Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2012 Georgia Fox

ISBN:

978-1-927368-72-5

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: Marie Medina

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this
copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are
fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Hank

A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

Georgia Fox

Copyright © 2012

Chapter One

Thick, plush carpets weren't made for Betsey Johnson five-

inch heels. They also weren't made for detours, or people with a
tendency to be late.

As she tripped in a haphazard course across the hotel

mezzanine, following the signs for Ballroom A, she cursed the
hapless vanity that made her buy the damn shoes in the first place.
But they made her legs look great. Now if she could get to her seat
without breaking one of those legs she should be fine.

Already she could hear someone speaking into a microphone

above the low, churning hum of a distracted crowd. Yep, she was
definitely late. A waiter swung the door open, almost bowling her
over. Rather than apologize, he gave her a harried glance, lifted his
tray higher and scooted by, muttering under his breath, "They
started."

"So have I," she replied. And finished three times. Take that,

waiter boy!

She couldn't quite believe she'd done it. But there it was.
Fact: Sex had just taken place in a hotel bathroom. Fact: With

a man she had decided to refer to only as him.

She was actually feeling slightly bruised after the encounter,

but other sensations were suddenly taking precedence. Better get to
her seat quickly, because that soft, warm trickle, slowly sliding down
her smooth inner thigh would pretty soon be visible under the hem of
her mini dress. Like a typical male, her bathroom partner had done
only half a job while wiping her off with a paper towel from the
dispenser. She glanced at her sequined clutch purse. The thing was
too small to carry anything much, but she really should have been

prepared with some extra tissues. Lipstick and lube would not help
her now.

Of course, she should also have stopped him when he stripped

off the condom, growled her name in a burst of steamy breath against
the back of her neck and then shot his wad all over her. But she
hadn't. There had been plenty of moments over the course of this
strange relationship when she could have stopped it. But she hadn't.

Question: Why the Hell not?
Answer: None.
She took a deep breath that hitched on a note of wicked

excitement. Her pulse skipped onward with faux innocence, traveling
through her body in a zigzag route, like a kitten after a butterfly.
Yeah, that pretty thing. Pretend you're playing, but you really just
want to eat it—rip its wings off and devour it.

Press on, woman. It was casual. Just the way you said you

wanted it. Happy now?

Oh yes. She realized a slow grin had taken possession of her

lips, and she couldn't keep it down. Her face felt overheated. The back
of her dress was sticking to her spine with a thin layer of sweat. A
tendril of hair tickled the nape of her neck, enflaming her skin just as
his whispers had, only a few moments ago as he bent her over the sink
console in the bathroom and thrust his cock into her ass.

Ah, the cooling waft of air as the door swung open under her

flat palm. That would help cool her off. The clatter of plates and the
tinkling of glassware. Soft laughter that wasn't drunk yet but soon
would be. She kept her eyes down, scanning the table of little cards by
the door. There she was—they'd misspelled her last name, as usual.
Black ink on bright white, the writing all curly and ladylike. Whoever
wrote that dainty card, of course, had no idea of the slutty fantasies in
which that 'Miss la-di-dah' had just indulged. There was, however,
one person in this ballroom who knew about her darkest secrets,
because he was one of them.

And he was somewhere over there already. Somewhere. Was

that his laughter? She didn't turn her head to look. Best not.

If she looked him in the eye again it would only make

everything linger, when they'd both decided, over countless email
conversations, that it would be just that once. Two "strangers" having
a brief interlude. Uh oh, her nipples were taut suddenly. Probably
from that sudden rush of cold air as someone else came in through the

door. But no, she knew it wasn't just from that. It was from thinking
about him again and the way he kissed her, savage and greedy. The
way he gently bit the soft skin under her ear and whispered her name
as his hands slid under her dress, pushing it all the way up over her
breasts until his fingertips circled the puckered areolas, teasing,
tormenting.

She exhaled a low groan as the heaviness mounted again, the

pressure inside her pussy suddenly more intense right where his cock
had pumped hard, ruthless, leaving her hot and sticky. Now her
nipples tightened to small peaks, poking against her dress, shifting
uncomfortably when she moved. She hadn't worn any lingerie tonight.
For expediency and because that was the way he'd wanted it. Now she
wished she had a bra with her. Again she glanced down at her purse.
Too damn small.

She grabbed her place card and walked over to the diagram of

tables.

The speaker on the podium droned onward with no one really

listening. Table 16. Oh, wonderful. Right the way over there. She
frowned. Fuck. Now she'd have to walk across the room to find her
bloody table. In those heels and with cum dripping down her legs in
full view of anyone who looked. And they would look. People always
looked at her legs.

She actually pondered sneaking back out, but behind her she

heard someone shouting her name. Oh Christ—that inane guy with
the metro-sexual eyebrows. She'd know that voice anywhere. She
must be at his table. Was it possible just to pretend she hadn't heard?
There was quite a lot of noise in the room. Might get away with it.

