Stripped (14 page)

Stone: Aaahhh. Thank you for that, luv. Maybe I’ll be able to think rationally for at least a few more hours before thoughts of me licking your pussy take over again. Btw, I’m going to make you so sexually frustrated and desperate that you’ll have no choice but to break your self-imposed rules and jump my favorite bone. I promise I won’t say I told you so. You know I’ll give it to you right, baby.

My body flutters with aftershock.

Stone: And you know one night could never be enough.

He’s right. Of course he’s right! But I have to keep some power… um, right?!?
I think before my pillow falls over the edge of the bed and smacks me in the face.

Chapter Fourteen

Stone

Making love on the dance floor

(Because she’s obviously not going to give it up to me anytime soon in the bedroom!)

Who made up surnames like Woodcock and Johnson anyway? I mean no disrespect—Drew Johnson is a great mate and a smart bloke—but it seems like those original forefather guys were pretty hard up to go naming themselves and their future generations after their schlongs.

Or maybe I’m just thinking this way because I rode the sext rodeo—sans partner—and now all I can think about is her hand down the front of my pants.

And as important as it is that we’re talking about building a new housing complex on the other side of the city, potentially improving hundreds of lives, I just want to get out of here and spend time with Em.

Even if it means she
won’t
put her in hand in my pants.

I keep glancing at my wristwatch—I feel like a teenager biting at the bit for the fucking school bell to ring!

“Stone?” Drew asks. He’s standing in the front of the room with a slide presentation going. “Do you have any input?”

Oh, do I have
input
—just not for here.

“I think the overall plan is a hit. Once we get the kinks sorted, we’ll be able to pass it back to Woodcock and his crew to begin building.”

Drew smiles like I just gave him a birthday cake. Or a stripper of the female variety.

I try to focus on work the rest of the day. Five o’clock finally gets here and I hop in my Jeep to pick up Em at her place.

The apartment building is nicely situated close to the university. A small patch of grass in the front of the three story apartment complex welcomes visitors. Many of the personal balconies are strewn with drying clothes, barbies (or grills, as I’ve learnt Americans like to call them), bicycles, plants, and other stuff. I park and knock.

“Be right there!” Emelie’s voice calls out.

There’s a
Welcome Home, Emelie
sign on the door, created on canvas and written in colorful, highly stylized, graffiti art. It’s cool.

Home
, I think. That’s one of her dilemmas.

The door swings open. “Hey.” Emilie greets me with a wide, happy smile.

It’s a great smile. Full of delicious excitement and anticipation.

“You look fantastic.”

“Thanks.” She looks me over, almost without meaning to, and blushes when she meets back up with my eyes. As if she was caught doing something naughty.

“You too.” She bites that lip, notices, stops, and quickly turns away—I’m going to guess to hide her reddening face. “Come on in.”

Now I can’t help but wonder if she read my texts. I’m thinking… yes.

I follow her. “Nice place.”

It’s colorfully decorated with hippie and whimsical style: mandala and Indian print throws hang from the walls next to pieces of art that look like original creations in a variety of mediums—small statues and sculptures, oil paintings and sketches—the apartment is like a small arts gallery.

“I love the work.”

“It’s all Violet and Raphael—they’re both art students. They make the place very colorful.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“It’s a three-bedroom apartment. They each have their own room and I have the guestroom.”

She leads me down the hallway and shuts the doors as we walk by each of her messy roommates’ rooms, as if to spare me from the disaster. We get to hers, and she’s not kidding—it’s a guestroom alright.

The walls are utterly bare. There’s nothing homey. It’s worse than a hotel room. All that’s in here is a bed, tall boy—or chest of drawers—and a bedside drawer with a lamp. In contrast to the rest of the place, it’s a deserted island.

“How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks now.”

“And you don’t liven up the room, why?”

“You sound like Vi,” she answers. “I don’t know why. I guess I don’t want to decorate a place if I’m not going to stay.”

