Missed Connections (20 page)

Right after his set.

At his club.

And fine, maybe I bought the new dress to show the women at Frisk—show Maxine and Shiny Hair—that Jack’s with me for a reason.

His response when he picked me up in the cab and saw me was worth it. I’m surprised we made it out of the apartment, given how intensely he kissed me—against the wall of my lobby.

“We’ll continue this later,” he’d growled. I’ve never felt such raw hunger for someone before.

The fact that we couldn’t give in to the raw, physical lust has made this entire night feel like drawn-out foreplay. Jack’s splayed hand on my lower back when he guided me to a table in the VIP section lingered just long enough to burn its shape on my skin through my dress.

In retaliation, I made sure to brush my ass against him when I slid into my seat.

He left to get our drinks, giving us a needed breather. It picked up as soon as he got back to the table and sat across from me.

His eye twitched when the straw slipped between my lips. My nipples tightened when he traced patterns in the condensation on his bottle.

If he hadn’t gone to do his set, I may have gotten in trouble for doing something frightfully indecent under the table with my foot.

I’m still debating what we can get away with in his booth—but he’s working, so I keep my ass in the chair.

My eyes resentfully drink in the sight of all the girls getting way too close to Jack around the DJ booth. So much for my self-control. Would the situation feel better or worse if we were in a committed relationship instead of just friends with benefits? Do I even have the right to feel possessive without the title of girlfriend?

A sexy brunette runs her hand up his arm, and my blood pressure rises with her grabby little paw. This is a huge reason why Jack and I can’t be anything serious. I’m too possessive for this to work. We’re only sleeping together, and I feel like that stranger’s touching what’s mine.

And what’s happening when I’m not here? We’ve never had a discussion about exclusivity, so I have no right to be upset if he’s banging ten chicks in ten boroughs. It’s his business and none of mine. Maybe this is all he wants with me. Come to think of it, after the blowup in my apartment, he’s never broached the subject of being something more.

With a sigh, I turn from the booth and head to the bar. I can’t get sad over Jack. We were only going to be a temporary thing anyway.

There are inset lights in the bar, blues and silver making the granite sparkle. The whole place is tasteful but expensive, upscale but not pretentious. People are dressed to be seen, and I’m pretty sure I see a pop star in the corner booth, but I don’t want to stare and seem too impressed.

I am, after all, dating the man who owns this place.

No, not dating. Seeing. Is there a difference?

I order a screwdriver—a girl’s got to get her vitamin C—and head back to my empty table. Sliding onto the seat, I take a deep breath, then a deep sip, and relax. Jack and I are about fun, having a good time with no strings, and if I start letting feelings creep in, it’s just going to complicate the hell out of the arrangement and sour things unnecessarily.

Not wanting to engage anyone near me, I pull out my phone to text Pete about the singer in the corner.

One text message from Blake, sent a minute ago.

I bite my lip, filling with regrets. The last time we spoke was just before I stood him up. He’s going to be mad and disappointed in me. I brace myself, waiting to be reamed out, and open the message.
Miss you like crazy. Want to meet tonight instead?

Do I? I’m just so glad he isn’t mad that I stood him up and have avoided him since. My buzz has lifted my mood, and I look back to Jack, who’s dancing in the DJ booth, giant headphones pressed to one ear as he seamlessly mixes two of my favorite songs together. I know he’s doing it for me—I mentioned liking the one song in his car on the way over—and a smile spreads across my face.

He turns in my direction, and I swear I can feel the warmth of his gaze. I have to look away.

Miss you too,
I type.
But not tonight.

I try to focus on my words to Blake, but I can’t get Jack’s hungry look out of my mind.

Fuck it.

Slipping my phone back into my purse, I grab my drink and head to the dance floor. Time to drive my friend with benefits a little crazy with some dancing.

* * *

Jack’s fingers lightly trace dizzying patterns on the inside of my thigh. I want to climb on top of him but remain still, savoring it. He leans close, trailing the tip of his nose up my jaw and barely touching my ear with his lips. “You nearly killed me in that dress on the dance floor.” His ragged whisper teases my skin and pleases my heart.

