Forbidden Nights Page 7

  His sister shot him a stern look. “They’re one, Nate. I’m not giving them naming rights to the first dog.”

  “Fair enough. What’s his name?”

  “Indiana Jones,” she said, as if it were an obvious choice. But then, it dawned on him what she’d done and why. “Because it was your favorite movie growing up. Remember we went to see it when you won the election for class president in eighth grade?”

  Nate nodded, the memories flashing by of their childhood, summer days at the shore, dinners together every evening, movie nights to celebrate special occasions. His home had been happy, his parents had been in love and still were, and they’d worked together in a tourist shop they continued to run in his hometown of Mystic, Connecticut. His mind flicked to Casey. Her parents had split the second she’d left the house for college, so eager to be divorced. It was ironic that he and Casey had the opposite experiences, and each veered in the other direction. Despite her unhappy parents, she hadn’t soured on love; she still had faith in it. Meanwhile, Nate believed in un-love.

  Thanks to Joanna.

  Funny, how several years ago he’d have bet this would be his life now—two kids, the happy home in the city. He was drunk on love with Joanna then. The two of them spent late nights tangled up together in their Murray Hill apartment, drinking wine, playing slow, sexy music and coming together again and again. She’d even sculpted his hands once. She’d made a goddamn sculpture of them as a wedding gift to him. “The only hands I ever want touching me,” she’d said, and it was so heady, those words falling from her red pouty lips that poured forth promises of being together forever. They swore they’d be wrapped up in each other ’til the end of time.

  Their marriage had lasted two intense, and seemingly beautiful, years. Then he was divorced at age twenty-eight.

  Love was a drug; it played voodoo tricks on your brain, and the chemicals bathed you in lies as you fell, tempting you to believe in crazy notions like happily-ever-afters, and houses, and families.

  He clenched his fists, shoving the memories away. He was happy, quite happy, thank you very much, in life post-Joanna. There was no need to linger on the past. He’d learned his lesson. He was glad though that his sister was happy.

  They talked more as they walked. The little brown and tan creature sniffed every stoop, every bush, every small tree on the handful of blocks between Kat’s home and Fifth Avenue where they caught up with Bryan, who’d gone for a jog in the park with the kids.

  He was running down the block, pushing a double stroller.

  Nate clapped his friend on the back when he pulled up next to them, breathing hard. “Look at you. Dog, two kids, and the double wide. Such the family man now. I’d give you a hard time if you were married to anyone but my sister,” Nate said, and Bryan rolled his eyes.

  “Thanks man. I appreciate the un-compliment.”

  “Hey,” Kat said softly to Bryan, then pecked him on the cheek before she bent down to coo at her daughters. Nate joined in, because his nieces, Chloe and Cara, were pretty much the cutest babies in the whole world.

  “Why don’t you boys take Indiana Jones for a walk and I’ll get the girls fed,” Kat said, switching places. Bryan handed off the stroller, and she gave him the leash then turned around. “Bye, Nate. Don’t forget, if you get those tickets for the Yankees game, I want in. I’ll get a sitter.”

  He saluted her his yes, since he’d been in touch with his contact who’d always snagged him box seats at the game. “Consider it done.”

  “Um, excuse me,” Bryan said, holding up a hand. “I’d like to claim one of those tickets too.”

  “We’ll see, buddy,” Nate said.

  Kat shrugged playfully at her husband. “What can I say, Bryan? He likes me better than you.” She blew kisses in the air and walked off.

  Bryan looked at the Dachshund, and shook his head. “I’m a man with a hot dog now. And my friend won’t even score Yankees tickets for me.”

  “Hey, that’s a prize dog. Don’t put Indiana Jones in the middle of your mid-life crisis,” Nate joked, pointing to the pooch, who happily trotted towards the park.

  “So what’s the latest with you?” Bryan said, wiping off the sweat on his brow with his T-shirt. “I trust you have stories to tell me of your trip to New Orleans? Regale me with your tales.”

