Caught Up In Us Page 9

  “God no. I can’t stand the Bluetooth people.”

  “They do that constantly in New York. On buses, on subways. Even in stores. They leave those damn things on all the time.”

  “Maybe they are waiting to receive messages from the Bluetooth Uni-mind.”

  “Oh, I can so picture that.”

  “So, you’ve finagled my Bluetooth secret, Kat. What else do you want to know?”

  I shifted to my side, and played with the tassel on one of my purple pillows. What did I want to know about Bryan? “I got it. Shoes on airplanes. On or off?”

  “On, of course. As if I would ever take shoes off on a plane.”

  “Totally agree. Why do people do that? Stretch their big stinky feet out in front of them and even walk up and down the aisles without their shoes.”

  “I’m telling you, that’s another thing that would be abolished should I become president. You would be forbidden from removing shoes on planes. And from clipping your nails in public.”

  “You have my vote.”

  “You know what I like to do on planes?”

  “No. What?”

  “Sometimes, I go a little wild and I leave my cell phone on.”

  “It doesn’t work up there.”

  “Right, but instead of turning it off when we take off, I just go crazy and leave it on silent. And then I like to see how far up we can go before it stops getting messages, and then I like to see how high we are when it starts picking them up again on the way down.”

  “You renegade.”

  “I know, Kat. I’m not afraid to be a bad boy like that.”

  “Are you though? A bad boy?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He must have been weighing the question and what I really meant. I wasn’t sure what I really meant. “Do you want me to be a bad boy?”

  I rested my head on the pile of pillows. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I just want you to be yourself.”

  “I am myself. With you, I am definitely myself.” If we were at a club, the music would have just shifted from a fast, poppy song to a slower number, the kind of tune that made you want to dim the lights. “If I were with you right now, I’d be myself too.”

  “What would you do?”

  “If I were with you right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my bed.”

  He was quiet, but I could hear him breathing, and I pictured his chest rising and falling as he stared up at the ceiling of his brownstone on Sixtieth and Park, closing his eyes, imagining me so many blocks away. “What are you wearing?”

  “Jeans. Black cami with a Hello Kitty design.”

  “Ah, of course. I believe you once said it was a life-long love, you and Hello Kitty.”

  “We’re still going strong.”

  “And underneath?”

  “Black bikini briefs with a light blue stripe.”

  “So you want to know what I’d do if I were with you right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t kiss you yet. I’d touch your naked skin. I’d run my fingers down your arms, and watch as you shivered at my touch.”

  I closed my eyes and listened.

  “I’d kiss your belly through your shirt, and you’d wriggle a little bit, trying to tell me with your body that you wanted more.”

  I murmured something about wanting more.

  “Then I’d come up for a kiss, hovering over you, my arms on each side of you.”

  I longed to touch his arms, to trace how toned and strong they were.

  “I’d kiss you for the longest time, and you’d be pressing your hands against my back, wanting more.”

  “I would,” I managed to say, as I started to unbutton my jeans.

  “And when I was sure, absolutely, totally, completely sure that you were turned on beyond a shadow of a doubt —”

  “—Which I would be.”

  “Which you would be. I’d return to your stomach, and I’d start to lift up your cami thing. And I’d run my tongue across your belly, and I’d take off your top. And I’d finally be able to see those gorgeous breasts of yours in the flesh.”

  “And touch them.”

  “God yes. I’d cup them in my hands and lick them, and I’d run my tongue from between your breasts down to your jeans, and at that point you’d be unzipping them.”

  “I already have.”

  “Are your pants off?”

  I skimmed off my jeans, pushing them to the foot of my bed. “Yes.”

  “Is your shirt off too?”

  “No.”

  “Take it off.”

  I put the phone on the bedcover and pulled off my tank top. Then I pressed the phone to my ear. “I’m back.”

  “And are you just in your underwear now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Touch yourself, Kat.”

  I did as instructed.

  “Are you wet?”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  He laughed lightly. “Good. Because if I were there right now, I’d be the one touching you, feeling how turned on you are. Running my hand between your legs, and you’d be moaning, and moving your hips, and wanting so badly for me to take off your underwear.”

  “Would you? Take off my underwear?” The question came out in quick breaths, as I followed his direction. My hand was between my legs, and I wished he were the one touching me. But this — this was good enough for now.

  “I’d kiss you through your underwear first just to tease you and make you crazy. I’d lean down, and I’d kiss those black bikini briefs, and I’d smell you, and I’d get even harder.”

  “I’d want to touch you so badly.”

  “I know, but I wouldn’t let you. Because I’d have to taste you, and you’d be begging me to take off your underwear, and to touch you with my tongue. And it’s all I’d want to do too. So I’d oblige your request.”

  I slid out of the last shred of clothing.

  “Did you just take off your underwear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your hand between your legs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you imagining it’s me?”

  “Yes. I want you so much.”

  “There is absolutely nothing in the entire world I want to be doing more right now than going down on you, and tasting you, and eating you. I would run my tongue across you and you would put your hands in my hair.”

