Blind Date (3 page)

Here, I’m totally helpless, unable to do anything as he moves his hips and fucks my mouth until he’s done. I flick my tongue and close my eyes when a tiny spurt of his semen coats my tongue with saltiness. I want to reach forward and…

It’s amazing how much you rely on your hands until you can’t use them anymore.

I’m totally at his mercy. The realization hits me hard. Although I could, in theory, stand and push him away from me, I don’t want to. I know the magic he can work with his mouth and his fingers, and how amazing his cock feels buried deep inside me—and now I want to know what it feels like to have his cock fucking me until I can’t breathe.

I don’t even care how he does it.

I graze my teeth along his hard length, barely scratching his skin, and he groans. He reaches forward and grabs my hair again, and damn, I love it when he does that. I shouldn’t love anything a one night stand does, but then again, I’ve never had this before. I’ve never had someone dominate me so fully.

“Fuck,” he hisses when I hollow my cheeks to suck particularly hard.

The word, the tone, the breathy exhalation, the withdrawal from my mouth, it all gives me a powerful thrill.

I relish in it. The gasping undercurrent of his tone threads through my body like lightning. It gives me courage. It breeds my attitude, giving me a power I just assumed lost to him.

“Thought you were gonna fuck me, Carter? What was it you said about how many orgasms you could give me before you do? I don’t see me coming from sucking your cock.”

He pulls me up from the back of my head, and my arms drop forward, resting over his. There’s a predatory, pissed off look in his eye, and he brings me so far toward him that our lips are almost touching. “Enough of your mouth,” he growls, releasing my hair and grabbing me.

With one hand, he knocks our glasses off the table onto the chair. One falls off and smashes on the ground, and I gasp when he flips me over onto the table and spanks my ass. I arch my back, the front of my dress removing the chill from the table.

My arms hit the hard surface in front of me, and foil tears behind me. I’ve barely had time to take a breath than Carter’s hands are on my ass, spreading it, and his cock is roughly pushing its way into my pussy.

It hurts but it doesn’t, and I cry out, resulting in a slap to my other ass cheek.

Fuck me, I love a spanker.

I moan again. Deliberately.

This time, though, he doesn’t spank me. Once again, he winds my hair around his hand and tugs. It’s harsher than before, and I’m all but looking at the ceiling. My back is totally curved, and he slams himself into me in a show of pure strength that hits all my right buttons. I get his point, to make me shut up, but all it does is drive another pleasured moan from my lips.

I lift my hips and push back into him so his cock gets deeper and his thrusts get longer, and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. His cock is so long and hard, his thrusts so powerful. His ability to fuck me until I lose my breath is unreal.

I can’t breathe. Not right now. All I can do is ridiculous little sharp bursts of air that I doubt even make it to my lungs. He’s there right behind me. He’s driving into me relentlessly. My heart is thundering louder than before and my lungs are burning and my bloodstream is full of nothing but endorphins and pleasure and adrenaline and promises of a blinding orgasm that has the potential to knock me out.

“Not so sassy now, huh, Bee?” Raspy and broken, he speaks. “Not so fucking sassy now my cock is buried deep in your sweet pussy and you’re at its mercy.”

Another spank, and lust swamps me in a swath of heat.

Carter slaps his hands down onto the table either side of my body and continues his domination, thrusting harder and harder until my eyes water and I really can’t breathe because there’s nothing but pleasure, and stars, and blackness, and pleasure all over again.

I tremble everywhere. My stomach clenches. My legs are tight. My fingers are curled so far into my palms that my fists must be iron-like. It’s bolt after bolt of desire and lust and everything else that goes into the making of an orgasm.

And, yeah. My scalp is stinging from his grip and my back aches from its permanent arch, but his cock pounding into me and his balls swinging and slapping against my clit has me edging closer and closer.

I hold my breath.

There.

The edge.

He stands.

Reaches round.

Presses his thumb.

To my clit.

I explode.

I scream.

He moves faster.

It’s quick.

Harsh.

Rough.

Brutal.

Everything.

He releases my hair and I relax, collapsing onto the table. He leans forward, his chest against my back. Fucking hell. Fuck, shit, damn. There isn’t an inch of me not feeling the waves of heat and trembles of oblivion he just gave me.

He slides his hands down my arms and lifts his head to undo his tie. I flex my wrists the second they’re free and bend my arms to dive my fingers into my hair.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I have no words that don’t start with ‘fuck.’

