Guilty Pleasures (12 page)

“Can you get that yummy man from that coffee ad on TV to serve it? Nude, please, with cream.” She giggled. “He has the most scrumptious chest. Fluffy and deliciously grizzled.”
 

Lance self-consciously stroked his own satiny-smooth chest through his uniform.
 

Millie sighed and hiccupped. “The sexiest thing about a man is that scent you get from his chest hair when you nuzzle him . . . it’s heaven! Oh God, Will! Please give me my sangria back. I don’t have sex. I need sangria . . .”

An hour later, several cups of coffee had no perceptible effect, so Lance decided to lock up and drive Millie home. He wrapped her up in his bomber jacket and bundled her into the van’s passenger seat, carefully strapping her in. “Where do you live, Millie?”

“Regency Square, number 129. The keys . . .” She fumbled at her purse and extracted a bundle of keys on a keychain bedecked with a patchwork teddy bear and a shiny red heart. “I’m sorry, Will,” she mumbled. “I’m behaving rather b . . .”

Lance glanced over and grinned. She was asleep, curled up like a little girl, making soft snoring noises through her nose. Luckily, he found a parking spot just outside her door. Lance got out, struggled to find the right key, and finally got her front door opened.

He froze. An enormous black and white dog was sprawled, snoring, at the foot of the stairs leading down to the entrance hall. It opened one bleary eye, gazed up at him, yawned hugely, then rolled over onto its back—exposing a tumble of gigantic canine genitals—and promptly went back to sleep.

Okay, one less problem
. He got her out of the car and into a fireman’s lift. She was heavy, warm, and very soft. Lance kicked the front door closed behind him, stepped gingerly over the canine behemoth, and trudged upstairs.
 

This
seemed likely to be her bedroom. He hit the light switch with his elbow. A large bed, lots of satin throw pillows, haphazard piles of books—Jane Austen, the Bronté sisters, science fiction stalwarts, poetry, art, history, and food—and a large poster of Colin Firth in
Pride and Prejudice
made up the décor.
 

He set her on her feet and held her up, while carefully removing her arms from the jacket sleeves. She swayed forward and leaned into him with a sigh.
Now what?
No way was he removing her dress
.
 

She started to nuzzle his neck with soft puppyish snuffles. “You smell so good . . . Pretty Will. I like you, Pretty Will.”

Lance stood with her soft yielding weight in his arms, her perfume subtly complemented by the fruity smell of the sangria on her breath. She lifted her head and softly touched her mouth to his. Lance froze.
 

Millie moved her lips softly, caressingly. She nipped at his lower lip, her mouth opening hot, sweet, and liquidly inviting beneath his. Suddenly she broke away, gasping.
 

Lance quickly moved her through a likely looking door, which luckily turned out to be the bathroom, and held her head while she recycled the entire night’s consumption of sangria. He gently wiped her face with a moist washcloth, and held up a measure of mouthwash for her to rinse with.
 

She was pale and chilled; her eyes closed and she nestled back into his arms. “So tired . . .”

He lifted her up and carried her back into her bedroom, stripped back the cover, and laid her onto the bed. He removed her sandals and carefully tucked her in. Lance turned off the light. He sat on the edge of her bed and watched her.
 

The light from the streetlamp outside her window seeped in as a soft misty glow. She liked Will. A hot wash of jealousy surged through him. She
liked
Will. She’d kissed Will. Everything was going according to plan and moving right along on schedule, so why was he feeling like shit?

Sighing, he got up. Lance tidied up the bathroom and looked in on Millie one last time. Impulsively he leaned forward and brushed his lips against her moist forehead.
 

She snuggled down deeper into the covers and murmured wordlessly.
 

Lance left her house keys on a small table in the hall, nodded at the monstrous dog, and let himself out.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Last night, the Food Festival went well. Will is so helpful, and such a pleasant boy. He has a rather lovely mouth, and a very earnest way of looking at me when I explain things; that’s very endearing. He’s got such strong, firm, and warm hands, too.
 

Serge outdid himself. The girls absolutely pigged out. They really should have a more balanced lifestyle. One of the models called Shauna, I think, crawled onto the table licking up the chili sauce. Another named Dina cried uncontrollably while cradling a hamburger, and I think a few of them were doing unmentionables with their hot dogs.

They drank that champagne sangria like it was water, but so did I. I drank a hell of a lot more sangria than I should have. I regret it now as sangria makes me horny.

Needless to say, I woke up feeling like shit, and I slept in my clothes. I think I must have puked, too.

