Читать книгу Making Him Want It - Renee Luke - Страница 9

Pussy–whooped had never been a name he’d have called himself. Never a category he’d fallen into. Especially not after one dip of his stick. Until maybe now. Unnamed pussy at that.

Smoothing a hand over his shaven head, Jamal let out an exasperated breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had one–night stands aplenty, years ago, and had never been so drawn into this shit before. He’d hit it and forget it. With no regrets.

Closing his eyes, Jamal rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying not to be sucked into the unrelenting guilt. It grew daily, even though he’d spent the week trying to forget how his bow–wow lust had gotten the best of him. He opened his eyes and stared accusingly at his computer, the black shut–off screen mocking him with the knowledge of what’d been in Kat’s files.

What he feared had to be more than a coincidence.

Tossing a stack of papers on his desk, he rose from his leather chair and glanced at the green digital clock displaying quitting time. Well after.

At least he’d been able to make it to Friday without rereading Kat’s submissions again. The first half–dozen reads had been enough. Enough to know that Kat had an undeniable talent to arouse and that his fantasy of her had been usurped by some get–down–and–phunky chick that had rocked his world.

It’d been pretty much the only thing he’d accomplished on Monday. Reading and remembering. Remembering the sweet honey and how closely her actions resembled the fictional characters of his client.

Somehow, on Wednesday he’d managed to print and package up her articles, sending them off to their appropriate publishers. He’d even done the entire task, only skimming the material, to make sure each was going to the proper house, and not giving it a thorough view. But that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it. From remembering word–for–word how she’d described just how he’d fucked last Friday night.

One week ago. One week of hard–on misery.

“Was it Kat?” he mumbled, clicking his briefcase closed, then adjusting his rocked–up dick behind his slacks. Maybe it was the three–year erection from desiring the fantasy image of her that had him trippin’. Lack of blood flow in his brain. His body reacted like a well–trained hound after a scent, only he’d caught the scent of her articles and the chase of wanting her was on. Of getting between her thighs.

If there was a chance it’d been his super–star he’d given a good, hard bang between bricks and his dick, he wanted to know.

But it was more complicated than just casual sex. Sometime during the last three years, he’d developed an affection for Kat, the perfect cocktail of sweet innocence and enough aphrodisiac to make—and keep—a man hard. That’s what she was paid to do. Only he was her agent and not supposed to be getting–off on her work as much as he did. He was supposed to have maintained some level of professional distance.

That line had been crossed already—they’d become friends. They talked about personal matters and only Kat’s insistence had kept them from meeting in person. But it was more like skipping–rope than line–crossing if he’d fucked her. More like taking a lighter to the business–relationship card and burning the shit out of it.

Leaving his things in his office, Jamal headed down the hall. Even though it was late Friday afternoon, he hoped to catch Rebecca before she cut out for the weekend. He needed another perspective on this, though he had no intention of telling her he’d acted like an under–sexed irresponsible ass.

Rebecca was gathering her things when he looked in her office. He tapped his knuckles against the open door. “Hey, Bec.”

She glanced up from her bag, smiling as she greeted him. “Hi, JJ. You’re here late.”

She was blue–eyed, blond. Tall and thin, a professional beach–volleyball player before she’d become a literary agent, and every bit hot enough to be the sort of cover–model he’d represent. If he was a brother who was into the white chick thing.

Jamal shrugged. Working late every day, including Fridays, wasn’t unusual for him. “So are you.”

She laughed. “True. But I’m on my way out of here. What’s up with you?”

“You in a hurry?”

She turned toward him, leaning a slender hip against the edge of her desk, and flipped a few long curls over her shoulder. “Why?”

She might not be his type, but she was easy to talk to. “Nothing serious.” He sat down in a chair, spreading his legs, he leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

Rebecca laughed again. “Oh, not serious? Right.” Setting her things aside, she took a seat opposite him. “You’re full of shit. So spit. What’s going on?”

“You ever had a fling at work?”

“Are you hitting on me?” She winked at him. “Get in line behind Kent. He’s got first dibs on working–my–nerve if I ever leave my man.”

Chuckling, he glanced toward her. “He bothering you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. You didn’t come in here to talk about me. What’s up?”

“Have you ever been fuzzy on what’s appropriate with a client?”

“Do you mean commission splits? Contract clauses? What exactly are we talking about here?”

“You blonde or something?” he teased. “Hell no, I’m not talking business here. I’m talking being attracted to. Messed with.”

She bit her bottom lip, but Jamal knew she was trying hard not to laugh in his face. “Oooh, JJ, whatcha do?”

