Silk Stalkings (3 page)

This guy knew one naughty body part from another. His thumb
skated gently across her clit with each thrust of his finger. She whimpered
uncontrollably in response to the heat and pleasure his fingers gave her. She
dropped her skirt to clutch his shoulders with both hands, her nails digging
into his muscles, squeezing and releasing in time to his fingers dancing inside
her.

“Kiss,” he whispered.

Her lips crashed against his, her tongue darting into his
mouth at the same pace as his fingers driving into her pussy and her fingers
digging into his shoulders. “Oh,” she moaned into his mouth. Her thighs
quivered wildly. Yancey feared she would collapse totally, crumbling like a
house of cards against his solid torso. “I…I can’t.” She wanted to give up—the
intensity of ecstasy and emotions frightened her. She might pledge her love and
offer herself up as his sex slave.
What would be the harm?

His free hand cupped her neck, holding her firm as he looked
deep into her eyes. “Sure you can, honey.”

She believed him. He knew what he was doing. His words were
reassuring and soothing, the same as his touch. The determination of his gaze
boring into her eyes told her that they were in this together. And she liked it
when he called her “honey”.

“Something’s wrong,” she choked out, her entire body
trembling with need. Her flesh and bones were not under her command. This
wasn’t what she’d observed in the porno movies she’d researched. Those women
remained in control. Sometimes they grunted, unseemly noises that sounded fake.
There was nothing phony about the moaning and whimpering she uttered in
response to his touch. “I’m coming apart.”

“It’s all good,” he said. His fingers stroked her pussy,
curling and caressing inside her. “You’re doing just fine, sweetheart.”

When the warmth dropped from some secret place deep within
her, Yancey cried out until all the air left her lungs. Liquid coated her pussy
with wet heat that splashed ecstasy inside her. The sensation radiated out from
her spine to her entire body. She feared an orgasm-induced seizure or a stroke.
Her family would be so embarrassed when the doctors told them she’d spend
eternity in a vegetative state because of extreme sex. Diego covered her mouth
with his to catch her moans and smother her cries.

Everything went black, or she’d closed her eyes. Maybe she
passed out for a second. All Yancey knew was that her head spun like a top in
total silence and blackness. His fingers slowed, prolonging the ebb and flow of
ecstasy, dragging the sensation out longer, recreating the spasms in miniature
until the pleasure plateaued. When her sight returned, she noticed Diego
ripping the condom open with his teeth, spitting the foil paper in the
direction of his window. So she guessed that not too much time had passed.

She continued shuddering even after he removed his fingers.
Her thighs trembled, barely holding her up. He was fidgeting outside her line
of vision, putting the condom on, she supposed.

“You good?” he asked, but got no response, only labored
breathing. “Yancey. Talk to me. More?”

She nodded her reply and mumbled, “More.”
More what?
She wanted a nap and maybe a protein shake, but owed him for detonating a sex
bomb in her vagina.

Diego centered her over him, lowering her onto his cock.

Yancey’s breath caught in her lungs when he filled her
passage with his length, starting a second round of quaking within her—or a
continuation of the previous tremors. She wasn’t savvy enough to know what a
multiple orgasm entailed, but she remained alert through the rumble this time,
focusing on the darkly intense look in his eyes.

“You still good?” he asked, although the three syllables
sounded somewhat strangled in his throat, as if he gargled the words rather
than speaking them.

She nodded, not venturing to speak for fear she’d choke on
her words too.

Diego grasped her waist and thrust his hips up as he pulled
her down until their skin slapped together over and over again. Her pussy
continued to spasm around his cock as the wave of her endless climax washed
over her. He muttered something in Spanish that she didn’t completely
understand, then he tensed. He groaned for what seemed like an eternity. Time
passed in silence except for a duet of heavy breathing. Seconds transitioned
into a minute or more of time when she felt lonely.

They’d been so connected. So in sync.

“That’s all she wrote,” he finally said, dragging his hand
along his face. “Sorry.”

Everything that had been liquid heat turned cold in the cab
of his truck, including her. “I think I wet myself,” she whispered, nearly
choking on a lump in her throat. Could she have lost that much control? The
prospect mortified her. If she planned on pursuing a phase of whoredom, she’d
need to come complete with a list of disclaimers about possible leakage,
screaming orgasms and loss of motor function.

“You didn’t,” he assured her. He caressed her arm
reassuringly. “You’re in perfect working order, I swear. Some girls are just
squirters or soakers. Nothing wrong with that. But you should drink something.”
He rummaged for the bottle of water they hadn’t finished earlier.

