Long Haired Persian (3 page)

He missed another night’s sleep. This time he was working out ways to see her again. One-wait in the parking lot till she got to work. Two-sit in her office till the staff made her come out and make him leave. Three-try and phone her.

By morning, he could hardly walk. He’d jerked off so many times his dick was red and raw. He went to take a shower and then find some talc.

The message light was blinking when he got out. He perked up hearing Tonya’s voice. “Mr. Zakaria. Your cat is asking for you. She can go home any time after nine a.m.”

He played the message three times looking for inflections in her voice. Something—anything—that indicated she wanted to see him. After all, she had called rather than make one of the techs do it. Did that mean she was thawing? He played the tape a fourth time listening to noises in the background. Had she phoned from home? Maybe her number was on his caller ID. But no, she’d phoned from the clinic. Which meant she was at work already. If he hurried over, she might agree to see him. He could say he wanted to check on her arm. Any good doctor would.

He threw on some clothes and sped over there. She wasn’t in the front reception area. Some cute dark-skinned chick, whose nametag said she was Taryn, greeted him.

Disappointed and bordering on desperate, Gaspar gave his name and said he was there to pick up Shamira. Taryn printed out his final bill, swiped his credit card, then wiggled her round ass out of the room. She returned a few minutes later carrying the yowling, squirming Persian cat.

He spent a minute cooing to try and calm Shamira, then slid his fingers around, to take possession of the cat. But she twisted left when he cupped a hand under her rear end. The cat thumped to the floor and scooted down the hall, dragging that big, heavy cast behind. He ran after her. How could the thing move so fast hauling around an extra ten pounds of plaster?

The desk phone rang and Taryn, who’d begun the chase, gave up and went to answer it. Shamira disappeared to the left.

Cursing, Gaspar sprinted through the open doorway. And stopped in his tracks. Tonya stood there holding the cat and tapping a very irritated foot on the tile floor of what had to be her office.

Words failed him, as they so often did when in this woman-child’s presence. He managed a two-shoulder shrug and a half-smirk. As a kid, when he’d done this to his mom, she always burst out laughing. Naturally, Dr. Tonya Lansing’s frown deepened.

He wanted to take the cat. At the same time, he didn’t want to take it—because it meant touching the vet, which, if he remembered right, was where all this began. She held the cat away from herself, encouraging him to come forward.

Finally he got his feet to move. One step. Two. Reach out; it’s simple. Take the cat. But as his arms stretched out, she backed away, turned and set the cat in a crate near the corner. Then she kicked the door shut with her foot. What was the woman up to?

He was even more confused when she strode to the table near the window and picked up an almost-full aquarium—looked like it held about five gallons. She shouldn’t be carrying things like that.

He strode to her and took it out of her hands. “Where do you want it?”

She moved around him and he followed. She stopped in the middle of the room. “Right here.”

Here? Did she want it on the floor?

Where was she? Something moved at his waistband. There was a metallic clink. He looked down. Couldn’t see her through the aquarium because of the pink-colored gravel in the bottom.

Regardless, it was clear that Tonya Lansing was on her knees, unbuckling his belt. “What are you doing?” didn’t seem quite right to say because it was pretty damn obvious. “Why?” wasn’t right either because she clearly wasn’t under duress.

The snap on his jeans popped loose. The zipper whooshed down.

To say he got a hard-on would be like saying Mount Everest was a molehill. The pressure in his underwear didn’t last long because she divested him of both jeans and shorts in a flash. Her hands eased them down, pried his cock loose, and pushed the clothes down around his shins. Felt a little weird—okay, a shitload of weird—standing here with his wonker waving like a departing sailor.

She feathered her hands up his shins, his knees and then his thighs. It seemed like every hair follicle on his legs stood on end. He almost came on the spot when she cupped his balls in one hand and squeezed his dick with the other. If she so much as touched the head—

Her lips wrapped around him. Both hands kneaded. She groaned. Or maybe that was him. The aquarium water sloshed. The glass slipped in his fingers. He tightened his grip. It sloshed harder. Damn, he had to put this thing down.

“Don’t move one inch,” she warned.

“But the fish…”

“None. New tank.”

He couldn’t look to make sure because Tonya was swirling her tongue around the head of his dick. Pressure built—it seemed like, in his entire body at once.

Tongue-swirl, tongue-swirl, then she sucked the whole head of his cock into her mouth. He nearly fell over. His knees were like molasses.

Gaspar’s hands itched to touch her skin. Needed to fondle her breasts. Yearned to touch those lips. Hadn’t he spent two entire nights thinking of all the ways he’d make her moan?

Yet, standing here helpless and vulnerable and feeling mighty damn stupid was somehow the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. Her head bobbed up and down, taking him full into her soft warmth, then pushing him out so the cool air blew chilly on the wet skin. Up down. In out. Stop. Don’t stop.

One more and—

He came, long, hard and hot, her hands milking every last drop into her throat, his legs longing to give out, his hands hungering to touch her. Everywhere.

There was a small popping sound as his cock came loose from her lips. Gaspar felt it lay slack and exhausted against his balls. Tonya stood to her full height, barely coming up to his nipples. She took the aquarium, turned and set it on the desk. She returned and pulled up his clothes, tucking everything back in place. Then she reached both hands around his neck. Warm and soft, they encouraged him to bend to kiss her.

He tasted her lips, ran his tongue around them twice. As he was about to sink his tongue in her mouth, she pulled away and shot him a sly grin. “Take your pussy home. I have to get back to work.” She turned to pluck a tissue from the box on the desk.

Her back was to him. She was looking out the window. Huh?

Summarily dismissed, Gaspar went to pick up the cat.

What the hell happened? This must be how hookers felt. He turned to leave. The least she could’ve done was open the door for him.

Then there she was, turning the knob, and slapping him on the ass. “I’ll be at your place at six for my turn. Be prepared to discuss wedding plans.”

L
IZ

To read more about the characters connected to this book, check out the following stories:

An American Bulldog by Liz Stafford (Dolf and Taryn)

The Great Dane by Liz Stafford (Jannick and Rianna)

*K
EWPIE
D
OLL
IS
A
REGISTERED
TRADEMARK
OWNED
BY
J. K
ALLUS
.

*B
ARBIE
IS
A
REGISTERED
TRADEMARK
OWNED
BY
M
ATTEL
& C
O
.

*C
RACKER
J
ACK
IS
A
REGISTERED
TRADEMARK
OWNED
BY
F
RITO
-L
AY
.

Liz Stafford

Liz Stafford is new to the world of short stories—and loving it. Being a pet lover and ex-dachshund breeder, introducing a clinic full of pets seemed only right, and natural. Adding men made it even more so…

Email Liz at:
[email protected]