Stolen Moments (12 page)

Kim placed her saddle in the slot I’d left. I readied myself, old blanket in hand. As she straightened, I sprang forward, throwing the blanket over her head and pulling the extra fabric taut. I shut the door, certain no one would return to the barn until after lunch. An hour would be more than enough time to return the favor Kim had done me on the morning ride. Kim’s body had tensed. I wasn’t sure if she was playing along or if the nervousness was real. “Keep quiet,” I said, making my voice low. “I don’t want any screams or foolishness. You yap, I cut your hair lock by perfect lock. Or worse.” That was a bluff—no knives in here, only the riding crop I had placed by the demo saddle in case I wanted to use it. I led her toward the saddle now.

She was light. I hoisted her up onto the saddle, letting the blanket fall as I did so. I used the cord from one of the saddlebag sets to tie her hands behind her back to the pommel. Thank goddess for western saddles. She watched me, a nervous smile of anticipation playing out across her lips. “You were right. I couldn’t think about anything but you the whole ride back. I’m really fucking wet, but I figure there’s a chance you might be even wetter.” She nodded slightly. I stepped up and unbuttoned her shirt, raining little kisses on her neck and face as I did so. Her mouth strained for mine. “Not yet,” I said, stepping back. I looked her over—hands tied tightly, not going anywhere, breasts spilling out of the lacy bra she wore, legs spread-eagled. I ran one finger over the crotch of her jeans; Kim lifted her hips up. Sighed.

“No. Fucking. Noise,” I said. My fingers plunged underneath her bra as my mouth gave her what she wanted. Her nipples were candy hard. I twisted them and pulled them and she leaned into me, bucking at the restraints. Breathless, flushed, and getting wetter by the second, I tore myself away from Kim’s lips to take her sweet, hard nipples into my mouth. I licked at them as though they really were candy. She shook. She really was being a good girl. I could tell she wanted to scream, talk back, or direct me. I also knew she was scared I might stop. Worst of all, I could take off for the dining hall and leave her there.

My hand returned to her crotch and stroked it lightly as she twisted up to meet the pressure of my fingers. She was making small moans now as I sucked at her breasts, and her hips rose to meet my fingers. I had to feel her, dripping wet, bucking like a rodeo rider, entirely at my mercy. My fingers stopped their stroking and roughly pulled her belt open. I watched her as I undid her pants and pulled them down. Yellow lacy underwear matched her bra. I smiled. She smiled back, straining to kiss me again. I slid a finger inside the waistband of her underwear. Lower, lower. We groaned together when I made contact.

“Hurry,” she said. “It’s getting late.” She was right. We needed to have this mess cleaned up before the dudes returned. Now that I had my finger on her clit, I couldn’t wait any longer.

I slid one finger inside her, and then another. I wanted to feel my fist twisted up inside her but this wasn’t the place. She squirmed around on top of my fingers. “All right,” I said. “I get the message.” I fingered her clit as I climbed on the saddle, facing her, taking her lower lip between my teeth. My other hand reached for her breasts again. She groaned, louder this time. I didn’t care. I worked away at her cunt, fingering her clit and her nipple in quick rhythmic jerks. Our tongues rolled playfully around. She came too quickly, bucking and jerking closer to my hand. I kept going, lightly at first, willing her to come again because I wasn’t done touching her. When she finished, spent, I pulled my sticky fingers out of her pants and licked them off. “Got to clean up the evidence,” I told her.

She smiled. “Untie me, cowboy.”

“I’m not so sure I should. We’ve got work to do this afternoon. I think I’m afraid of what you might do right now if I untie your hands.”

“I’ll wait till tonight,” Kim pleaded. “I know what you and those muscles need.”

“All right,” I said, giving her one more kiss as I reached for the ties. “I think we’ve both got something to look forward to tonight. This ride’s barely begun.”