  Nate laughed, but didn’t plan on giving up any intel on the woman he’d spent the night with in the Big Easy. “Hardly.”

  “Oh, c’mon. You falling down on that score?”

  “Never,” he said, and his mind was right back to Casey, on the look on her face on the airplane yesterday. The way her eyes floated closed, how her breath hitched, how she bit down hard on his hand when she came. He glanced at his palm, almost wishing there were imprints from her. Evidence of her passion.

  Nate’s phone buzzed. He grabbed it in case it was an urgent work call. He needed to return to the office tonight anyway. The message was from Ethan, who he’d reached out to earlier in the day about grabbing a beer.

  “Beer is always good. I’m free tonight or tomorrow.”

  He gestured to the screen. “Ethan Holmes. I need to reconnect with him.”

  But he needed to reconnect with Casey too. And he’d been mulling over the best way to take the next step with her. Even though he wasn’t wooing her or courting her, he wanted to rock her world with this sexual boot camp.

  And that’s when he realized what was needed next. Supplies for their training.

  “Hey, I gotta take off,” he said, and turned tail, texting Casey to let her know she’d need a new email address for him to use as her “teacher.”

  * * *

  “You should ask for her number,” Nate said later that evening, gesturing to the very pretty bartender at Speakeasy, the bustling midtown establishment where he and Ethan had knocked back a few beers and talked shop. Ethan was high up at Victoria Hotels, and had peppered Nate with some questions about how to tackle the image issues his company faced. The classy hotel was no longer cutting it on the gold-plated ambiance and needed to go younger, hipper, cooler, Ethan admitted. Nate offered his advice where he could, glad that the two were back in touch. They'd been work friends at The Luxe, but hadn't talked much when they were both candidates for the top job. That had been a tense few weeks, both men vying for one spot. When Nate had landed the coveted position after an exhaustive internal and external search, Ethan took him out to toast, but it had been a strained night, and the man had remained in a bit of a funk for the months that followed. Nate was glad that they'd both moved on now, and could chat again about work and women.

  His friend peered at the woman behind the bar, pointing to a redhead with a round belly. He cocked his head to the side, looking at Nate as if he had grown horns. “The pregnant one? Pretty sure that belly means she’s taken.”

  Nate laughed and shook his head. “Not Julia. The hot brunette who's been giving you the eye. Julia told me her name is Danya. She’s been taking on more hours, since Julia’s cutting back a bit in a few more months,” he said.

  “You think I should just go right up to her and ask for her number?”

  “Just talk to her. That's what I'd do.”

  Ethan scoffed and pushed a hand through his blond hair. “I’m sure a beautiful bartender at a classy establishment in Manhattan doesn’t get hit on very much at all.”

  “You never know if someone is game unless you try. I need to take off, so give it a shot,” Nate said, and when Ethan shrugged, rose and walked over to Danya, he wanted to pump his fist. She shot him a wide smile, and they seemed to fall into conversation easily.

  “Need another?”

  Nate turned to Julia, shaking his head. “Nah. Closing time for me. I’ve got a laptop calling my name for the next few hours,” he said, then slapped down some bills to pay for the drinks, leaving a sizable tip for her. He figured she deserved an extra twenty percent on top of everything else for managing a bar with a belly that big.

  She scooped up the
cash, and blew him a kiss. "Thanks for coming by. Don’t stay up too late working. I’ll tell Clay you said hi.”

  “And let him know I'll follow up soon about Brent and his clubs. I've got a trip to Vegas on the calendar, so I'll meet him then.”

  “Absolutely.”

  As she moved to a new customer, his phone buzzed, and a kernel of excitement tore through him like a comet flaring across the night. When Casey’s name popped up in his inbox, his dick twitched, hardening instantly. Damn organ; her name already elicited a Pavlovian response in him. His dick saluted anytime she was near.