Bending his head, Jamal interlocked his fingers behind his neck and exhaled slowly, the air whistling between his teeth. Hell if he knew. Banged a stranger? Screwed his client? Let the dawg in him out? Ruff!

“Nothing,” he lied. He shook his head. Not like he could exactly make a full confession to Rebecca without looking like a sucker. He’d been played. He’d already figured that out. Innocence his ass, the little hottie from the bar was a sex–pot, made to please a man. He’d been at her mercy. Still was.

Damned cock of his thickened.

He rolled his head on his shoulders. “I’m just wondering if you’ve ever been tempted to cross the professional line?”

A moment of silence passed. “Who is she?” Rebecca finally asked.

His gaze shot to her, the look in the clear–blue eyes was so knowing, explaining last Friday night’s events nearly rolled from his lips.

“Hypothetically.”

“Wanna know a little secret?” She grinned, then continued after he nodded his head. “At the Christmas party two years ago I had a few too many glasses of champagne and made out with Kent.”

“Just made out?” he asked, arching a questioning brow. “You didn’t sleep with him?”

“Some kissing and heavy petting. That’s as far as it went. But that fifteen minutes sure made life at work hell for months.”

“Was he pissed he didn’t get more?”

“Not so much. He took a different girl home. And a different one the following week. But our working relationship was uncomfortable. Strained. As I see it, JJ, unless you’re thinking of marrying her and living happily–ever–after, it can only end two ways. Both badly.”

Rebecca didn’t speak for a moment, then added, “JJ, mess with a chick you work with and she could sue your ass for sexual harassment. Mess with a client and it could end your career. Just make sure the shot–of–leg is worth it.”

“Humph.” He hadn’t been thinking about marriage. He waited for the usual shudder of distaste, when thinking about being tied down by a ring round his finger. His typical reaction, but it didn’t come. What the hell? Sure he was getting older, but was he really contemplating settling down?

Nah…

But when the time came, it’d be the cherry–on–top to have a fly girl with a tight pussy that clung to his dick, and cried out mewing sounds as he thrust her toward climax.

But what if she lived as sassy as she’d walked away?

What if it had been Kat, would that mean every single article she’d written had a different man she’d fucked? Was this her MO? The way she’d inspired horniness from the men who read her articles and jerked–off?

Disgusted even thinking about it, Jamal stood. “I’m feeling you. No mixing business and pleasure.” He forced down the bile that’d risen in his throat. Couldn’t be the way his client worked. Not his Kat.

“Like oil and vinegar.”

“But oil and vinegar work well on salads.”

Rebecca laughed, then asked with a wink, “You planning on tossing salad?”

Heat spread across his face and a pulse ticked through his cock with a vivid image of smooth caramel skin covering a nice round ass. He cleared his throat and moved toward the door. “Naa, I’m planning on getting out of here. It’s late.”

Rebecca glanced at the golden and silver watch circling her wrist. “You still meeting my friend, Tonya, for dinner?”

Damn! Jamal had been so preoccupied with Kat and his dick–sprung fling, he’d forgotten about the blind date that Rebecca had set up for him. Again. Calling him a good catch, she was always fixing him with one of her friends. So far nothing worth mentioning relationship wise, though several had been worth the price of dinner. They provided dessert.

“Yeah.” Too late to cancel. “I’d better go. And, Bec, thanks for listening.”

“No problem, JJ. Let me know how it goes with Tonya. You’re going to thank me.” She smiled wide at him, added a little finger wave before turning her attention back to gathering her things.

Walking down the hall, Jamal attempted to clear his mind from the lingering thoughts of juicy thighs and shoulda–kissed lips. Attempting to get rid of his erection before Tonya mistook it for her. Trying to muster a little excitement about his date, he headed to fetch his briefcase and keys.

The room was dark, a haze of lust mingled and swayed with the pounding rhythm thumping from the surrounding speakers. “What the hell am I doing here?” Jamal asked himself, standing just a few strides in the front door of The Night Kitty. His dick needed pussy—that’s what, he realized, adjusting the half–hard flesh that’d been flaccid all night.

Until he’d gotten close enough to this bar that he could actually taste need. Could almost imagine the scent of sex. Of her.

And if there was a chance she’d be there, where–the–hell–else would he be?

Shoving away minor fragments of guilt for skipping out of his date with Tonya early, Jamal narrowed his eyes and focused on the wild thrusting movements of the dancing and grinding couples, half praying he wouldn’t find her there tangled up and simulating fucking with another man.