  “I love your hair,” I said, and the image of my hands in his hair sent me soaring. It wasn’t going to take me long at all.

  “And I’d start off slow and light, and I’d tease you with my tongue, tracing you and tasting your wetness. God, I bet you taste fucking fantastic. And you’d whimper and moan, and tell me how good it feels.”

  “It feels amazing. It feels so incredible.” My whole body was lit up; I was ignited all over. Every part of me begged and yearned for him.

  “And I’d speed up, running my tongue over you in ways you’ve never felt before. And you’d tell me how it had never been this good, how you’d never wanted anyone like this before.”

  “I haven’t. I swear I haven’t,” I said, and my breathing was ragged, and my body was pulsing, and I could feel how intoxicatingly close I was to grabbing his hair and pulling his face between my legs. Oh, how I wished he were the one touching me.

  “And I’d take you there. I’d lick you and make you crazy and make you say my name over and over, until you were begging to come. Until you were begging me to make you come.”

  “Oh god, Bryan. Make me come. Please, make me come.”

  “I’m so going to make you come, Kat. I’m going to make you come with my mouth and my lips and my tongue and I am going to taste you right now as you come in my mouth.”

  And so I did, shouting his name, calling out, feeling the wave of an intense, otherworldy orgasm pound through me. I was a live wire, exposed and beating, and I wanted him to be with me right now, taking off his clothes, climbin
g on top of me, entering me, making me feel that way again and again and again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the next month, Bryan was true to his cautious word in the movie theater. Wilco attacked Made Here and Bryan’s board with spurious claims, so Bryan didn’t leave a shred of evidence electronically about us. We didn’t email, we didn’t text, we didn’t leave any paper trails. Nor was there any evidence that could have been captured photographically because we hadn’t touched each other.

  We had, however, engaged in many delicious encounters. We’d had sex in a limo, on the beach, in the stall of one of those sleek silver and black bathrooms at clubs after we’d danced pressed against each other to pounding music. We’d done it in a hotel room, in the shower, on an airplane. I’d been on my hands and knees for him, I’d ridden him, I’d taken him in my mouth.

  Even though I hadn’t.

  We were make-believe lovers, and we’d gone there in our fantasies, in our late-night conversations with phones pressed to ears turned red and throbbing. With breathless words, and longing, and so many sighs and moans. I knew now what Bryan sounded like when he came. I knew the way his breathing intensified, the way he said my name. I knew when he was close, and I craved so much to have my hands on him, body pressed to his, legs wrapped around him.

  He knew too exactly how I liked it. How sometimes I wanted to be taken, pinned down by my wrists, spread, powerless, and filled up. How other times I wanted to be in charge, to set the rules, to tell him what to do, when and how.

  When I saw him at his office for the mentor-protege time, we pretended we were good boys and girls who hadn’t said those things. One afternoon, I joined him and his team for an operational meeting in the conference room to discuss the supply chain plans for the upcoming quarter, and I practiced the fine art of restraint as I kept my gaze on my notes the whole time. Only once, did I meet his eyes, and when I did I saw as much desire in his as I felt. But the specter of his conservative board as well as the lawsuit hung over us, so I shelved all my dirty ideas, especially since we had an appointment at Professor Oliver’s office that same day for a mid-term check-in.

  He pulled three chairs into a circle, and Bryan and I sat next to each other, inches apart, eyes on Oliver the whole time.

  “Ms. Harper, tell me about the business challenges that you’ve weighed in on at Made Here.”

  “I’ve been able to devise solutions for some of the supply chain complications that have arisen, from new timeframes to replacement suppliers,” I said, and then shared more of the details of the projects we’d worked on.

  Bryan jumped in. “I can’t underestimate the value of this input, Professor. For instance, Ms. Harper’s swift and well-researched recommendation for a new vendor singlehandedly allowed us to stay on track with one of our key accounts.”

  Professor Oliver beamed, then asked more questions we took turns answering. When the meeting was done, Bryan and I left together, getting a kick out of having pulled it off. As we hit the street his phone buzzed. “It’s Caldwell. I just need to answer this quickly.”

  He stepped a few feet away, and as I reached for my phone to check messages, I nearly bumped into a curly-haired man wearing sunglasses and a long coat.

  “Excuse me,” I said and glanced quickly at the man. His face was unremarkable. He was a standard sort of average-looking guy, but something felt familiar about him. I flipped through images in my mind, and finally settled on one – a photo I’d seen alongside the article Made Here Business Partner Ousted by Board Following Affair.

  Was this Wilco?

  I stiffened, recalling Bryan’s words. He’s hunting out dirt.

  The man turned away, muttering something that sounded like a hiss, then swiftly walked down the street into midday crowds.

  “Hey!” I called out, but I wasn’t sure what to say or do next. I was frozen momentarily, tense all over. Then I relaxed my shoulders, telling myself that the guy was probably was just some random fellow who happened to look like Wilco. After all, Wilco looked like every other ordinary guy. My nervous mind was playing tricks on me. That was all.