  He tapped open the email, re-reading the note he’d sent her a few hours ago.

  from: commandonate@gmail.com

  to: learnsnewtricksgirl@gmail.com

  date: June 6, 6:57 PM

  subject: Tomorrow’s Lesson

  At some point tomorrow I will stop by your office. I will have a gift for you. I will expect you to not be wearing any panties. Do not disobey me.

  from: learnsnewtricksgirl@gmail.com

  to: commandonate@gmail.com

  date: June 6, 9:03 PM

  subject: Practicing Now

  Removed. Ready. Waiting.

  Those three words alone made him groan. But what was most intoxicating about her response was the attachment. She’d sent him a photo of her red lace panties on top of her desk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  New York City, afternoon . . .

  Thank God it was June.

  Summer was an easier time to go commando than the cold months.

  Thank God she was buried in deskwork today too, with the majority of her meetings of the phone variety. Casey liked to wear short skirts and heels, or short skirts and boots. Today she’d opted for a tight, knee-length skirt, since she didn’t need to perform any accidental Marilyn Monroe shows. She’d never dressed panty-free at work before, and she felt like she had a naughty little secret when she popped into the conference room to visit with the product team for a meeting. No one knew, of course, but the knowledge that she was bare had kept her thoughts on Nate all day long. Being naked down there also meant she was turned on all day. She was an electrical line, exposed and crackling, waiting to spark.

  She’d even wandered past reception a few times, peering down the elevator banks for him. Each time, she struck out, and cursed under her breath.

  The minutes ticked by, and she was sorely tempted to break out one of her products, to lock her door and spend a few minutes with The Wild One, since that magical device did the trick in mere minutes; sometimes in seconds. But she resisted. Even if no one would know, she didn’t want to be the CEO of a sex toy company who actually did get herself off at her desk. Better to be a woman in control at the office.

  Now it was past three, and that man needed to show up soon because she was getting pissed. She was turned on and she was frustrated, and that was not a pleasant combination. She didn’t like games or being toyed with. Leaving her door open, she picked up her phone and returned a few calls.

  Midway through a conversation with a retail partner, he appeared.

  Wearing a dark gray suit, a navy tie, and his jacket slung over his shoulder, held with one finger, he leaned against the doorway. Her throat went dry. He was so damn sexy. He didn’t even break a grin, just gazed at her with that same intense stare she’d seen in the hotel room. “I’ll call you back,” she said into the phone and hung up.

  “Hi,” she whispered, her voice sounding crackly and dry.

  He nodded, then stepped inside, turned to the door and pushed it shut. He walked over to her, and when he reached her desk he set down a black box with a red bow on it.

  “For later. But first, I need to know if you did as instructed.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide, her cheeks flush with heat.

  He shook his head, and raised his finger to tsk her. “I need to know, Casey. That means,” he said, stopping to take his time, as if he were tasting each letter like a meal, “show me.”

  Oh God. Her heartbeat sped up, and heat thrummed in her body.

  He gestured with his fingers, signaling for her to move back. She pushed back in her chair, inched up her skirt, and opened her legs. She was so damn glad the only windows in her office looked out over the New York skyline, not the rest of the company.

  His eyes narrowed, and he emitted a barely audible moan of appreciation. He walked around her desk, bent down, and cupped her chin in his hand. “Such a beautiful, bare pussy,” he said as he looked her in the eyes, then brought his lips to her ear. “I bet you want my mouth on you right now.”

  “I do,” she said, her voice feathery.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait for later. Wait for me.”

  Then he dropped his mouth to her lips and devoured her. He claimed her mouth, kissing her so passionately it was as if kissing was making love, kissing was fucking, kissing was sex with their lips. Heat pooled between her legs, where she ached. When he let go of her mouth, her vision was still fuzzy, and she was floating above the earth on a cloud of lust. It took a second to register what he was doing. He was reaching his hand between her legs, sliding one finger through her wetness, then bringing it to his mouth to lick it off.

  “That’ll get me through the next five hours of meetings about our expansion into New Zealand. At eight o’clock, I will be at your apartment. Don’t open the box until I arrive. Wear something unbearably sexy that you think will drive me crazy. Because it will. And have a drink ready for me when I walk in the door. Whiskey will do.”