My head hurts, my knees are disconnected, and I’m feeling really shaky. This all seems unreal. Top-model Dharma insisted on toasting every single famous woman in history who weighed more than forty kilos. There were a lot of toasts, and now
I’m
toast.

I think poor Will probably had to bring me home. How embarrassing. I really must get myself into gear. Also, I have to take Horse out for a pee and a poo before I leave for work. Luckily tonight we have a twosome for dinner in the small salon and there is no theme.
 

The thrash-metal lead singer, Smelly Cunt Joe—from Smelly Cunt Joe and the Jumping Clitorises—is bringing his grandmother in for her eighty-fifth birthday.
 

He is, surprisingly, a very pleasant, courteous man. We are serving Crème of Spinach Soup with Blue Cheese Croutons, Trout Almondine with Wild Rice, Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, and Hot Apple Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream.
 

I hope Serge remembered to get the orchids to garnish the dessert. Smelly Joe asked for lots of Cole Porter, from his gran’s dancing days. Nostalgia is making quite a comeback. It’s excellent for business.

But back to Will—I must remember to apologise to him for the inconvenience of bringing me home. I have this odd feeling something happened. I know I did something. Just wish I knew what it was.
 

Chapter 9

Some basic insight regarding the penis:

The sight of your erection is
not
an instant turn-on.

Don’t whip it out without a warning.

Telling her to get down on her knees and worship Big Boy is not erotic.

No woman will ever find your penis as absorbing or as fascinating as you do.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

It was a quarter to three in the morning. Lance didn’t bother going to bed. He didn’t even bother to go home. He headed back to Guilty Pleasures, let himself in with Millie’s office keys, and headed for the locker room to take a hot shower.
 

Standing under the pounding water, the hot steam rising around him, Lance allowed himself to ponder the night’s events for the first time. She desired him, or rather, Will.

Probably the smell of fermented yeast had been the trigger. He’d reeked of it. Her kiss had surprised him. Though brief, it had been the caress of a confident, experienced woman, and extremely arousing. Best not think of that now.

Lance stepped out. No razor to touch up his chest, no hairdryer to tame his recalcitrant hair into its customary submission, no moisturising emulsion to reinvigorate his skin. It was going to be a difficult morning. He pulled on his jeans. At least the T-shirt was reasonably fresh.

He wondered if he could get some kind of a yeast or malt extract from a pharmacy, or a health store, something he could dab at pulse points, on his chest maybe. She seemed to have a particular predilection for hirsute chests. Lance thought lovingly of his smooth, hard-earned muscle definition. To see all that perfection blurred by a fuzz of anachronistic hair just to please a woman. He shuddered. If he could put up with her cellulite, she could put up with his smooth, delightfully silky chest.

He looked himself over in the mirror. Not too bad for the morning after an all-nighter.
But his hair . . .
He turned away from the mirror with a sigh and headed for the kitchen to pick up his jacket. It was nearly four, time for the morning shopping.

Serge was in the kitchen, perched on his stool casually perusing the morning paper while he consumed a large very sticky-looking doughnut and sipped noisily at a cup of steaming tea.

“Good morning, Mr. Moreno.”

Serge jumped, scattering newsprint all over the counter. “What are you doing here already? Trying to give me a heart attack?” He gathered his paper back into order. “Hell, boy, didn’t you go home?”

“No, sir. Millie felt a little tired after the party ended, so I drove her home. Didn’t see much sense in leaving.”

Serge laughed. “Tie one on, did she? Always happens at these all-girl events. Won’t touch a drop if there’s a man present. She’s a puzzle, our Millie! Hope you took good care of her, Willie.” The dark face hardened into something alien and threatening. “And with a lot of respect. You do understand me?”

“I’m a decent man, Mr. Moreno,” Lance replied. “I have a great deal of respect for women. I took her home and put her to bed. That’s all.”

“Good, good. Well then, hey ho, it’s off to work we go!” He clumped away, leaving Lance to scurry off after him.

With their rounds done, they headed for Serge’s favourite breakfast haunt and his platter of delights. Lance ate hungrily, prompting Serge to order a second plate. They sat in companionable silence, watching the pinking sky and the lapping water dissolve the morning mist. After the finished, they headed back to Guilty Pleasures, where Lance unloaded the morning’s shopping and helped Serge organise the kitchen for the afternoon’s work.

“Go home now, Willie. Get some rest. Tonight we only have a small, simple do. I won’t need you until about half past four.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moreno. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Take the van, Willie. Oh, and call me Serge.”