  “Everything okay?” Bryan asked when his call ended.

  “Yeah. I saw someone who I thought looked familiar. But it wasn’t anyone after all.” I didn’t need to add to his worry, especially since we’d been playing it so safe.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  But I wasn’t entirely sure. I was quite certain though that we needed to continue being careful, especially when I searched for Wilco online again that evening. I studied his headshot closely, at the image of Wilco looking professional and proper in a suit and tie. Maybe my mind was still fooling me, but I couldn’t be sure if Wilco was the man I’d seen today. I clicked over to his Facebook page to hunt for less posed photos, but didn’t find any. What I did find, however, was another reminder to stay above reproach. Wilco’s status update was one line: Things I hate – hypocrites.

  I shut the page quickly, as if someone or something might jump out of the browser and attack. I pressed my thumb and index finger against the bridge of my nose. I needed to get Wilco and his hostility out of my head, where he was lurking. I reached for my eReader and settled into my couch for a much needed escape into a story of a young woman with a tragic past who falls for a sexy Scotsman.

  Yes, mind-blowing sex had a way of erasing all the bad.

  *****

  Later that night, Bryan called and asked what I’d been thinking about during the meeting.

  “The one with my professor?”

  He laughed. “No. The one in my conference room when you gave me this look as if you were doing very naughty things to me with your mouth.”

  “Oh, you caught on?”

  “Of course. So tell me.”

  “I was imagining crawling under the conference room table and going down on you while you asked your team for supply chain recommendations.”

  “Whoa.”

  “You asked. I answer.”

  “Oh, I like that answer a lot. Tell me more.”

  “I thought I’d start as some of your guys were presenting slides on their picks for the next quarter. I’d casually drop a pen under the table, and no one would notice me as I bent down to pick it up. Then I’d make my way on my hands and knees to the head of the table.”

  “What would you do then?”

  “I’d touch your legs, and you’d be startled for just a second because you hadn’t realized I was under the table.”

  “Ah, a surprise visit.”

  “But you’d compose yourself quickly and appear to be listening attentively as I made my way up your legs, and to your zipper, and you’d be instantly hard knowing why I was there.”

  “I’m pretty much instantly hard with you just in the room. Or talking to you. Or thinking about you. So, yeah, all the time.”

  I laughed once because I liked the sentiment. “And you’d do everything to stifle a little moan as I felt how much you wanted me right then and there.”

  “I’d be such a great actor I’d get an award.”

  “But, I’m a considerate woman. I wouldn’t want to make things too difficult for you during a meeting, so I’d make quick work of you. I’d unzip your pants quietly, and inch down your boxer briefs so I could free you.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “And you’d appear to be listening to your team, as I ran my hand over you, feeling how hard you are and how much you wanted me to be touching you. You’d move nearer to me under the table and I’d answer by tracing a tongue up and down, teasing you with little flickers so much you’d want to growl.”

  “Instead, I’d put my hands under the table and bring you closer.”

  “And that would be my cue to take you in my mouth. So I’d wrap my lips around you, somehow smiling wickedly at how rock hard you are.”

  “Like steel, baby.”

  “Of course. And you’d taste so good to me as I took you all the way in.”

  “And I’d grab y
our hair. I’d want to have you as deep as you could be.”

  “It wouldn’t take you long since you were already so turned on.”

  “Because I was watching you during the meeting, thinking about how low your shirt was, and how much I wanted to take it off.”

  “And I’d taste you, and you’d grip me even harder, and I’d know you were going to come very soon.”

  “I’d have to be very quiet, so no one knew that I’d never enjoyed a meeting more than this one.”

  “This would totally be your best meeting ever, as I took you all the way in my mouth, and traced my tongue across you as my lips held you tight, and then you grabbed my hair even harder as you came in my mouth.”

  Then he did, calling out my name as I were the best thing he’d ever felt.

  He tasted spectacular in my imagination.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After a caffeine-fueled night of studying business tomes til the wee hours of the morning, I powered through a brutal test in one of my courses. When I filed the exam at the end of the class, submitting it from my laptop, I felt relatively good about my prospects of earning a strong grade. Marks in graduate school were less important than in high school or college since this was the end of the road for me as far as school was concerned. But I wanted to do well so I’d have the skills to grow My Favorite Mistakes. Maybe someday I could even turn it into a business like Made Here, with a board, stockholders, employees and revenues with many zeros. The business geek in me relished that thought as I left the class, headed down the wide wooden staircase to the first floor, and pushed open the door into the late October air.

  Fall had coasted into Manhattan, bringing with it crisp air, and the temporary rush of gold and red leaves on the trees in the parks. I looped my orange scarf with white stars around my neck, and pushed on a pair of champagne-colored sunglasses to block out the bright midday rays. My brown boots clicked against the sidewalk as I checked the time on my phone. I had a meeting with Claire Oliver in an hour. She’d finally reached back out to me and asked me to meet her at the cafe at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, adding that since she and her husband were avid supporters of the museum, she had other meeting there too.