Squirter? Soakers?
She didn’t want to be a squirter
or a soaker, whatever that was. Her face heated up. She swallowed a long gulp
of tepid water. “Did you know the average ejaculation travels at a speed of
twenty-eight miles per hour?” Yancey handed him the water.

Diego took a sip and replied, “Doesn’t surprise me.”

* * * * *

At her apartment an hour later, Yancey still felt shaky, as
if her blood sugar were low. Diego had insisted on following her home in spite
of her protests. He was her one-night stand. She didn’t want him to know where
she lived. She’d planned on giving him a fake phone number but had decided
against that tack since he now knew where she lived. Instead, she’d simply
dodge his calls until he got the message.
If
he called, that was. She
still suspected she’d peed on him—he’d merely been polite saying she hadn’t.

What man in his right mind would sign up for round two of
being peed on?

With her computer in front of her, she put an X next to
number eight on her Excel spreadsheet.
One-night stand.
Might as well
check off number twelve,
sex in public.
And number twenty-two,
sex in
a vehicle.
Oh, and number eighteen,
illegal sex.
Who would have
known one encounter could knock so many deeds off her naughty list? At this
rate she could plausibly wrap up the entire list in a matter of months. Why men
took years to sow their wild oats was a mystery to her. Leave it to a woman to
do in a month what it takes your average man years to accomplish.

Along with the X column, to check off the deed as done,
Yancey had a category for date, time, sexual partner and a rating system, among
other variables so she could extrapolate any number of factors. For now she
rated the experience a ten compared to previous sexual encounters. She’d grade
on a curve, but couldn’t imagine sex getting any better without leaving her
inside out and twisted in knots.

She sat back in her chair and sighed for what felt like the
hundredth time.

Yancey could conceivably add a few more items to the list
and cross them off right away.
Full-body orgasm,
for starters. She’d
felt that climax from her toenails to her split ends—which reminded her, she
needed to make a beauty appointment for a pedicure and a trim.

It wasn’t easy or cheap to go from plain to alluring.
Don’t
get me started on the investment of time.

Yancey sighed heavily again. Over an hour later and she
still couldn’t completely catch her breath. Diego had done things to her that
she hadn’t realized were possible, one of which seemed to be robbing her of the
ability to breathe properly. And apparently none of the other guys she’d dated
had realized those things were possible either. He’d been so patient and
gentle…except when he was being rough and demanding. The guy knew when to be a
gentleman and more importantly when to leave polite manners at the door.

Her home phone jingled. Yancey checked the caller ID. She’d
already decided n ever again to speak to Diego Ramos. She needed more data,
more test subjects to compare before settling down.

“Hello, Stanley,” she answered brightly.

“Yancey?”

Duh.
“Who were you expecting, silly?”

Stanley worked with her in the research department of the
local newspaper. They were fact-checkers extraordinaire. The dynamic duo of
research. His brain was an encyclopedia of trivia. Yancey was simply good at
fact-finding, as well as enticing people to corroborate statements. She was a
people person. Stan? Not so much.

“I’ve been calling your cell phone,” he said. “No answer.
Got worried.”

She waved her hand. “It’s off. What’s up?”

“N-nothing.” Silence followed. “Why do you ask?”

Yancey examined her nails and decided to add a manicure to
her beauty list. Hair
and
nails would be two hours of her life she’d
never get back. All in the name of beauty. It was a necessary evil in order to
complete her research and find true happiness. While she was at the mall, might
as well shop for shoes. “Did you call about something in particular, Stanley?”

Lonely, if she had to guess. He’d be her gay sidekick if
only he were gay. She had him pegged as asexual, or sexually neutral. Might be
a virgin. He could and had replaced her computer hard drive after she’d been
hacked and exposed to a nasty virus, so he had skills.

“I was concerned,” he said. “I had a bad feeling.”

“Oooh.” Yancey switched the phone to her other ear. “That’s
spooky, Stanley. I did have a flat tire in the supermarket parking lot.” He’d
warned her to drive carefully when they’d both left work late that evening.

He had a keen intuition, having correctly guessed how she
liked her coffee—grande nonfat mocha, hot in the morning, iced in the afternoon
when she needed a little pick-me-up. He’d lent her lunch money when her wallet
had been stolen. He’d serendipitously brought an extra helping of his mom’s
special tuna salad from home when someone had stolen her lunch from the break
room fridge just last week. His mother was a magician with tuna fish. Stan was
her go-to guy, like a brother.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked in a scolding tone she’d
heard too often from all the men in her life. Her dad, her actual brother and
now Stanley. She’d heard no such condescension from Diego. She squelched
another sigh before it left her lungs.

