Just Toying Around… Page 6

  He made her insides quiver.

  Meg couldn’t begin to explain, much less rationalize the profound relief of seeing him on the other side of her door this evening. She’d grinned stupidly and a long, quiet sigh had slipped past her lips. The tight knot of tension that had sat like a stone in her belly had magically dissolved, leaving her calm and irrationally pleased. And all the while, like a heady background noise, the ever-present insistent thrum of awareness zipped along her ultra-sensitive nerve endings.

  She still couldn’t believe that he’d agreed to pretend to be her lover for Mr. Kent’s benefit. Frankly—excellent kisser aside—he just didn’t seem the type. Didn’t quite fit the profile. Nonetheless, Meg had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She’d summoned the nerve and asked, he’d said yes. End of story.

  Besides, since she’d started critiquing these toys, meeting people associated with the business, she’d learned to put expectations aside.

  For instance, a little white-haired grandmotherly-looking type had approached her this morning and thanked Meg for her helpful critique on Oriental Nympho Cream. She’d been right, the old lady told her in a quavery falsetto. It did indeed make a woman have multiple orgasms. The old woman had smiled benignly and shuffled off with her big patent-leather purse clutched in the crook of her arm.

  Stunned, Meg had suffered a TMI moment—Too Much Information. Before she could stop it, a horrific image of the old woman in the throes of passion had manifested in her mind’s eye. Meg had resisted the dramatic urge to clasp her hands over her face and scream, “My eyes! My eyes!”

  A few minutes later, she’d seen the elderly lady again, this time fondling a dildo. The woman had peered at it through her bifocal lenses, passed it back and forth between her hands, turned it this way and that in the same fashion she might have used to select a nice piece of fruit. Meg shook her head in wonder. You just never knew about people.

  Case in point, just because Nick didn’t seem like he’d be the type to play a sex-toy critic’s lover didn’t mean that he couldn’t be one. Granted, he was sexy. When he’d gazed at her through those heavy-lidded eyes and told her that he was “intensely attracted” to her, Meg had melted with pleasure, with need. She’d sensed a subtle change in him, almost like she’d unwittingly sprung a trap; he’d put her in the crosshairs and moved in for the kill.

  There had been something distinctly predatory hidden in that sleepy gaze, Meg realized now. Another mini-earthquake quivered through her belly.

  Still, Meg thought, no matter how sexy he was, something about the role he’d agreed to play didn’t quite fit him. She chewed her bottom lip. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it, but she intuitively felt it all the same.

  Nick rapped lightly on the open door frame. “Hey.”

  Meg grinned. “Come on in.”

  God, he was gorgeous. He wore a pair of navy slacks and a white oxford shirt open at the throat. In deference to the late-summer heat, he’d rolled up the cuffs, revealing tanned muscular forearms lightly dusted with golden hair. A designer watch circled his wrist.

  Despite the smile, Meg concluded his call hadn’t been a pleasant one. His gilded tawny curls were a bit mussed, as though he’d plowed a hand through them repeatedly in frustration, and the smile, while sincere, seemed a little tight around the edges. Tension didn’t radiate off him, just sort of hovered around him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. It was a subtle difference, but one she noted quite clearly.

  Meg considered asking him if everything was okay, but decided against the idea. It was none of her business. If he wanted her to know what was wrong, he’d tell her.

  Oh, to hell with that, Meg decided. “Is something wrong?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  “Nah. Just a small glitch with a client.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the smorgasbord of sex toys piled on top of her bed. His eyes bugged. He blinked in astonishment and whistled low. “My God.” His gaze swung to hers. “Y-you, uh, play with all of this stuff?”

  Meg chuckled. “Not play—critique,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  He aimed a sexy grin in her direction. “I realize I’m not the expert here, but don’t you have to play to critique?”

  “Not always,” Meg replied, feeling her toes curl at the innuendo loaded into that statement. What she wouldn’t give to play with him. “There are some things that I’m not into—like bondage—so I just do the best that I can with what I have to work with. I still try to determine whether something’s a good product or not. If I’m not sure, I just say so.”