It’s been the day from hell.
If I have to deal with one more demanding client or one more accounting problem, I may have to kill somebody
. The thought slices through my mind with a vengeance. My phone rings. I growl at it, hoping my ferocity will frighten it into silence, but it rings again. I swear and snatch it up.

“Good afternoon,” I say in the most pleasant voice I can muster, considering the foul mood I’m in. “This is Jamie.”

“Jamester! How’re you doing, you hot, sexy thing?”

I can’t help but smile. The exuberance in Carrie’s voice reaches in and hunts down what little joy I have available today, pulling it out into the light against its will. She’s my best friend and I need her positive energy like I need food or water. “I’m just reminding you about dinner,” she says. “You’re still meeting us, right?”

Crap
. I completely forgot. “Um…” The sigh escapes my lips before I can catch it.

“Oh, don’t you do that,” Carrie warns.

“Uh…”

“Jamie. Don’t you dare.”

“I…”

“Don’t.”

The edge in her voice makes it very clear that I’ve blown my friends off too many times now and there’s no way I’ll be allowed to do it again. There will be dire consequences. I think quickly and shoot for the next best thing. “I’m going to be late?” My voice is hopeful.

Carrie makes a strangled sound. “How late?”

“I have a sales call at six thirty.”

“Six thirty? Jesus Christ, Jamie. That’s an hour and a half after normal people have stopped working for the night, do you realize that? How long will you be?”

“Not long. Half an hour. I’ll head right to the restaurant from my client’s office. I promise.”

“All right,” she says grudgingly, then interrupts herself. “Wait.” A mischievous tone creeps into her voice and I know what’s coming. “Is this sales call with a new client?”

I suppress a wince. “No.” Damn it. She can read me like a book even when she can’t see me.

“It’s The Babe, isn’t it?”

I can practically hear the capital letters and I make a face, irritated that she’s busted me. “It might be.”

“Aha!
That’s
why you agreed to such a late call. You can’t say no to The Babe. She says, ‘Jump,’ you say, ‘How high?’ She’s too hot to turn down.”

“How would you know? You’ve never seen her.”

“I don’t have to see her. You talk about her often enough. I could probably pick her out of a lineup.”

“She spends a lot of money with me, Care.” It’s a feeble attempt to justify myself, and Carrie’s absolutely not falling for it.

“Don’t forget the part about her being hot.”

“She’s been a client for a long time.”

“And she’s hot.”

I sigh, conceding defeat. “And she’s hot.”

“Did you wear a suit today?”

“Maybe.”

“You hussy.” She laughs again. “I hope it’s the green one. Make sure you unfasten an extra button. And show some leg. You’ll sell more that way.”

By now, I’m laughing too. And blushing. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll look for you around seven thirty. Try not to be any later than that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hussy.”

“Shut up.”

*

Michelle Adams was one of my very first clients, and I think I developed a crush on the woman the first time I laid eyes on her. It’s never gone away. On the surface, we don’t really have much in common, and we don’t know much about each other on a personal level. She knows I’ve got a dog named Ralph, that I live alone, and that I love to read. I know that she’s divorced with two daughters and a new boyfriend, that she prefers red wine over white, and that she’s addicted to
Law and Order
. And Carrie’s right: Michelle Adams is nothing if not hot. Her boyfriend is a lucky, lucky man and her ex-husband must be out of his mind.

The sun is dropping toward the horizon as I pull my Acura into the parking lot of Michelle’s building. It’s empty, save for my car and a black SUV I assume is hers. I grin as I think of her behind the wheel, sunglasses on, music blasting.

I give myself a quick once-over using my reflection in my car’s window to ensure that I’m presentable. My deep green suit is simple but classy and it’s the perfect color to highlight my eyes. It also complements my auburn hair nicely—not an easy feat. My hair is twisted back into a French braid and is actually still in pretty good condition despite the fact I’ve been running for ten hours straight today. I capture a stray lock and tuck it behind my ear. The cream-colored camisole under my jacket is brand new. I tuck it more securely into my skirt, thereby pulling the neckline down a smidge, then grin at the result, thinking how Carrie would nod in approval over the wink of cleavage. The hem of my skirt falls just above my knees, a length I’m not entirely comfortable with, but one Carrie insisted upon.
Whatever works
, Carrie always says. I smooth a finger over each eyebrow, take a breath, and head toward the building, my briefcase in hand.