Didn’t even occur to me to call.
“Didn’t want to
bother you,” she said instead. Yancey had enough unsolicited assistance from
her family, after all. One phone call, two tops, and she’d have more help than
she’d ever need. Or want. Along with reprimands and advice.
No thanks.
She’d
had a problem and solved it herself. Sort of.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” he said. “It’s no bother.”

“I’m not helpless, Stanley. Besides, there was a guy,” she
admitted. But that’s about all she was prepared to admit. Stanley would be a
touch judgmental of her sextracurricular activities.

“A guy?” he said. “What guy?”

“A tow truck driver.” She didn’t need to go into details.
“Fixed my flat lickety-split.” A burst of heat spread throughout her body. He’d
fixed a few other things while he was at it.

“What if there hadn’t been a tow truck driver?” he asked.

Yancey wrinkled her brow and pondered. “I’d have turned my
phone on and
called
a tow truck driver.” She had roadside assistance
coverage, after all. A girl’s best friend. Paid for by her dad, who’d prefer
she drive a Sherman tank rather than a tin can—his words, not hers.

“Promise you’ll call me next time,” Stan said.

“What are the chances it’ll happen again?” What
were
the chances, she wondered? Diego had said the tire might not hold. She could
possibly have a flat by morning.
Hope not.
She decided to set her alarm
for half an hour early, just in case. She began mentally compiling a list of
things to do tomorrow as Stanley breathed steadily into the phone. “Good night,
Stanley. See you at work in the morning.” She disconnected.

Yancey reached into her shirt pocket and whipped out the
business card Diego had given her.
Diego Ramos.
She sighed, still
feeling the effects of his excellent customer service.

Chapter Three

Diego examined the work ID badge Yancey had left in his
truck.
Accident or clever ploy?

At least he was relatively certain now that her name really
was Yancey. Yancey Peters, according to her ID. And she had a job. A legit job.
He’d have actually guessed stripper or escort, half expecting a bill in the
mail.

Yancey appeared to be a productive member of society.
Probably not out on bail like the last girlfriend he’d had.
Jessica.
Or
as he liked to call her, the straw that broke the camel’s back. She’d sent him
over the edge into celibacy after she’d stolen his credit card and charged a
new wardrobe to it. She’d needed a suit or two or three for court. It was a
long trial and she had expensive taste in clothes. She still called
occasionally from jail just to say hey.

He sensed that Yancey was different from your garden-variety
party girl. Of course that’s what he’d thought about Gilda too.
Gilda.
He sighed. Gilda looked sensational in a leather miniskirt. Apparently her
biker boyfriend, Mayhem, whom she’d forgotten to mention in spite of the fact
that his image was tattooed on her shoulder, thought so as well.

Regardless of how Yancey dressed—you know, like your average
high-priced call girl or porn star—she seemed sweet. Naïve. Actually, she’d
sort of walked a crooked line between innocence and wickedly wild, which he
found appealing.

She’d given him the brush-off the previous night, reluctantly
allowing him to follow her home. It was for her own safety, he’d pointed out.
Good manners dictated that he ask for her phone number whether he intended to
call or not. The more she’d protested, the more he’d wanted her damn number.
Reverse
psychology?
He guessed the number she’d scribbled down was a fake. Just a
hunch. Tired of battling with her, Diego had tucked his business card into her
shirt pocket just in case she had any car troubles in the future.

Or trouble of any kind. She struck him as a black hole of
trouble.

Trouble aside, he couldn’t get Yancey out of his head. He’d
tossed and turned all night, battling with himself about whether to call her
up. By the time his alarm beeped, common sense had won. He’d decided that no,
he would not pursue her. Then her scent had assaulted him in the cab of his
truck, reminding him of the previous night like a refreshing slap to the face.
This
is how it starts.
Then he’d found her ID on the passenger side floorboard,
photo attached of a smiling Yancey with freckles and black-framed glasses, hair
in a messy bun. Secretary sexy.

Looking up at the two-story brick building that housed the
local newspaper, he shook his head and knew he had to return her ID. Diego had
been parked in the lot for ten minutes praying for an emergency tow call so he
could put off the inevitable. Nothing.
Figures.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, he ambled into
the building, stopping at the reception desk. He fidgeted while waiting for the
woman behind the counter to finish her call. A security guard glared at him
from the elevators. In another time, when Diego had been a different person, he
might have returned the glare and thrown in a suggestive hand gesture. Terse
words might have been exchanged. Not today. He shrugged off his ire.

