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  I arrive at her building, the warmth of the sun not helping to dispel the chill settling in me over how I’ve royally messed up my afternoon with Heather. The doorman assures me she hasn’t returned yet. I scrawl a hasty note at his podium, asking him to hand it to her with the bag when she returns.

  I cross the street and sit on a bench facing the entrance. Good one, idiot. She has no idea what you earn or who you work for. Maybe the implication of an expensive gift threw her for a loop.

  That could be it. I rub my jaw, debating on calling her again. My phone rings and I scramble to answer it, hoping it’s her. It’s Marcus. Damn.

  I suppress a sigh and answer his call.

  “Hey, man. Whatcha doing?”

  Stark reality hits me. “Nothing.” Bitterness creeps into my tone. “I’m doing absolutely nothing.”

  “I’m heading over to Mikey’s. Want to meet me?”

  The sports bar is eight blocks back the way I just came. “Sure. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  The long walk to the bar cools me off. I have no idea what the hell happened at the store, but we’ll work it out. Of that I have no doubt. I won’t let her go over some stupid shoe misunderstanding, that’s for sure.

  Marcus gives me a nod from across the darkened sports pub. I slide onto the empty stool next to him and signal the bartender.

  “What are you having?” I ask my friend.

  “Miller Lite.” He raises the bottle. “It’s still pretty early in the day.”

  I shake my head, not caring if it’s thirty minutes before five. I could benefit from letting off a little steam. I place my order for the same and wait for the cute blonde behind the bar to bring my drink. She smiles at me, a look of interest in her gaze. “How have you been, Tony? It’s been a while.”

  She tosses back her long ponytail, working what she’s got on every sap in here. I return her greeting with a less enthusiastic smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

  She opens her mouth to say more, but another patron flags her from the far end. The young woman scurries away.

  Marcus nudges my shoulder. “What happened on Friday, asshat?”

  “What?” All I need is for him to be pissed off at me, too. Freakin’ great.

  “You split when we all went out to celebrate after work.”

  “It was late. I was tired.”

  “Eight o’clock is late? What the hell is going on with you? Normally after calculating your six figure commission on a deal that size, we’d be driving to Atlantic City or going to a strip club and partying all night.”

  Heather called me Friday. She was on my mind…all bloody night and all the next day. I shrug and take a long drink of beer. “I had plans on Saturday. Didn’t want to be spent.”

  “Working on that damn old building again? What the hell is with you that you’ll work at the office until you’re ready to drop and still putz around over there?”

  I don’t think working on a building you own is putzing around, but I hold my tongue since I didn’t go to Hoboken either. “I had a date.”

  “I lose my wingman on a possible Friday night to end all Friday nights for a date?”

  “We’ve had some pretty amazing nights, so I doubt that very highly.”

  Marcus jerks his head away, glancing at the TV, but I see his sour reflection in the mirror over the bar. “Well? Who was it with? Have I met her?”

  His voice doesn’t sound too interested, more like he’s sulking. That’s all I need. A clingy best friend who can’t be happy I found a nice girl to date for a change. Terrific. I down the rest of my beer and order another.

  “I met her at speed dating.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is this the one you asked if I’d met? Heather, right?”

  I nod.

  A hearty laugh rips from Marcus as he slaps me on the back. “Bet you were tapping that Saturday night.” The bartender delivers my new beer, sauntering off when she sees us talking.

  I shake my head and refuse to answer. I learned early on that if you want a repeat performance from a lady, you don’t tell anyone what transpired. I take a sip of my beer and watch my friend in the mirror.

  “I like this one,” I say. “A lot.”

  Marcus chokes on his beer. “‘A lot?’ What the hell is that? One date and you like her a lot?” He dismisses me with a jerk of his head. “She must be wild in bed to make you say that.”

  I shoot him a disapproving sideways glare. “She made me dinner in her apartment.” Marcus swings my way, listening. “On the floor—set up like a picnic. Finger foods and music.”