But before she could do anything there was a tall man behind

her, looking over her shoulder, pretending to examine the seating plan
while he stood too close. Shivers lapped her spine, fluttered over her
scalp. It was him. His aftershave. His watch on that wrist as he
reached a long arm over her shoulder to point at the map.

She stared at his finger and swallowed, remembering how that

same hand had cupped her pussy, protecting it from the edge of the
faux marble console, while she bent over the sink, held onto the shiny
faucet for dear life, and let him plumb her ass so deeply.

"What table are you at?" he murmured, his warm breath

disturbing the loosed tendrils of her hair, moving them against her
cheek.

"Six...teen."
His other hand had swept briskly between her legs, under her

skirt, two fingertips following the trail of stickiness along her inner
thigh.

It took only seconds.
"You're wet." He chuckled softly in her ear. "Alissandra."
Apparently he loved saying that, because for the first few

months of their internet chat she'd refused to give him her real name.
Most people knew her as 'Alix' and she preferred that they not know
anything more about her than was necessary. She was a very private,
careful, wary person—never gave out her number, never ran the same
route twice in one week, never liked having her photo taken, never
even left trash in a hotel room. She would rather no one knew she was
there at all. She did as she pleased, went where she wanted, never
gave anyone too much of herself. She was an independent, unfettered
soul.

Fact: Alix liked her secrets. Fact: This man had a way of

getting them out of her.

His finger took a second quick journey up the inside of her

thigh, higher this time.

She closed her eyes. "If anyone saw that..."
"Too late," he whispered.
Too late. He was right about that. Two men had come into the

bathroom soon after they started, while he was fucking her cunt. They
hadn't left. With her legs wrapped around his waist, she'd glanced
over the shoulder of his black evening jacket and seen them staring,
watching every thrust with sheer envy in their eyes. She knew he'd
seen them too, reflected in the big gleaming mirror behind her. But
they were both too far in to stop. They'd waited a long time for that
first meeting. She could bite the anticipation between her teeth, taste it
on her tongue from the moment they knew they'd finally be in the
same place, on the same night.

Whoever the men were, they hadn't spoken a word, just

watched.

Even when he turned her over and she took the lube out of her

purse, the silent audience lingered to enjoy the show.

Now those two men were elsewhere in the hotel, sharing the

secret. Would they tell others what they saw? Would anyone believe
them anyway?

Perhaps one of them would write a letter to Penthouse, she

mused.

"Don't you have any tissues?" she murmured. That would have

been preferable to his fingers, which had succeeded in doing two
things—smearing his spilled cum into her skin and making her more
aroused.

Putty. Helpless, fucking putty in his hands. Apparently he

knew it.

"Sorry." He laughed, walking away again with an easy,

careless stride.

"Damn you," she exclaimed, but he was too far away to hear.

In her peripheral vision she saw he'd stopped to lean over a chair and
talk to another guest. Mr. Smooth. No one appeared to be looking at
her. Seizing her moment she headed for table sixteen, but as she
moved to pass him, he broke off his conversation and followed her.
Alix could only move slowly, squeezing between other diners,
apologizing when people had to shuffle their chairs in—although why
she apologized to them, she couldn't imagine. Still, she was late; they
were punctual.

There it was. Table sixteen. Metro-sexual was half-standing,

waving with his napkin and, like a twat, shouting something unfunny
about her tardiness. Laughing loudly at his own non-joke. He couldn't
be drunk already surely. He had an empty seat beside him—no
surprise there—but she made a beeline for a chair further around the
table, out of his breath's reach.

A hand brushed her ass and then her hip. "Have fun." Mr.

Smooth swept by her, heading for his own table, far from hers. She
heard his buzzing phone, saw him lift it to his ear and snap something
into it.

Fact: He was the type who couldn't even turn his phone off to

eat dinner.

She tossed her card down and sat hastily before another wet

drip could slide down her thigh. Thank God there was wine on the
table. She reached for it and poured a large glass. Not very ladylike,
but sorry, Dad.

"Where have you been?" Metro-sexual demanded across the

gilded swirly antenna sticking out of the centerpiece. As if he had any
right to know her whys and wherefores. She knew he did it so that

other people at the table would think she was with him. It made her
nauseous.

She took a gulp of wine and it burned her tongue, then her

throat. Fortunately the woman beside her felt obliged to comment on
her dress and, just to avoid eye-contact with the screaming asshole
across the table, Alix took the opportunity to become enthralled in
this pointless, vapid conversation. Even as her lips moved and the
polite, harmless sounds of small talk came out, she was busy
assessing the other people at the table, her mind ruffling them like
fingers over hanging files. Nothing interesting. The usual dull
bastards. She'd actually been fool enough to hope for someone new in
the crowd, but it was always the same faces at these events.

Fortunately, she'd changed her room before she dressed for

dinner. None of her work "mates" knew which room she was in
tonight. Secrets. Lovely. There would be no knocks on the door
later—people wanting to talk about work, or cry on her shoulder, or
try their luck. Whenever she spent more than one night in a hotel, she
always changed rooms mid-stay.