The other half praying she would be and interested in getting freaky with him again—anything to ease the blue–balls of wanting her for the last seven days. Seven cold shower mornings.

A Snoop Dogg remake of Slick Rick smoothly took over the pulse of the music just as cleverly as his Fly–Girl honey had taken over his fantasies. Oh, yeah, he was pussy–whooped after all and didn’t even know the hottie’s name.

He might well as be a tongue–wagging puppy. Where his pussy was, he’d follow.

Hell, he’d given up the sure bet of hitting it tonight with Tonya. She’d been a give–it–up–girl. She’d been attractive enough. Into him. But he hadn’t been interested in her not–so–subtle suggestions of all the sweetness she could give. He hadn’t been into it.

Instead all through their casual conversations, Jamal’s thoughts drifted away from his date and back to the bar where he’d hooked–up with the woman he’d much rather be with.

Though he’d intended on heading home after dropping Tonya off, he’d steered his Escalade down the streets, taking the route that would lead him to the nightclub. Here. He’d even driven by twice before he’d parked and come inside. The lure of her strong. Oh, yeah, baby. Strong enough to entice him here on the memory of passion. Ecstasy.

Pushing his way through the rotating hips and swinging arms, Jamal worked his way to the long, dark wooden bar, backlit with small lights that illuminated a few dozen top–shelf bottles of liquor.

All the stools taken, he found a narrow section and eased in, holding up a hand to get a bartender’s attention. A light–skinned brotha glanced his way, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his face. He moved closer, lifting his chin and arching a brow. “What can I get you?” he asked, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the bass boom and the buzz of sexual energy.

“Beer. What do you have on draft?”

“You’re not drinking alone are you? You’re not having what she had?” he asked, his I–know–what–and–who–you–came–here–looking–for grin now reaching his hazel eyes.

Jamal knew the she—the sex–pot—the bartender was referring to, but he couldn’t help the question from slipping from his lips. “She?”

He laughed, slanting his head toward the back exit sign. The back door leading to the alley. “Yeah. She.”

Jamal turned away from the bar, again his gaze fixing on the crowd. “Is she here tonight?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“You ever seen her before?”

“Can’t say that I have. Have you?” The light–hearted taunt was soothed by sliding Jamal a frozen glass mug filled with a dark beer.

Taking a long pull of the beer, he allowed the cool liquid to ease the dryness of his throat. He was a fool, getting suckered into a one–night stand the way he had, but he didn’t doubt it wasn’t the first time the bartender had seen over–boozed chumps getting played the same way. Or playing.

The bartender moved farther down the bar, serving a couple a pair of shot glasses filled with a blue liquor that looked to be the it–drink, Hpnotiq. Mesmerized by the intense color, he watched as they took the shots quickly, then asked for more.

When the light–skinned brotha moved back in his direction, Jamal stuck out his hand. “Jamal James.”

“Lloyd Hall,” he replied, giving him a firm shake. “You new around here?”

Jamal shook his head. “Just too old for the pick–up scene, ya know.”

Lloyd laughed. “Right. Aren’t we all.”

“So, Lloyd, you going to give me what you gave the honey?”

“Hpnotiq, bro.”

“What’s in it?”

Lloyd shrugged. “I gave it to her straight. She snatched the glass and shot it before I added anything to it. Usually it’s a mix. Alone it’s potent.”

“Just one shot enough to mess her up?” Jamal asked, wondering why she would have gulped it down and if that was the reason his Fly–Girl had been so wild that night. What wasn’t a good idea was going home with a rocked–up cock with no pussy to ease it.

“Depends. It’d make her feel good. What she drank wouldn’t get most people shit–faced drunk, though. All about tolerance.” He grabbed the liquor bottle and sloshed it around. “Been told this junk makes you feel Missy Elliot.”

“Missy Elliot?”

“Getcha–Getcha–Getcha freak on. Like finding a chick to go home with. It makes you hot, and cold showers and self–inflicted hand–jobs won’t cut it. You’ll need to get–up–in–it, or suffer. Not something you drink then go home alone.”

“You ever tried it?”

“I serve it. Don’t drink it.”

Jamal glanced away from the bar, scanning the dance floor again, desire making him desperate to find his mind–blowing fuck from last week. His gut knowing she wasn’t there.

“Just fill up my beer.”

The music changed again. The sultry voice of Mariah Carey seduced Jamal away from the bar, leaving his drink behind. Hottie wasn’t here. He was going home alone and didn’t need an aphrodisiac to give him a painful hard–on. She’d already done that.