  Shivers raced across her skin, lighting her up from his commands. No one had ever talked to her like this. He was so direct, so controlling, and so fucking sexy with his orders. She’d never expected to enjoy this kind of play, but as he walked out the door, she wanted to slam it shut and take care of herself, to slide her fingers across her wetness, and bring herself to release.

  But she still had a modicum of self-control.

  She would wait.

  She would wait five hours. She would wait until he could take care of her intense, overwhelming need to come.

  * * *

  He hadn’t told her specifically what to wear, but she was savvy enough to know what qualified as unbearably sexy. She donned a tight leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh, right at the top of her black stockings. A bit of lace from the stockings peeked out. He was a legs man, so she chose strappy heels.

  Up top? A cherry-red bra.

  That was all. She didn’t wear a shirt. She smiled to herself as she appraised the outfit in the mirror. The lack of a shirt was her homage to her own need for control. She had chosen this ensemble because she wanted to open the door with only a red lace bra on top. It was her way of being true to herself. She hoped Khashi, her neighbor across the hall, wouldn’t happen to return from work then. A sexy plastic surgeon, he kept odd hours between his job, and the ladies he entertained.

  At 8 p.m. precisely the buzzer rang. Electricity sparked in her bloodstream as she buzzed him in. She didn’t know what was in store for her tonight, but she couldn’t wait to find out what he’d planned.

  As she walked to the door, she fluffed out her hair and glanced around her apartment. He’d been here many times. He knew the kitchen with its exposed red brick walls, he’d lounged on her soft teal couch, and he’d seen the reprints of artwork on her walls. It was a warm and homey loft in the West Village. One window was open and the June breeze blew inside, along with the faint sound of traffic rattling through the Village on a New York night.

  But never had she opened the door to him like this. Her fingers shook as she unlocked the chain and turned the knob to the right. The heavy door creaked, the soundtrack to her own nervous system and to her wildly beating heart.

  Her breath caught in her chest. He stood in the hallway wearing charcoal slacks, a crisp white shirt, and the navy tie. Her fingers itched to unknot that tie. He was rolling up the cuffs on one of the sleeves. A businessman at the end of the workday—that’s what she would’ve named this pho
tograph of him that she took in her mind’s eye.

  “Did you open the box?”

  She shook her head. He entered her apartment and she let the door fall shut behind them with a click.

  He strolled casually to her kitchen, leaned against the counter, and tapped the wood.

  She understood. The game was on. They were playing their parts. Joining him in the kitchen, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured him a glass, doing her best to keep her hands steady. She watched his every move as he knocked back the amber liquid. She imagined the burn in his throat. He set the glass down. It was nearly empty.

  She stood near him, keenly aware that it was his move next.

  This was a chess game, and she barely knew how to play. She swallowed dryly. Waiting. Uncertain.

  She wanted a burn in her throat too. That would be better than all these nerves. She grabbed his glass and finished it.

  “Do you want to open the box now?”

  She nodded, grateful to have been given his direction. “Yes. I do.”

  He tipped his forehead to the L-shaped couch in the living room.

  She nodded briefly, and walked over to the couch. She sank down into the soft material, stretching her legs out in front of her on the lounge section, crossing them at the ankles. He joined her in the living room, choosing to sit on an ottoman, his knees spread, his hands resting on his thighs. “Open it now, Casey.”

  Leaning forward, she reached for the black box and untied the bow, letting it fall to the floor. Gingerly, with nervous fingers, she lifted the top, shimmying it off. In seconds, she’d know what he’d planned, and a ribbon of excitement unfurled inside her from the possibilities. She wanted to say something, but words escaped her at that moment. She wasn’t sure how to vocalize all these unsteady feelings thrumming through her body.

  Or if he would even respond.

  Nate had always been easy to talk to. He’d always been chatty. But the man was wearing steely silence like a new coat. All his moves were measured, chosen carefully, designed to keep her guessing as to what he had in store for the evening.