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“To grab a burger.”
“I need to get back to the office. The Director has stuff for me to do.”
“Babe. We’re criminals. It’s not good for him to have you at his beck and call.”
She thinks about this with a frown; I hit a nerve. It’s well-known Brand dictates her movements more than any of the other younger Concierges. Shoot, the interns have more leeway than she does.
“C’mon. We’ll go to my favorite bar, have burgers and beer, play some pool. No one will know you weren’t at the shop.”
“Fine,” she finally says, and I’m saved from telling her I’m not turning around anyway. At the bar we get burgers, fries, and beer, then we play pool while she keeps feeding quarters into the jukebox. Zeppelin, Seger, Black Sabbath, Cash. I’m pleasantly surprised, as I’d expected Beach Boys or maybe John Denver. Not rock and roll.
Turns out she’s a lightweight, and even with a solid meal it only takes a couple of beers to make her chill. We play darts but I put an end to that after she nearly takes out a group whose table should have been out of the danger zone. She sticks the darts in a cup on a shelf and comes back to our table, then throws herself down in her chair. Her cheeks are pink from laughter and the gold flecks in her eyes sparkle. I’m speechless looking at her and I’m not the only one.
After realizing most of the people in the bar are men, and that most of the men are drinking her in, I abruptly decide to head out. As she cheerfully walks in front of me, several of the men laugh good naturedly at my glower. “Good luck, dude,” a surf bum says gravely. I nod, thinking luck has nothing to do with it. I don’t intend to leave anything to chance.
When I get to my truck, Elizabeth is sitting in her seat and rummaging through her fringed leather bag. She pulls out a mirror and arranges her hair so it looks exactly the same as it did, then puts on a lipstick the exact same color as her lips. Women are strange.
“Where to, miss?”
“Let’s go up one of the canyons to watch the sunset,” she suggests.
“Sounds perfect.” I aim us toward a lookout spot and back my truck in when we get there. Settled in the bed of the truck with a blanket I pulled from behind the seat, we sit facing the ocean, shielded from the twisting narrow highway. The Eagles’ “Hotel California” rolls out the open truck windows while nature’s display is as colorful as always, with the sky blown clear from a breeze off the Pacific.
Elizabeth shivers and snuggles closer. I haul her over one of my legs and settle her between them, then wrap my arms around her. She sighs deeply and leans against me, reaching down to play with my tattoo. When she traces the colorful ink from my wrist to my elbow, cars and animals among the designs, goosebumps raise under her gentle touch. I reach up and swipe her hair to one side from the back of her neck, then lean down to drop kisses along the curve of her neck to her shoulder. She shivers again, and the stutter of her breath fills me with the need to surround and claim her.
She turns halfway toward me between my legs, and her eyes appear to glow in the light from the setting sun. I place my hand along her jaw, then lift and turn her face toward me. Eyes open, I take a kiss to her as she stares into them. A sense of rightness settles over me, and I feel the gears of fate lock into place.
Our kiss deepens and I turn and lift her to straddle my lap. I drop kisses along her jaw, neck, and shoulder while she moans and gasps, then I tell her to lift up so I can reach into my jeans to adjust my dick so it doesn’t break. As soon as I’m done we fall on each other in a frenzy of seeking tongues and greedy hands. I can feel the heat from her pussy through her denim and mine, and she rolls her hips in a motion that rubs her clit against my dick through our jeans. I have never hated buttons so much. Riding me with abandon, Elizabeth scrapes her fingernails down my chest, catching my nipples through my shirt and causing sharp stinging to travel straight to my dick. I reach up to thumb her nipples through her gauzy blouse and discover what I’d suspected earlier but were hidden behind the flowy material: naked breasts with hard nipples.
“Fuck,” I mutter, then reach under her shirt, pulling it upward to expose her nipples to devour them with my mouth, lashing them one at a time with my tongue.
“Oh god,” she moans, then reaches down between us to unbutton my jeans. The relief when my dick has room to grow even harder makes it my turn to groan, and I bury my face between her tits while she reaches up with one hand to brace herself on my shoulder. Then she starts to work my dick through my briefs with nimble, strong fingers. I feel like a teenager and realize I’m in danger of blowing in my jeans. I don’t even care, determined only to take her over the edge with me, and she feels like she could orgasm just from my attention to her sensitive nipples. Just when I double down to see if she will, a car speeds up the canyon road and slows when the driver sees us in the pullout.
I realize Elizabeth’s torso is high enough to see through the truck windows, and she realizes at the same time. Much to my surprise, instead of ducking down in embarrassment, she doubles down too and rides my palm while still stroking my dick through my briefs.
I hear hoots and hollers, then the engine of the car roars and speeds away with laughter and electric guitar hanging in the air behind it. With the distraction gone and ridiculously turned on by Elizabeth’s boldness, I suck on one nipple hard enough to make her hiss, and she bears down one last time on my palm, jerking her hips and moaning my name. My orgasm hits hard and fast, and I thrust my dick up against her, filling my jeans with cum.
We look at each other, panting, then she bursts into laughter while I chuckle beneath her. She reaches down and tucks me away, gently buttons my fly, then she turns around again and leans back against me, sighing deeply as we watch the sun drop below the horizon. With my arms around her and thighs framing her, I rest my cheek against her silky hair and plot.
Chapter Three
When Owen drops me off at my apartment, I float up the steps, through the door, into my shower, and then to bed. Lying on my back, I tap my fingers against my mouth, thinking about his warm, strong lips and sneaky tongue. Butterflies in my stomach compete with a warning in my head, given in my college professor’s bitter tone.
Don’t fall into his dicksand.
I wrinkle my nose and argue back at my inner voice. But his dick is really, really big.
Anyway, the mechanic is cute and sweet and probably a great fuck, but that’s it. If he wants to date he’ll have to accept I don’t have time for a relationship and no intention of becoming someone’s little wifey.
You keep telling yourself that, my inner voice taunts, and I tell it to shut up. I sense my heart quietly listening, and fear it’s plotting against me, but there’s no more commentary from the peanut gallery. Resolved once again, I fall asleep. I absolutely do not dream about Owen or repeating that scenario on the bluff without denim between us.
The next afternoon (C.I. morning because, like my mom says, nothing good ever happens after nine p.m.), I wake up refreshed and suspiciously tingly down below, like my fingers might have done a little traveling while I was asleep. I hope dream-me enjoyed it.
On the way to work, I pull my tiny green MGB in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts to grab slightly stale donuts left by the morning crowd, and a tray of coffees. Once again, I curse the lack of places to put drinks in cars, tempted to hold my coffee between my legs but deciding to play it safe and wait.
When I walk through the door of C.I., I’m set on by a pack of wolves, otherwise known as the security crew. Stuffing half a donut at a time into their mouths, they joke and tease, spraying crumbs and leaving sticky fingerprints everywhere. It’s easy to avoid the dicksand here at the headquarters, at least.
Shaking my head, I walk toward the tiny women’s locker room, converted from a utility closet when I pitched a fit about having to go home to shower or risk being ogled in the men’s locker room. Thank God nepotism is alive and well in C.I. I wouldn’t even have been an intern if my dad weren’t Director. But he is, and I was, and now I’m one of the only female Concierges in the country. There have always been a handful, because some jobs need to be done by women. The security teams have always been a man’s world, though, with the women typically providing cover or doing less physical work, like procurement and surveillance. Basically, the things that require some intellect.