Once he had the receptionist’s attention, Diego placed the
ID badge on the counter. “I’d like to leave this for Yancey. Yancey Peters.” He
pushed it toward her. “She dropped it in my tow truck last night. By accident,
I’m sure. She had a flat.”
Too much information.
“I fixed her flat. Made
sure she got home okay. In one piece.”
Way too much information.

Glancing at the badge before eyeing him, the receptionist
said, “She’ll be happy to see you.”

News to me.
“She will?” Maybe the woman knew
something he didn’t.

“She’ll be happy to see her ID.” She handed him a pen. “Sign
in to the visitors’ log, please.”

“I’m on call,” he said, hooking his finger over his shoulder
toward the truck she probably couldn’t see from her workstation anyway. “Can’t
I just leave it for her?” If Yancey wanted to contact Diego later to thank him,
that was up to her. He’d let her lead, taking his cue from her.

The receptionist was busy answering and transferring calls.
She tapped the sign-in book with her finger. While he signed, she clipped a
visitor’s badge to his shirt pocket and pointed to the elevator. Talking into
the phone, she flashed him a peace sign…or she was relaying to him that he’d
find Yancey on the second floor. He snatched the wayward badge from the counter
and took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, thereby avoiding the
glaring security guard. At the top of the stairs, he perused the directory. Her
badge said “research”, so he followed the arrow to the research department.

The research section, which he imagined was the most
important department of the entire newspaper, was as far from the heart of the
building as possible. The labyrinth of hallways ended at a gloomy windowless
cave of an office full of filing cabinets and rows of shelves lined with what
he speculated were reference books. It resembled a library.

He stopped suddenly to catch his breath when he spotted her.
Yancey tossed her head and laughed at something said by a male coworker. She
flipped her hair with her hand. She was dressed similarly to the day before and
her hem floated too close to her butt and too far from her knees, in Diego’s
expert opinion. Not that he minded the view. What he minded was everyone else
having the same view—starting with the guy she was laughing with, the guy whose
gaze was glued to her, the guy who was hanging on her every word, and ending
with everyone else.

He continued closer, clearing his throat when he reached the
cubicle. A computer monitor sat on a tidy desk. The workstation was decorated
with silly keepsakes, photos and Post-it notes.

Yancey spun around. “Diego.” She said his name as if he were
a decadent dessert item consisting mostly of sweet chocolate. He’d expected to
be greeted with a stammer of denial and a look of ashamed regret. Maybe she had
left the badge on purpose.

“Yancey.” He held up her ID, noticing that she had a
visitor’s badge hanging like a necklace from her throat.

Her hand flew to her chest. “Damn, double damn. I thought
I’d lost it for good this time.”

“Why the double damn?” he asked. He’d been trying to do her
a favor by returning the thing. He expected a little gratitude. A smile. Maybe
that cup of coffee she’d offered the previous night before she’d made him a
better offer.

“She doesn’t like the photo,” her coworker said, as if
he
were in the know when it came to all things Yancey.

Ignoring the guy, Diego asked Yancey, “Didn’t occur to you
it might be in my truck?” His words came tumbling out too much like an
accusation. She should have called him, if for no other reason than to get her
badge back. He hadn’t entertained the notion that she didn’t want it returned.
He assessed the photo. “And I think it’s a cute picture.”

“W-why would it be in your truck?” The coworker stepped
closer. “Who is he, Yance?”

“This?” She laid her hand on Diego’s shoulder as if she
owned him. “This is
the
tow truck driver. Remember I told you I had a
flat tire?” She shot Diego a menacing stare, as though willing him to keep his
mouth shut.

Like I’d kiss and tell.
As if anyone would believe
what had happened to him if he did tell.

“W-why would you be in his truck, Yance?”

“It was raining outside my truck, but not in my truck.”
Diego thrust out his hand. “And you are?”

Yancey waved her hand dismissively. “That’s Stanley.”

Diego pumped his hand. “I’m the tow truck driver. Otherwise
known as Diego.”

Clearly she’d been slumming it last night, was feeling the
sting of morning-after shame now. Diego had been there once or twice himself in
the past, regretting a wild night of sex, but not last night’s sex. Sex with
her was branded on his brain. He didn’t care for being on the receiving end of
her remorse, however. She was obviously very book smart and assumed he was not.
Her assumption might be right, but he was street-smart.

“I feel awful about last night,” she said, smacking his ego
with her admission. He’d be feeling the bruise of her verbal slap for quite
some time.

“You do?” he said with an edge of disbelief. Not that he
couldn’t imagine she’d feel awful about their illicit encounter, more that he
found it hard to conceive she’d blurt out the fact. To him. To her coworker.

