
“Will Lotham is going to make it so I never have to worry about where to live again,” I inform her. It’s evening after my first crazy day working for Will and I need curry therapy. Perk and Fiona are here to administer it by mouth.
Perky pauses. “Because he’s proposed and you two are moving in together and getting married and having adorable babies with your perfect auburn curls and thick-lashed eyes?”
