The Fling. Stefanie LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.
I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.
I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.
I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.
I pull it out.
Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.
D. I wonder what her name is.
I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.
I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.
I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.
No casual sex. That’s the rule.
But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.
Blondie picks up on the third ring.
Drew
“YOU SAID TO call when it was late.”
I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.
“What time is it?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.
“Twelve thirty,” he says.
“Did you just get home?”
“I did.”
“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.
“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.
“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”
“Is it so bad to watch?”
The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”
When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?
“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.
“Who said we’re having sex?”
“I assume you didn’t slip your number into my door so I could give you a wakeup call for nothing.”
I grin. “I did not.”
“Then why did you do it, Blondie?”
I laugh. “I’ve been calling you Mr. Suit in my head all day long. Seems we’ve both got nicknames for one another.”
“I was trying to figure out what D stood for,” he said. “I’ve already crossed off Danielle, Debbie and Diana.”
“You would be correct, so far.” Not that I have any intention of telling him my name—I made that promise to myself last night. Nothing real. This is just for fun. A necessary diversion while the rest of my life is smoking ruins. “I’ll tell you it’s not Deanna, Deirdre or Dominique, either.”
“What about Dallas?”
I laugh. “Do I look like a cowgirl to you?”
I could talk to him all night long. There’s something soothing about his voice—the deep bass and dry wit—that makes me forget about all my problems.
“I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to make a dirty joke about how hard you ride.” There’s noise in the background, like he’s moving around. “But you deserve more than a cliché, Blondie.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Getting ready for bed.” Something clicks, maybe a light switch. “It’s late.”
“And dark.”
“And it’s my turn, according to your note.”
This is it—the open door. He’s willing to play. A shiver runs the length of my spine and I burrow further down into the couch, keeping the blanket up over me. I feel like we’re playing a game of cat and mouse. Teasing one another.
Playing with fire.
“I believe in equality for the sexes,” I say. “Orgasms for everyone.”
“That’s very noble.” There’s that dry humour again. “What made you do it on the balcony last night? Revenge for me saying no?”
“There was a little of that,” I admit. “You left me hanging. I had pent-up energy to expel, and I wanted to show you what you were missing.”
“I couldn’t get you out of my head. I’ve been trying to concentrate on work all day and I could only think about your pink underwear and incredible legs.”
“And you’re thinking about them again now.”
There’s a soft releasing of breath. “How could I not?”
“I’m wearing blue tonight. With little white stripes and lace around the edges.” I bite down on my lip as there’s a muffled moan from his end. “Same T-shirt.”
“Take if off.”
I pretend to. I’m not going to defile my friend’s couch—there’s girl code about that kind thing. But Mr. Suit doesn’t need to know. And besides, I like the fantasy. I like controlling what he thinks is happening because it makes me feel powerful to be in charge of his pleasure.
“No bra tonight, either,” I say.
“Just the blue stripes, huh?” He lets out a jagged curse. “Are you in your bed?”
“On the couch. Just where I would have been last night in you hadn’t walked out on me. I bet you’re regretting that now.”