  His face grows hard as he takes a long pull of his drink. He turns away to stare up at the TV, not saying another word.

  Images of Heather fill my head: her hips wiggling in circles while she touched herself; her slightly almond-shaped eyes closing during her peak; the calm order when she told me to jerk my shaft.

  No way will I tell Marcus any of that.

  We drink in silence, then conversation drifts to work, like it always does. The long workweek looms ahead, reminding me of all I have waiting and all the things I long to escape. When did sixty-hour weeks become the norm? The next project is an advertising firm. A small part of me hopes it’s Heather’s we wind up acquiring. Not the best way for her to find out who I work for and what I really do for a living.

  I have no idea where I stand with her. Is she seeing anyone else? The image of the salesman’s hands on her calf, sliding down to cup her heel, burns through my brain. Not even a week and I’m ready to demand she not see anyone else. Who else does she order to touch her and jerk off while she watches? I glance at Marcus. I bet any guy would fall at her feet if they saw her on the patio that night. I squelch the desire to share the experience with him, to see what his reaction would be.

  I’ve been with enough women to know you don’t find one bold enough to do that kind of thing very often. I finish my beer and slam down the empty glass in frustration, earning me a raised eyebrow from my friend. I will make her mine.

  Two beers turn to many more, and then we order food.

  I leave close to ten-thirty, buzzed and out of sorts. To get to the company apartment facing Central Park, I have to pass by Heather’s place. Thinking of her again has me digging in my pocket, searching for my phone. Maybe she returned my texts or called me.

  Three missed texts. Dammit! The first one came from Heather around five. It’s not you. I love the shoes. Thank you.

  The next text from seven o’clock causes my cock to stir. I have the boots on, want to come over?

  The third one came in twenty minutes ago and has me ready to chuck my phone across the street. It’s getting late. I’m going to bed.

  Fuck! I didn’t hear the text message signals in my pocket. I should have taken out the phone and left it on the damn bar. Fool. I storm the rest of the way back to my place after sending her a brief text: Sorry to miss your texts. Will call tomorrow.

  Even with her quirky behavior of walking out of the store—I want this woman. It’s time I try a little seduction and get her feeling the same way.

  Chapter Seven

  Heather

  I get ready for bed, thinking back to my Irish exit at the shoe store earlier today. Who runs out when a man wants to spend over two thousand dollars on her? Wait, what does a man expect when he gives someone such an expensive gift?

  Would a man expect you to sleep with him or give him head over an extravagant gift? My skin heats at the thought of getting on my knees and sucking Tony to show him just how much I liked the shoes. I’d tease him ‘til he was ready to beg, and then maybe I’d let him come.

  I smile at the wicked thoughts, happy to dream about them.

  It is such a rush calling the shots. I like this new me, or at least, this pretend new me. What would a strong bitch who likes sex do? My mind races as I conjure suitable diva-like images in my head. I bet she’d have her own sex toys and never rely on a man to satisfy her.

  I grab my laptop, snuggle up in the cold king-size
bed an old boyfriend insisted I buy, and start to shop. The dizzying choices of styles and colors of dildos leave me confused. Reviews might be a good place to start. I pick a slim black dildo and then select a cock ring with an extra loop to fit over the man’s balls. If half of the reviews are accurate, then it might be a fun choice for teasing Tony beyond normal control.

  I can be the racy woman who lights his soul on fire. I can be the sexy kitten who knows more than she lets on. I click on some Better Sex videos, hoping to gain a few tricks to really enthrall him.

  You’re doing it, again. You’re trying to snare a man by being what he wants.

  Shut up! I will not end up alone.

  I finish my purchase and close my computer. Am I really trying to do what he wants if I want it, too? I want to be more sexual. I want to learn more. I don’t think this is the same as my destructive behavior in the past, and as I slip under the covers, only Tony’s look of sheer sexual bliss fills my mind.

  I want him. And I want him bad.