  “Not into bondage, eh?” He tsked regretfully. “There goes that fantasy. Why not?”

  Unable to tell if he was serious or joking, Meg ignored the fantasy remark and considered the question instead. “Trust,” Meg replied after a moment of quiet contemplation. “Bondage requires a great deal of trust.”

  Though she hadn’t been restrained during the college fiasco—hell, Grant hadn’t even taken the time to remove his pants, much less put any thought into being original—Meg certainly felt as if she had. The old familiar hurt and frustration welled, but Meg battled them aside. People could be bonded without the actual restraints in place. Deceit and mistrust could hold a person back far more effectively if the hurt were great enough.

  Deciding turnabout was fair play, Meg managed a strained smile and fired the question right back at him. “What about you? Are you into bondage?”

  He lifted a shoulder and one corner of his mouth tucked into an endearing grin. “Never tried it.”

  “Then that makes two of us.”

  “So.” He rocked back on his heels. “Where do we start?” he asked.

  “I thought we’d start with dinner. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure. We can save the sex for dessert.”

  Suddenly a picture of her slowly nibbling her way down his splendidly muscled chest rose in her wayward mind. Something hot and dark and needy unfurled low in Meg’s belly and settled in her sex. Her eyes strayed to the chest in question, to the tender yet masculine side of his neck. To where his pulse beat strongly beneath the golden skin. Meg longed to taste him there, to feel the methodical thump thump thump of his life force flowing through his veins. She swallowed tightly.

  God, she just wanted.

  Unable to form a reply, Meg manufactured a slightly brittle grin. “Let’s order room service.”

  A knowing twinkle flickered in his gaze. His lips curved into a slow, thoroughly sexy smile. “Sure.”

  Meg retrieved the menu from the bureau and offered him a seat at the small round-topped table in the corner of the room. Once they made their selections, Meg called downstairs and placed the order. “They said it would be around thirty minutes,” she told him as she replaced the receiver.

  Nick didn’t seem to be able to keep his gaze from straying to the bed. Meg saw him look from item to item, saw his golden gaze alternately narrow, widen, blink. He seemed morbidly fascinated, like someone who’d passed an accident on the freeway and couldn’t stop gawking.

  “Would you like to go ahead and get started while we’re waiting on dinner?” she asked.

  “Uh…sure.” Nick shrugged his shoulders like a prizefighter before stepping into the ring. Cracked his knuckles. “I’m ready.”

  “Ohhh-kay.” Meg laughed. Taking pity on him she said, “Look, I was only kidding downstairs about the vibrators. We can start with something else if you’re uncomfortable with those. Most straight men aren’t into them. They’re, uh, primarily a woman’s toy.”

  He flexed comically again. “I can handle it.”

  “Okay, then.” Meg stood, crossed to the bed and scooped up several of the long, phallic instruments and spread them out on the table. She forced the tremor from her fingers as she picked up the smooth red seven-inch first. “This one is called the, uh, Red Devil,” Meg said. “It requires two size-C batteries and has three variable speeds. For a more realistic feel, you can add
a jelly sleeve like so—” Meg expertly smoothed the cover, complete with head and vein-like ridges, upon the vibrator. Her gaze met his. “Obvious use aside, vibrators can be used for more than vaginal stimulation. Erotic massage, for instance. Any questions?”

  He looked utterly and completely astounded. He swallowed. Stared at where her fingers rested on the authentic-looking penis. A muscle ticked in his tense jaw and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No.”

  Moving right along then, Meg thought. She picked up the next one. It was a flesh-toned seven-inch. “This one is called Cupid’s Arrow. As you can see, no jelly sleeve is required.” Meg gestured to the side of the vibrator. “A-and it’s very life-like.”

  “Right,” Nick said grimly, nodding. “That one has nuts.”

  Startled, Meg almost dropped the vibrator. “Right. It does have, er, testicles. It, too, requires two C batteries and has three variable speeds.”