“If?”

“Vi is begging me to move in and goes into utter denial at the mere mention of my returning to New York. My dad wants me to come back home—like yesterday. My mom is being Switzerland and keeps spouting off momisms like, ‘Follow your heart and the universe will show you the way.’” She shakes it off and starts back out of the room. “I need something to drink. How about you? Want something to drink?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I’ll be right back.” She hurries out.

Even though I don’t think we know each other well enough for me to walk out on that thin layer of ice, the idea of her
not
staying sends a heavy twinge through my gut and a bad copper taste into my mouth.

I call out to her, “Whatever you decide, you really should at the very least make the room comfortable—give it more of a you kind of vibe.” I start snooping about, the caring friend I am. “What have you got in here that could add some charm to the room?” I mutter quietly to myself, considering she’s in the kitchen, as pull my suit coat off and set it on the bed.

The top of the chest of drawers is like a clean shelf with nothing on it. The loo adjacent to the room has nothing but some necessary toiletries and a few cosmetics. A tiny bottle of Jasmine Intoxication essential oil fragrance sits next to a small travel jewelry box. After unscrewing the top, I flit it under my nose.

I exhale in ecstasy. This is the divine scent that, when mixed with Emelie Cartier’s natural essence, is the most sensual aroma I’ve ever experienced. Shit, I’m growing in the pants department.

Moving on quickly, I notice only the bedside drawer is seeing any real action. There’s a Kindle reader and a crumpled
American Ballet Magazine
next to an empty cup with a dried and wilted tea bag. Those three items, at least, say something about Emelie’s personality.

I sit there on the bed and let my fingers skim down the glossy cover of the mag, wondering if it would really be a stretch for her to dance another style with the same passion as she has for ballet.

She’ll never know until she tries.

Skimming my fingers over the e-reader, I hope to see what books she’s reads—but it’s switched off.

“What else is in here?” I wonder and pull open the top drawer.

Holy fuuuuuuuuuck!
I hit the jackpot.

Evil-brain dick immediately possesses me. I didn’t even stand a chance.

“Hey, Em?” I call to her.

I hear cups clink on the countertop. “Yeah?”

“Did you get my texts today?”

Utter silence.

“Is that a no?”

“Um… yeah. No.”

She’s so lying. This is going to be fun.

A moment later, she comes back into the room carrying a couple mugs. “I made a pot of coffee right before you came.”

“Oh, I definitely came,” I say and watch as she gets flustered. “How about you?”

“What are you… what are you talking about?” She won’t look at me; she’s got her back turned, and she’s fucking around with the coffee on top of the empty shelf of the tall boy even though the coffee’s already made.

“The texts I mentioned. It’s too bad you didn’t read them. I wrote some important information.”

“Oh. I’ll have to look at them later then.” She’s stirring compulsively.

Liar. “You could always ask me what I wrote, considering I’m here now. That would seem reasonable, right?”

She makes a small sound, sort of like air being let out of a tire.

“Is the coffee alright? Should we call a paramedic?”

“No, it’s… good.”

“Can I have it, then?”

Another noise, this time a little more squeaky. “Of course.”

Still, she doesn’t move.

“I’m sitting on your bed. Waiting for you.”

Em stutters a bit. “It’s just… super-hot and I don’t want you to burn yourself.”

“I love playing with hot items, Emelie. But you already know that,” I say as she finally turns around with a mug in each hand. I can tell she’s desperately trying to hold herself together.

Now that I have the full face view and she can’t lie to save her life because of her tell-all color-meter, I ask again, “Are you sure you didn’t
see
my texts?”

“Positive,” she says too fast.

Pretty kitten won’t meet my eyes. “My goodness, Em, your beautiful face is cherry red.”

“It must be the heat of the coffee.”

Or not. “Tell me how you pleasured yourself when you read them.”