There’s a note taped to the glass of the front door; the door’s stopper is down and it’s propped open a couple of inches. I pull the note and read,

J-

Come in and shut the door behind you. It locks automatically at 6. I’m in my office.

-M

I kick the stopper up and shut the door behind me.

Standing in the reception area, I marvel at the quiet. There’s a slight eeriness in the lack of activity and the dimness of the lights. I’m not used to it and I feel goose bumps break out along my arms. It’s usually such a busy place…phones ringing, conversations filling the air, deliveries being made. At this hour, however, it is absolutely silent. The goose bumps intensify and I pick up the pace, my black pumps sounding uncomfortably loud on the tile floor.

Light is spilling out of the fifth door down and as I approach, I hear the gentle tapping of the keys on a computer keyboard. I also catch the subtle presence of Michelle’s musky perfume hanging in the air like a secret, and I breathe deeply. I rap on the door frame and Michelle looks up from her monitor. I’m sure her face brightens a little when she sees me. Or it could be my wishful thinking.

“Hey, Jamie.” She stands and crosses the office with her hand outstretched. She’s a couple inches taller than I am, but her sheer presence makes her seem even bigger. “It’s great to see you; you look great; that’s a terrific suit. I’m sorry for dragging you out this late.”

I take the offered hand, too distracted by her warm, firm grip to dwell on the fact she just complimented my outfit. Carrie always teases me about what she calls my “hand fetish.” Hands are one of the first things I look at on a person and Michelle’s are perfect: large, strong, and feminine. I try hard not to imagine them on me, but as usual, it’s difficult. Her nails are manicured and her skin is creamy smooth. And did I mention warm?

“No problem,” I reply, reluctantly letting her go. “I was working late anyway.”

“Let me just finish up this e-mail, okay? Have a seat.”

“Take your time.” I smile, knowing the more she’s focused on something else, the more I can stare at her. I sit in one of the two chairs in front of her desk and I pull my notepad and pen from my briefcase. I jot unnecessary notes in order to look busy.

The office is good sized and well appointed. Michelle’s desk is huge and it’s made out of the same deep cherrywood as the nearby credenza and armoire. The mauve carpeting is thick, deep, and expensive. The floor-to-ceiling windows on both walls have wooden vertical blinds, and I’m surprised to note that the blinds are all closed tonight. I don’t remember ever seeing them like this.

Michelle herself is a little harder to study without being obvious, but I find that if I tilt my head down like I’m writing on my notepad, I can look up at her through my eyelashes without giving myself away. I hope. Her hair is loose today, a fact that makes my heart speed up a bit. It’s dark and naturally wavy, the kind every woman wishes she had—except for the women who actually have it and constantly complain about how unruly it is. The ends fall just past her shoulders and I feel that old, familiar urge to dig my fingers into it and grab a handful. Today’s outfit consists of a mouthwatering black pantsuit with a red shell underneath. I immediately wonder if the shell is a tank top. Last summer the air-conditioning crapped out in this building in the middle of an August heat wave on a day I had an appointment. Everybody was cranky and sweating. The receptionist had walked me to Michelle’s office and my voice had stuck in my throat when I got my first glimpse of her. She was wearing a navy skirt and a white silk tank, her suit jacket tossed over a chair. The sudden urge I’d had to suck on her bare, glistening shoulder was almost overwhelming.

“There.” Michelle hits one final button on her keyboard, then pushes it away. “Done. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem.”

She props her elbow on the massive desk and sets her chin in her hand and studies me for several long seconds. “Nothing’s ever a problem for you, is it?” There’s something different about her today. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can feel it in the air.

I shrug. “Nope. I aim to please.”