Carter stands and with his hands planted on my ass once again, pulls out of me. He hooks his finger through my thong and repositions it over my pussy.

What a gentleman.

“It’s a shame one night is all the time I have to offer a woman,” he muses, pulling me up and spinning me into him. His arms wrap my body tightly, and I muster all my remaining strength so I don’t fall into him. “Because you’re a fucking delight, Bee.”

“A delight. That’s exactly what every woman wants to be called after sex,” I breathe, my blood still thundering through my body almost deafeningly.

He smirks, the amusement in it reaching his eyes. He cups my chin and lifts my face, looking into my eyes. “I’d fuck you all night long if I could, baby. But I have business to attend to. There’ll be a car waiting for you to take you home. Take the door to your left instead of going through the restaurant.” He presses his lips against my cheek in a touch that feels warm but lacks any real heat, then releases me.

I grab the table to steady myself and watch as he does up his pants, rebuttons his shirt, replaces his tie and jacket, and walks out of the booth without another word, perfectly composed.

And even though I still have aftershocks shuddering through me, I straighten. I pull my dress down to cover my ass and grab my purse from the floor. Digging it in, I pull out twenty bucks, throw it on the table, then walk out of the booth myself.

There’s a car waiting indeed. I doubt my twenty dollars even touched the price of the wine, but I can pay my way.

I pass the doorman, step outside the restaurant, flag a cab, and climb in.

And that’s how you do a blind date—the blind isn’t in not knowing who you’re meeting.

It’s in fucking them and knowing you’ll never see them again.

I hate Mondays.

My heels click against the linoleum floor of my office and echo around the spacious room. Mind you, it would be much more spacious if I didn’t have whiteboards and corkboards and fabric swatches all over the place.

Hey—I never said it was fucking tidy.

I don’t do tidy. I do organized chaos. I know where everything is, because it has its place—even if that place is the last spot you’d expect to find it. Like… a pile of color charts stuffed into the vase on my windowsill, or the flowers meant for that vase now dead and dry, resting on top of a pile of books about various middle-Eastern methods of organizing your house and the like.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read them, but whatever. It is what it is.

I sit at my desk and move a file from it so I can put my laptop down. A few more things shift, and it briefly crosses my mind that maybe I should tidy it…

Nah. Thought came and went before I could finish it.

I click on the Gmail shortcut on my desktop and flick open my diary. My morning is clear, so I do what I do best. I open a new tab on the browser and head straight for the Victoria’s Secret website.

What? I got a coupon in the mail this morning and I didn’t have time to look before I came here. I’m simply being a responsible adult and saving money. You know… When I should be earning it.

Good thing I work with my mom.

“Come in,” I say when two sharp knocks echo through my office.

The door squeaks open, and my mom steps in. Her softly curled mahogany hair bounces off her shoulders as her heels click against the linoleum. With her hands on her hips, she peruses my less-than-tidy office with her blood red lips pursed tightly. “You really need to tidy this space.”

“I know, I know.” I shoot her my sweetest smile. “What’s up?”

“Carlos double booked me,” she says, absently collecting sheets together from one of my armchairs.

“Again?”

“Hmmm.” Her dark eyes cut to me, and one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows quirks up in displeasure. “I think he was supposed to book this consultation with you, given your empty schedule this morning.”

“Mrs. Cortez cancelled again. Something about having to get her bunions removed.” Having an empty morning is a rarity, and she knows it. We didn’t build this interior design company overnight. While I worked my ass off in college for my degree, Mom was working to build a clientele with one of the most prestigious interior design firms in New York City.

The day Donnelly Designs Inc. became a registered company with the state of New York, she brought the clientele with her—and with the clientele came rave reviews and solid recommendations.

This is the first empty morning I’ve had in weeks.

Mom tuts and puts a book back on my bookshelf. With her slim figure and almost wrinkleless skin, you wouldn’t believe she’s fifty. Of course, I’m certain her skin has had a little help from Botox, but she’ll never admit to it. Unfortunately for me and my theories, she has Grandpa on her side insisting that Nanna was the same.

“Sienna Cortez has more bunions than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. If she does it for a fourth time, you politely tell her that she’ll have to find another designer to… What does she want doing now?”

“Her kitchen.”

“Tell her to hire a builder.” Mom sniffs and turns. “Anyway, as I was saying, Carlos double booked me. Since one of my appointments is a home visit with Louis, I need you to take over the other.”