  I toss and turn for an hour before falling into an uncomfortable dream state. My mind conjures Tony’s hot mouth, kissing me all over, exploring parts of my body with his tongue no one’s ever touched. His knowledgeable hands follow and soon I’m writhing on my sheets, an orgasm about to break on the horizon.

  I wake with a startled gasp, a fine sheen of sweat covering my body and a dull ache between my legs, begging for relief.

  My heart gives a painful squeeze when I realize I’m still alone—my big bed mocking me with all its extra space. Maybe I should get a dog. Then I’d have someone next to me at night.

  I snuggle back down, covering myself with only the sheet, still too keyed up and hot for the light blanket. Images of his smile and caramel colored eyes burn a path of want straight to my crotch. Frustrated and aroused, I reach between my thighs, testing my readiness with one slim finger.

  Slick wetness greets my exploring digit, clinging to my skin and allowing a gentle friction to begin. I drag the moisture up to coat the rigid pearl of my desire, twirling in a tight circular motion when I find it. Slowly I rub, building the pace as my senses soar closer to a peak. I picture Tony on his knees, tickling me with the tip of his tongue and explode with my release. It hits me fast and hard, wringing the breath from my lungs. The frantic excitement from the dream leaves me and finally I drift off to sleep, still thinking of Tony and his sweet, sweet eyes.

  The next morning I check my texts, and sure enough, I see I missed one from Tony. Looks like it arrived after I climbed into bed. Part of me, the part that dreamed of him last night, wishes he’d called instead. Well, at least he didn’t read my offer to come over while the boots were on and purposely ignore me. I text back, Okay, so he’ll know I received it.

  The pretty red shoes with the shiny metallic heel call to me from their box. I choose my outfit carefully, a floral print skirt with a red top. I’m no stranger to wearing heels this high at the office, but have worn nothing this blatantly sexy before. Are they appropriate for the CFO’s assistant? I snort, for once not caring, and slip the red leather onto my feet.

  If I want to be the part then I guess I should start living it a little more. I take extra time with my hair, styling it the way I did on Sunday that turned so many heads. This time, using the rollers only results in burning my index finger once. A good sign in my book.

  My phone beeps with an incoming text as I leave for the elevator. It’s from Tony. Care to have a late dinner with me tonight?

  My heart beats faster as the doors whoosh shut and the elevator descends. What do I type back? Should I call him? Crap, I really need a guide on how to text like a sexy diva. Will agreeing to his request make me seem too eager? How late is he talking about anyway? That might be the best thing to find out first.

  What time?

  His response bings as I step onto the sidewalk. Is he in the office already or texting me from home? The thought of him sipping coffee in a terry-cloth robe brings a surge of salvia to my mouth. Yum.

  9:00?

  I wrinkle my nose. Who the hell eats that late on a work night? Maybe not agreeing will put me back in the driver’s seat. Geez, I really wish I knew what the eff I was doing. I hustle the rest of the way to work, conscious of the looks I’m getting along the way.

  Damn, these shoes really do look hot. I catch sight of my reflection in a passing shop window and smile.

  The more I think about it, the more I think accepting a dinner that late makes me look too available and willing, both of which I desperately am. I arrive at my building and ride the elevator to Parkerson’s floor, hoping a plausible reason for declining will come to me.

  The office is barely inhabited when I step through the doors at quarter to eight. Only the higher-ups and ambitious ones like me report this early. And I’ve found my mother’s advice regarding clothes applies to most things in life: if you want to get ahead you need to act like it.

  I settle at my desk and check my phone again. A small, secret smile graces my face as I open up the message. Is that too late?

  My grin broadens when I think of the doubt whirling around in his mind. Good, it means he wants me.

  My elbow jostles my mouse, causing my calendar to open. A reminder for tomorrow pops up. I’ve got to attend a meeting with my boss, Harvey, with Apollo Enterprises a few floors up. That one will take some prep work, I bet. Perfect excuse!

  I text Tony back, Work obligations on Tuesday. Don’t want to be out too late.