“Yes.” Yancey groaned. “I completely forgot. I have roadside
assistance service. I know you refused any payment for your help, but you
should totally take down my information and get compensated. I mean,” she
rolled her eyes, “I pay for the service, why not use it? Am I right?”

Diego filled his lungs and mentally counted to ten. She was
testing his patience. He’d helped her out because she’d needed assistance. He
hadn’t asked for nor anticipated payment in any form. What had he expected?
Certainly not sex. Sex was a gift, not a currency. And he’d gifted her right
back. Twice, if he wasn’t mistaken. Either that or one really long gift.

“Sure.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “Right. Why
not?”

“Great,” she said with a bounce. She certainly was perky,
almost annoyingly so.

Yancey’s coworker Stanley had watched them through narrowed
eyes as Diego and she bantered back and forth, talking a lot but saying very
little.

“Tire holding up?” he asked, his gaze cutting to Stanley,
waiting for him to excuse himself so that he could talk to Yancey and figure
out where they stood—besides smack-dab in the middle of the research department
acting like virtual strangers.

“Yep,” she replied. “So far so good.”

“Can I talk to you, please, Yancey?” Diego faked a pleasant
smile. Glancing at Stanley, he added, “In private.” Stanley seemed a little too
invested in the conversation as far as he was concerned.

Diego had no idea what he’d even say to her. He wasn’t
entirely sure he ever wanted to see Yancey again, but her indifference rankled
with him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her. Christ, he could look at
her for hours, like a framed work of fine art that he couldn’t afford. What
worried him was where she’d register on a one-to-ten crazy scale, one being the
picture of sanity, ten being straitjacket territory. Like a carpenter’s level,
her crazy bubble seemed to float back and forth between three and seven, which
was just too unstable for him.

“Sure.” She waved him toward an open office door down the
corridor. “Stanley.” She tilted her head coyly and pointed to a manila
envelope. “Could you courier that research over to the entertainment desk?”

“But—”

“No buts.” She shooed Stanley away. “They need it by noon.”

Yancey watched Stanley walk away, but not before he’d
glanced over his shoulder at her one last time. She waved to him, then followed
Diego into the office.

“What can I do for you?” The question and his potential
answer sent a warm crackle of desire coiling around her spine. Like a climbing
rose or a strangling weed? She had to wonder about the impact of his sex appeal
on her psyche. Were his intentions honorable?
Hope not.

“Was I hallucinating last night?” His brows knitted
together.

Shrugging innocently, she said, “How would I know? Do you
routinely hallucinate?” She’d had some sort of out-of-body experience herself,
but didn’t want to mention it just in case her reaction to their tryst had been
abnormal. And she’d slept like the dead last night. Never better. Diego Ramos
was more effective than a couple of Ambien.

Wrapping his fingers around her forearm, Diego pulled her
close. Yancey gasped, tensing up when his warm breath washed over her face. Her
pulse quickened and pounded under his grip.

“Did we or did we not kiss last night?” he whispered against
her cheek.

“Yes,” she replied, in nothing more than a breathy sigh.
At
the very least we kissed.

She inhaled his manly scent, which stirred memories of the
previous night—as if the steamy, dreamy sight of him, the sound of his steady
voice and now the heat rising off him weren’t enough to get the job done. She
knew in an instant that she’d need to uncheck the
one-night stand
column
on her spreadsheet. But in its place she could mark off several other nasty
numbers from her listing.

Yancey clamped her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him
into a lip-lock he wouldn’t soon forget. Their mouths crashed together in a
series of fevered kisses. Without ending the kiss, Diego shoved the office door
shut with his foot. She liked how his mind worked, but not too many people
ventured into the research department unless they were lost. They’d rather call
on the phone or send an email than walk a few yards into “the dungeon”, as some
employees called it. Better safe than sorry, though.

Yancey pulled her body away—but not her lips—in order to
flip the lock on the door. “You have a condom?” she muttered against his lips.

He patted his back pocket before skimming his hand up her
exposed thigh. A shiver of anticipation coursed through her at the thought of
where his fingers were headed. He caressed her bottom, slipping his fingers
under the fabric of her bikini undies to knead her bare butt cheek.

“You are so soft,” he murmured between kisses. “So smooth.”

She gasped and laughed when he swiftly yanked her lacy
lingerie down to her ankles. As she stepped out of the panties, which was no
small feat on three-and-a-half-inch heels, he bowed or bent like some sort of
modern-day Prince Charming and scooped up her underwear, stuffing them into his
pocket. Pulling her against his steely chest, Diego resumed kissing her and
tenderly stroking her skin, followed by grasping and groping, hands full of
flesh, kneading and squeezing.