  “Oh, do tell,” Nick said in a dramatic game-show voice. “Does it come with a handy carrying case as well?”

  Meg smirked. “No.”

  He pulled a disappointed face. “Bummer.”

  Meg gave him a hard stare, tried but failed to flatten her lips. She picked up the ten-inch black. “This one is called the Ebony Avenger,” Meg told him. She gestured to the enormous realistic-looking penis. “This one requires two D-size batteries—”

  “D’s, huh?” He whistled low.

  “Yes, D’s. It has four variable speeds—”

  “But no nuts.”

  Meg strangled on a laugh. “Correct. No…nuts.”

  Finally, Meg picked up the last of the full-size vibrators. This one was a multi-talented wonder and Meg couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she turned it on. “This one is called The Stud. In addition to having three variable speeds—” Meg turned it on and the head of the vibrator began to swivel “—this one has a rotating tip.”

  He grunted. Shifted in his seat.

  “The testicles on this one are filled with soft silk beads which rotate as well.” Meg flipped another switch. She held it below the head as both ends of the toy came to life. Smiling, she shrugged. “Double the pleasure, double the fun.”

  “That’s— That’s…interesting,” he managed at last.

  He didn’t look interested, Meg noted. He looked comically disoriented. That slumberous gaze of his took on a glazed look. She took pity on him and turned if off. “That, uh, takes care of the vibrators.”

  “Thank God,” he muttered under his breath. He passed a hand over his face. Fidgeted in his seat. “What’s next?”

  A knock sounded at the door. Meg grinned. “Dinner.”

  DAMN! NICK THOUGHT as he signed for the bill. If he had to watch Desiree manhandle one more fake erection he’d have a friggin’ stroke!

  Nick concentrated on controlling his breathing, on slowing down his racing pulse. He was generally unflappable, could make himself remain calm. His job alone required that he be able to don a mask of sorts. Keep a cool head. He could hardly be an effective attorney if he couldn’t keep an impassive face.

  But this week… This harebrained scheme had all but shattered his usually stalwart fortitude. By week’s end, he’d undoubtedly need a little padded room devoid of sharp objects. Nick didn’t recognize himself. This lust-crazed, perpetually aroused basketcase wasn’t him.

  She’d done this to him.

  Nick glanced accusingly at the woman in question. Desiree swiftly transferred their dinner onto the table—to his immediate relief, she’d removed the vibrators. That sleeveless gauzy dress clung to her curves, outlined the swell of her breasts. Her arms were long and graceful and she moved with an internal rhythm, an innate elegance.

  The glow from the floor lamp illuminated the side of her face, casting the other side in shadow. Her silky shoulder-length curls shone with health, with a natural color that wasn’t the result of a talented stylist. Her jaw was smooth, strangely vulnerable, yet with a tilt that suggested she could be stubborn when the mood suited her. Nick felt a grin tug at his lips. A peculiar emotion swelled in his throat, forcing him to swallow.

  Watching those petite capable hands gliding over those incredibly lifelike rods had been utter torture. Nick had tried to make light of the situation. Had tried to be funny.

  But inside, he’d been writhing in agony.

  Batteries, variable speeds and all that nonsense aside, he hadn’t been able to keep from imagining her hands on his rod. Palming him, stroking him, gliding over the head of his penis.

  Then he’d taken the vision one step further and imagined that sinfully carnal mouth of hers subjecting him to the same torturous ecstasy. Her lips, her tongue, stroking him, licking him, sucking him until he shuddered with the force of his climax.

  If she could do this to him while talking about the vibrators—which he found unequivocally repulsive—what in the hell would happen to him when they moved on to some of the other things displayed on her bed?

  Admittedly, Nick was a novice when it came to sex toys. He’d never used any, had never required any to service a woman and they had no place in his black-and-white world. Quite frankly, that swiveling wiener she’d held up last had shocked the shit out of him. Nick had never imagined that such things existed, or better still, that anyone would use such a gadget.