Her eyes squeeze shut like that will help her escape. “Oh God! Can we please not talk about this?”

“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “Did you do it right here on your bed?”

Another breath of air escapes her chest.

“I bet you did, Em.” I groan a little; can’t help it. “I can picture you—getting the first text, reading it, your gorgeous eyes wide. You lay back, spread your legs and your head rests on the pillow. Your right hand slowly pulls the fabric of your skirt up your leg, over your knee, past your thigh.”

“Don’t we—?”

“I’m not done just yet. Your fingers find their way to the throbbing, aching need between your legs. When you read the next one, you can only see me, working my hot, sure tongue over your wet, swollen clit.”

“YES! Yes! I did read your texts!” she bursts out. “Are you happy now? Satisfied?”

“Did you pleasure yourself?”

I’m greeted with silence. The heat in her face is positively nuclear. “Do I have to answer?” she groans.

“Fuck yes.”

She gives me a shy and simple nod.

“Oh, Em, that’s so fucking hot. I’m growing granite hard.” There is no place on the planet that I’d rather be than fucking here with her, right now. “And tell me, did you use your pretty little hand or this?” I now display in my palm the vibrator I’ve been holding behind my back.

Her body freezes in place. The delectable cherry shade spreads to paint over her ears.

“That isn’t mine,” she sputters. “It’s Vi’s!”

“Are you sure?” I bring it to my nose and take a deep whiff. “It smells like you. Maybe I should taste it.”

“NO! Okay, okay. It’s mine. There!” Ooo, she’s mad. Her nostrils flare and her eyes fill with rage. “You’re so…!”

I take a guess. “Sexy?”

“FRUSTRATING!”

“Well, of course you’re frustrated, look at this thing. What do you call him? Not-Enough-Norman?”

“Gimme that!” She lunges at me in an attempt to yank it from my hand. Like that’s going to work. I deftly evade her.

“Honestly, sweetheart, there is no need for these go arounds with Barely-Adequate-Barry, I am more than happy to service all of your needs.”

“OH MY GOD! This isn’t happening!” she shouts, her embarrassment at an all-time high. She’s so cute as she shoves her hands through her hair. “Can we just forget about all this, take the coffees and go… now?”

I Google adult sex toys on my phone. “Hey, look here! They have a nine inch Rebellious Ricky that looks like a real cock. Or a pretty pink jack rabbit with a G-spot stimulator and clit vibrator. Yeah, I think that would pet your kitten real nice.”

“Hey! You just… leave my kitten out of this!”

“There,” I announce.

“There
what
?” She drops her hands angrily to her hips while her gaze accuses me of wrongdoing—which I’m totally doing.

“I purchased it.”

“You
BOUGHT
it?!?” Her pretty coiffed hair is now a mess and she looks positively wild eyed. I’d love to fuck her right here, right now.

“Overnight delivery—Fed Ex—I can’t be working with a testy, undersexed coach.” I shake my head in mock concern to needle her further.

“I’m just… done with this conversation.” She turns on her heel and dramatically exits the room. “I’m going to the car!”

I grab my jacket and follow her out. “When you get it, I’m going to have to watch you use it. You know, make sure it at least performs tolerably.”

I’m surprised she doesn’t slaughter me on the way to practice, but I figure she may be plotting other ways to exact vengeance.

“Level with me,” I say once we’re standing, ready to rehearse, at the empty Santa Monica Dance Studio. “What styles of dance are you familiar with besides ballet and swing?”

“A little Latin and contemporary,” she admits. “I love the sleek, sheer, sexiness of Latin and learned some of the main dances during high school—tango, salsa, mambo, cha-cha.”

“I’d definitely like to work some of those moves into a dance number for the competition.”

“Do you know the dances?” she asks me.

“Sure do. But working them into a choreographed routine with other styles is tricky. That’s another reason why I want your help.” I tinker with the sound system and cue up some music. “Tell me about your knowledge of contemporary.”