  I refrain from staring at my phone, willing it to beep with a text back from him. If I keep this up I’ll never get anything done, and then Harvey would be in a major bind. He’s got a lunch meeting later with Paul and some bigwigs from Apollo. I cringe inside, knowing this will probably be a liquid lunch for Harvey and he’ll be in no shape to talk business when he returns—if he returns to the office at all.

  I grab some files on my desk from last Friday and hurry down the hall to see if he’s in, snagging my phone impulsively before I leave. I’d like to get him briefed on what I’ve been doing so he’s able to speak coherently on the company’s financial position.

  The older man hasn’t arrived yet and I debate whether to leave the materials for him or try again in thirty minutes. From experience, I know he doesn’t often read what I leave on his desk. He’s only six months from retirement. Truth be told, I’ve been running his job, and mine, for the past several years.

  Harvey knows it and pays me well for my expertise, which effectively buys my silence and loyalty. The all-boys club at Parkerson wouldn’t welcome a female CFO, of that I have no doubt. But with any luck, Harvey’s recommendations when he leaves will be enough to overcome their reservations.

  Antsy to get started on my day, I leave the files, deciding to call him and remind the forgetful man to read them before he goes to lunch. I sigh, hoping the knowledge will sink in and he won’t look like a fool to the Apollo people.

  My phone beeps again, another text, and I hold back a girly squeal of delight. I feel like a teenager again, waiting to see what he says.

  How about tomorrow after work?

  A big grin stretches across my face, garnering attention from two salesmen as they walk by. “Looking good, Heather,” one says with a saucy wink. Bob, the winking salesman, is happily married with kids, so I don’t take his flirting too seriously. I wait to reply to the text ‘til after I return to my office, desiring some privacy.

  Right after work or later?

  One thing I am sure of, I don’t want a late night dinner to turn into a convenient booty call. It sets a bad precedence.

  I work late every night.

  So what the hell that does mean? I either agree to a nine o’clock dinner or too bad? I don’t think so.

  I text back, Sucks to be you. LOL.

  Seriously, is this guy nuts? Who works late every darn night? It’s not healthy.

  My phone beeps. How about seven?

  Yes! I resist doing a fist pump in the air, but just barely. It feel
s like a personal accomplishment to get a workaholic to agree to an earlier quitting time.

  Okay. I stare at the cursor, wondering if my response will end our communication for the morning.

  Are you wearing new shoes today? ;-)

  Heat flames across my cheeks as I recall him slipping the high heels from my feet yesterday. Yes. The red ones.

  I bet you look hot.

  I pause for a moment, weighing my response. Impulsively, I type, I do. There. That sounds like a confident, sassy woman, right?

  I grit my teeth at the question in my mind. Of course, it sounds like a confident woman. What mousy, insecure chit is going to agree she looks hot?

  My palms start to sweat as I debate typing something really sexy and outrageous to him. Oh God, I’ve got to get this man out of my head! I’ll never get any work done.

  I slam the phone in a side drawer, determined to focus on the quarterly financial reports we’ll need for tomorrow’s possible investors. My resolve lasts for ten minutes, until I hear the telltale bing signaling a new text has come in.

  Are you wearing anything else red?

  Chapter Eight

  Tony

  I anxiously wait, staring at my phone. Did my last text go too far? Will she think I’m some weirdo pervert who wants to start sexting her? The growing erection in my pants feels like a scalding brand, confirming, yes, I am indeed such a pervert.

  I tossed and turned for hours last night, unable to get Heather out of my mind. Spanking off while I washed away the bar fumes didn’t help much, either. Every stroke of my shaft had me picturing Saturday night again with crystal clarity. I want to feel myself sliding inside her more than I’ve wanted anything in ages. And I will have her.

  The hot fist of her flesh will wrap around me, clasping the skin of my prick…

  Bing! The chirp from my cell draws my eyes back to the glowing screen.

  My shirt is red… and…

  Desire pulses through me. Damn, what do those extra dots mean?

  Yes? I send back, hoping to encourage her to elaborate. Ten minutes go by. Perhaps I should give up on waiting for a response.