  But at least he’d known what it was. For the most part, Nick could tell what most of the things were, or at the very least their general purpose. He’d spotted some edible underwear—that was pretty self-explanatory. Something called Tickle Dust with a long pink feather. Nick assumed you feathered the stuff over your partner and licked it off. His gaze once again returned to Desiree. Heat rushed to his loins. He could get into that.

  But there were at least a couple of things that Nick couldn’t even begin to fathom what they were, much less used for.

  Those were the things that gave him pause. Made him nervous. They probably needed to save those toys for tomorrow night, Nick decided. He simply didn’t think he could withstand any more sexual stimulation tonight without some form of relief. His poor penis had been suffering the fiery torment of the damned for the past thirty minutes while she matter-of-factly fondled those vibrators.

  He simply couldn’t take anymore.

  He’d lost control—again—and Nick never permitted himself to lose control.

  They’d enjoy dinner, then he’d return to his own room and subject himself to a cold shower.

  “Are you ready to eat?” she asked.

  Nick nodded, somewhat mollified with a plan of action and strolled across the room—he refused to look at the bed—then took his seat across from her. “This looks good.”

  Desiree’s pert nose wrinkled slightly. “It’ll do.”

  In the process of taking up his knife, Nick paused. “What? Is something wrong with yours?”

  A rosy flush stained her cheeks and she smiled self-consciously. “Uh, no.” She nudged a bit of wilted parsley to the side of her plate. “I’m just very picky about my food. Presentation, especially.” She gazed at her entrée with a hint of disgust. “It’s a pet peeve of mine. It’s silly.”

  Frankly, Nick had never cared about the presentation of his food. So long as it was edible, he didn’t care what it looked like. Still, however mundane, this was a personal preference not pertaining to sex and he knew so little—other than what she permitted him to know—about her. Perhaps this conversation would lead to a more telling one.

  “Okay. I’m curious.” He gestured to her plate. “What’s wrong with the way your food looks?”

  She raised a skeptical brow. “Are you serious?”

  “Certainly.” He sipped his wine. “Enlighten me.”

  Her pleased grin caused his chest to swell, momentarily giving his male equipment a much-needed break.

  “Well.” She swallowed and gestured to her entrée with her fork. “This plate has no harmony.”

  “No harmony?” Nick repeated.

  “Right. Think of a c
lock face. The steamed vegetables—obviously not fresh or they would be crisp instead of limp—are scattered from ten to two. The roll—which could double as a hockey puck—is sitting between four and eight where the meat traditionally belongs, though some chefs are going to a more stacked presentation. Still…” She shrugged. “This is pitiful. I’m only a pastry chef and I know better. This would never leave my kitchen.” Her gaze met his. “An empty plate is a chef’s canvas, where she displays her art—and cooking is an art.” She tsked. “Whoever prepared this has absolutely no pride in their work. No passion for the process.”

  Nick gazed at his own plate and noticed that his steak hadn’t been properly positioned either. The rather unappetizing grilled rib-eye sat at nine o’clock on his plate. From now on, Nick realized, this would drive him nuts. Every time he looked at his plate, he’d be checking the position of his food—and he’d think of her.

  Desiree cut into her chicken, completely oblivious to the life-altering little bomb she’d just set off. “Generally speaking, when a chef pays as little attention to presentation as this, he’s going to have put the same halfhearted attention in the preparation.” She took a bite and nodded. “Yep, I was right. Glad we didn’t order dessert.” She snorted. “I’ve got stuff on my bed that tastes better than this.”

  “Don’t eat it,” Nick blurted.

  She looked startled. “What?”

  “Let’s go somewhere. Out to eat.” Nick didn’t know where this was coming from, but he went with it all the same. It felt right. Getting her out of here—out of her room with all those toys mocking him from the bed—seemed like the right thing to do.

  “You want to go out to eat? Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  A slow smile flipped her frown into a heart-stoppingly gorgeous smile. She nodded once. “Okay.”

  Nick tossed his napkin into his plate and stood. “I’ll call and have the valet pull my car around while you get your purse.”