Mission accomplished. We may not be exclusive, but I still want him to want me more than anyone else in the club. And the way he escorted me from the building like he couldn’t wait to be alone with me—in front of a few employees—made my heart purr. We may not be exclusive, but his employees know I’m important to Jack.

I stifle a moan, too aware of the cab driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror to relax fully, but Jack’s hand and voice are doing plenty to distract me. Jack had a couple of drinks, so we left his car parked at the club. I regret the loss of privacy, but it’s probably for the best.

He breathes in my ear. “When we get back to my place, I’m going to take your panties off with my teeth, bend you over, and fuck you while you’re still wearing that dress.”

Unf.

Not soon enough, he’s tugging me from the cab by the hand and leading me up to the door of his house on the Upper East Side. It’s a nice place—understatement of the century. Hardwood floors, comfortable furniture, dark walls. The whole place smells like smoky vanilla, and I wonder if it’s a candle or something he cooked recently.

I haven’t seen it in a while—we usually hang in public or at Pete’s—but there are some big upgrades with the floors and decor.

He locks the door behind us and seizes me, crushing my body to his, kissing me hard and fast with an aggressive tongue and teeth that nip. His hands slide down my back to cup and squeeze my ass. I tense with pleasure and press harder against him. My hands wind around his body, stroking up and down his back before settling on the nape of his neck as I try to make the kiss deeper, harder. He lets me help pull his shirt off.

Jack’s erection presses into me, and he wrenches away with a smile. “I believe I made you a promise in the cab.”

Warmth spreads through my body, starting at my stomach and radiating everywhere as I remember his words with stark, happy clarity. “You did.”

His hands stroke down my thighs before scooping me up and setting me on the kitchen island. “Lie back.”

I start to obey but prop myself up on my elbows to watch when he grips my panties in his teeth and pulls them down my legs and over my high heels. The granite is cool beneath me, but his eyes burn a hole in mine as he kisses his way back up my calves and thighs, not once looking away. His hair is silky between my fingers, and I sit up fully and am fisting it when his hot mouth makes contact with my clit.

Watching him go down on me is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t look away. He pushes two fingers inside me, and my back arches. I fall back, unable to stay upright beneath the fury of pleasure, though I’d give anything to keep looking at him. I’ve never understood the appeal of a mirrored ceiling until this moment. I’m dying to watch him, unable to move.

He presses his teeth into the sensitive skin around my clit and gently sucks at me. A jolt of pleasure slides the room sideways, my heart beating at the lightning bolt of fear of sharp teeth near my sensitive places, but “God, that feels good.”

I know he knows. He somehow knows my body better than I do, and a moment later, I’m writhing around, soaking his hand and crying his name. A few gentle licks to let me recover, and he pulls me from the island to my feet and turns me around…and bends me over.

“I’ve only delivered on half of my promise.”

My knees buckle, but the biggest smile claims my lips. Normally, I’d be too short, but the added height from my heels matches us perfectly. The air is cold on my ass and thighs, even cooler when he backs away to undo his jeans and push them down just enough to put on a condom. He hitches up my dress and slaps my ass. I squeak and start to straighten up, but he spreads me wide and thrusts inside with one steady movement, and my body screams
God yes
as my arms shoot out to grab the opposite edge of the island.

The cold, beveled edge of the island rubs my clit as his hard cock plunges in and out of me. His body is muscular and hot and slammed up against my back. The coolness and heat and friction are too much, and then he reaches around and squeezes my breast, stimulating my already-hard nipple. His free hand lavishes attention on the other, and all I can do is grip the edge of the island and brace myself as he grinds me six ways to Sunday.

He leans over and kisses the back of my neck, and my pussy begins to flutter, the muscles deep inside seizing and clamping down on his cock as an orgasm starts.

“Come with me.” He continues pumping for a moment. Then his hips press tightly to me, and the tip of him hits a place that makes me go rigid and shake, then go absolutely limp with pleasure.

No movement but the racing of our hearts, the heavy breathing, and Jack’s hands gently stroking my shoulders and running through my hair.