“Sure.” I reach for a notepad and eventually find one in my desk drawer. And a pen… Ho hum.

Mom rolls her eyes and hands me a pen from a pot on my windowsill.

Aha. That’s where I put the fuckers.

“Thanks. So, where do you need me to go?” I ask, looking up, pen poised and ready to write down the address.

“A restaurant on 58
th
street.” She wipes a fingertip across one of my shelves, and I barely hold back my own eye-roll when she wrinkles her face up and wipes the dust from her finger. She focuses her dark eyes on me, then glances pointedly at my notepad. “Two eighty E, 58
th
street. Carter’s.”

I freeze, horror washing over me in a chilling shiver. “Wh-where?”

“Good Lord, Bee, don’t make me repeat myself.” She sighs. “I’ve called ahead and said you’re going. The owner, Carter Hughes, will be waiting for you at eleven a.m. You have plenty of time to wipe a wet cloth over your shelves and perhaps have Carlos order you some form of filing system. Then again, he’d probably purchase you a dressing table instead.”

Carter Hughes. A consultation.

Right.

Because we didn’t have enough of a consultation not forty-eight hours ago.

“Bee?” Mom says my name for what I’m assuming isn’t the first time. “Can you do it?”

“I…” Damn you and your bunions, Mrs. Cortez. “Sure, Mom.”

“Excellent.” She claps her hands together, and for the first time she entered my office, her face breaks into a wide smile. “I’m lead to believe that he’s meeting with several companies throughout the day, including Parker Interiors.” Her smile drops and her lip curls in disgust.

Ah. That’ll be her old employer who tried to sue her when she left, taking half their client portfolio with her.

Excellent. So this consultation is personal. In more fucking ways than I’d like it to be.

“Make sure we get this contract,” Mom orders me, stalking back toward my door. “I’m counting on you for this, Bee. Carter Hughes is incredibly influential and if he hires us and is happy with us, it opens even more doors for us.” The door clicks shut with an echo that’s all too final.

Believe me, Mom. I know exactly how influential Carter Hughes is—he’s also real convincing. After it, it took him all of ten minutes to get his hand inside my panties.

I shudder at the memory. God, what are the chances? I’m certain Karma is royally fucking with me right now. I’m not sure what I did to the temperamental little bitchtit, but maybe it’s as simple as she thinks it’s about time I came face to face with one of my conquests.

The barista at Starbucks doesn’t count. I mean, I totally knew he worked there when I slipped him my card. He had just handed me a caramel hot chocolate, after all. I just didn’t expect him to call me.

I sigh and rest my cheek on my hand. I probably should have guessed that my carefree personal life would catch up to my professional one in the end. Just, for the love of fucking God, why does it have to be with Carter Hughes?

Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back again.

This truly is karma at her finest. I can still feel the sweet burn of pleasure from his skillful touch. I can still remember the way he played my body as though I were a piano.

I think I’m still having the goddamn orgasm.

Seeing him is not going to work out.

Shit.

***

I wring my sweaty hands together as I sit in the back of the cab.

This is such a bad idea. Me going to this restaurant and seeing this man is exactly what nightmares are made of. What was I going to tell Mom though? Let’s be real. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t complete this consultation because I screwed the man on Saturday night.

Shit. Charley’s gonna have a fucking field day with this.

“Ma’am? We’re here,” my cab driver says.

I take a deep breath and hand him the fare before stepping out on the New York sidewalk. The sun is glimmering its way through the skyscrapers, its warmth unbothered by the tall, glass buildings in its way. I revel the in the sensation on the sunshine on my skin and turn my face into it.

For a moment, I can pretend I’m not here. I imagine I’m on a beach in the Bahamas, sipping on a fruity cocktail. I’m stepping out onto the balcony of my hotel in the Jamaican morning sun. I’m dancing in the afternoon Mexican heat.

The illusions are broken by the tooting of horns and distant whirr of a siren.

Ugh. New York can’t even give me two minutes, can it?

My stomach coils in apprehension as I study the outside of the restaurant. With its clean lines and black mirrored walls that are broken by perfectly polished windows, not to mention the thick, block letters proclaiming it to be Carter’s, it’s a wonder I never noticed its striking look at the weekend.

Then again, I never have paid much attention to my surroundings. Ironic, considering my job. Or perhaps it’s because of.

Who knows?

Not to mention that this place apparently has two doors in, because this is the door I came out of.