“Mmm. You’re trying to kill me with this dress. Admit it.”

I smile. “I had no idea you were into girlie girls.”

“I’m into things that show off your incredible legs.”

“You’re a leg man?”

He nuzzles the back of my neck, making my eyes roll back. My pussy tightens around him again; he’s found one of my hot spots. “I’m a Sarah man.” He pulls out of me, which stimulates places that are wet and already throbbing, and I moan and clench my thighs when I feel his half-hard dick start to go rigid again.

“God, Sarah. You’re going to kill me.”

He might kill me too. I could live with him inside me and forget about the world outside, forget to eat or sleep or breathe. “Take me to your bedroom. You fucked me on something hard. I want to return the favor on something soft.”

He presses his erection against me. “It won’t be soft.”

“God, I hope not.”

Chapter 22

“We’ve got something for you that we think will solve your”—Fern looks me up and down—“dilemma.”

Dilemma? I follow her to the back room where there’s a pile of fabric on the counter in blinding shades of red, orange, and yellow. The colors are so saturated and bright that I have to blink and look away. Fern’s expectant smile confuses me.

I’m clearly missing something. “What?”

She tsks. “They’re smocks! Now you won’t have to worry about what to wear every day. Isn’t that fabulous?”

No. Oh God, no. She holds one up and spreads it out, and I see it is indeed a smock.

“Put it on,” she encourages with a smile.

I balk, but there’s a stack of them, so at least I won’t be alone in this travesty of fashion and individuality. With a smile, I take it, head to the bathroom, and put it on as I try to compose myself in private. Looking in the mirror, I can see it’s even worse than I thought. The color scheme is like a reverse partial rainbow. The neck, shoulders, and sleeves are bright yellow—a color that’s always made me look sallow and ill. The strip of orange cuts my boobs in half and continues down to my belly button. The bottom of the smock is bright red.

The lights reflect the colors into the room around me, and they shine up into my face. As if the horizontal striping wasn’t unflattering enough, I look radioactive. The material is stiff, and the boxy pattern completely hides my shape, but I discover a tie at the back and pull the drawstring a little tighter. It brings in the waist but makes the shoulders and sleeves flare out more dramatically.

Now I look like a fluorescent linebacker.

I loosen the drawstring, returning to being a rectangle. And I’m going to have to wear one of these every day? What’s brought this new uniformity on? Why would Ziggy and Fern, champions of freedom of expression, suddenly decide uniforms are the way to go? They’re not corporate enough to resolve any conflict between Phyllis and me, or learn labor laws, but they decide that uniforms aren’t impinging on individuality?

With a sigh, I head back out to the kitchen.

“It looks wonderful! So bright and cheerful.” Fern’s eyes light up when she sees me.

“They certainly are bright. But…” I gnaw my lip, deciding how best to proceed.

Her smile dims. “What?”

“Is this going to be an everyday thing?”

“Yes.”

“And we all have to wear these?”

Fern crosses her arms. “The material is a little stiff for the massage therapists to work in and move freely.”

Tell me about it. “I need to move too, doing the laundry and making the beds,” I point out.

“We didn’t feel that it was fair to expect the massage therapists to wear them because they are technically independent contractors, and this new policy wasn’t in place when they started.”

“It wasn’t in place when I started either.”

She purses her lips. “No, but you’re a different type of worker.”

“So…”

“It’s for the employees. To look more professional.”

Is she saying I don’t look professional because I haven’t been parading around in a kaftan or wearing jewelry made from shells and crystals? “But I’m the only technical employee.”

“Yes.”

“So I’m the only one who has to wear a smock?”

“Not necessarily. We’re leaving it up to everyone else’s discretion. They can choose to wear one if they like. We bought enough that everyone can if they so choose.” She stands up straight and her nostrils flare. “I’m sensing a lot of negative energy from you.”

Goddamn right you are.
I take a deep breath and struggle to keep calm. “It’s just that—”

“We spent a lot of money on these uniforms, Sarah, in an effort to make you feel more comfortable here.”