"Excuse me," she said to the woman on her left, "do you have

any tissues? I spilled something."

Immediately the woman rootled around in a square silk purse,

eager to help. But her search came up empty. "Not a single one, I'm
afraid." Looking around the room, she spied a waiter and pointed him
out. "Why don't you ask that one to bring you some paper towels?
And you need baking soda for the stain."

Alix twisted in her chair to find the waiter and her gaze fell on

him instead. He watched her intently, drinking what looked to be
whiskey from a short glass. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. He
smiled and licked his lips, very slightly.

Her pulse quickened. The throbbing pulse in her pussy also

picked up speed and thickness.

She saw that silver faucet again, getting steamed up with her

breath as he pounded into her ass, his long fingers sliding in and out
of her cunt at the same time, taking her slickly to Heaven. She felt
again the band of his wrist watch, cool as it pressed against her waxed
mound, dismantling the pretty pink "jewels" with which she'd been
decorated yesterday by a grim-faced, matronly woman in a Manhattan
salon. She'd be lucky if the glue on even half those little gemstones
had withstood the pummeling he just gave her. That was money down

the drain, she thought with a sigh. Literally. She'd heard the tinkle of
three, small pink gems fall into the sink when her heels left the
ground and she rocked forward from his final thrust.

He raised his glass to her. She pressed her thighs together and

turned her back.

He'd probably left bruises on her, while he came out of this

unscathed.

She would not look his way again. He was too damn smug.
Question: Why did you do it, Alix?
Answer: None.
The waiter, summoned by her anxious neighbor, swept to a

halt by their table. "Did you need something, madam?"

"Please. Some paper napkins?"
"Yes, madam. I'll be right back." He swooshed away again,

lean-hipped and efficient.

Alix poured a second glass of wine and looked at the listless

salad which had, at some point, been dropped down before her with as
much carelessness as a sulking newspaper boy tossed his delivery at
doorsteps from the side of the road.

Good thing she wasn't hungry.
Maybe she'd look at him. Just once more. She stole a glance

over her shoulder and saw him talking to the redhead beside him,
fingers tapping his glass. He raised his other hand to his collar and
fidgeted with it, as if it was too tight. She'd kissed him there, licked
and nibbled on his neck. Was he thinking of that as he spoke to
another woman? He tasted salty. He tasted the way a man should
taste.

Another sip of wine washed his flavor from her lips and

tongue, down her throat. This time the wine went down much
smoother and didn't taste as harsh.

Wow, he really was a restless fidget. Too much energy.

Apparently, she thought, with further amusement, he hadn't yet
expended it all tonight.

Fact: He was cute.
Also fact: He knew it.
She saw that spare hand dip casually under the table and

suddenly his gaze swung back to her. She smiled. Now it was her turn
to raise her glass.

He quirked an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitched, and

then he sank his lips back into that glass of scotch.

The waiter returned, temporarily obscuring her view of Mr.

Hottie. "Is this enough, madam? Shout if you need more."

"Thank you so much." Alix grabbed the pile of white paper

napkins. Just in time.

Her neighbor was preoccupied with the shitty salad, rapidly

picking her way through it in the manner of someone who'd starved
for weeks, dripping creamy dressing all over her chin. Meanwhile,
Alix wiped up his creamy dressing. With two napkins bunched
discreetly in her palm, she moved her hand under the table. She
hitched her chair closer and, looking around the table to be certain she
was unobserved, slipped her hand under her skirt. Ah, relief. She
should have grabbed a roll of paper from that bathroom, but she was
too busy recovering from a sound fuck, trying to act like it was a cool,
common occurrence for her. Stopping for paper would have spoiled
the moment, the guise of spontaneity.

Why the hell couldn't he have kept the condom on? It was as if

he wanted to mark her somehow, leave her with a reminder.
Something more than the bruises that would inevitably appear
tomorrow.

Question: Why did you let it happen?
Answer: I wanted it.
By now the pressure of her hand with the tissues against her

naked labia increased her own dampness. It forced her to remember
his mouth on her when he first lifted her onto the bathroom sink and
pushed her skirt to her hips. They way he'd licked her cunt and
whispered what he wanted to do to her, pressing each word to her
aching, trembling sex, like dirty poetry. He'd told her how sweet she
tasted, how he wished they had more time.

But this was what they both wanted. Right? A quickie. No

strings.

Question: Why did you want it, Alix?
Answer: I wanted him.
And he knew what she wanted him to do to her, because

they'd talked about it—in typed words in little boxes that popped up
on their screens throughout the day. And she knew what he liked too.
She knew more about him already than she knew about most men
she'd slept with—or they ever knew about her. Funny that.

Oh damn, he was so good with that tongue. She'd climaxed the

first time before he even impaled her on his hard cock. And then she'd
known this was not a mistake. Not at all. It was not something she
was ever going to regret. She'd had a few last minute nerves, the flight
temptation almost overwhelming. Until he lifted her onto that cold
marble countertop and made her cum as no one ever had. She
supposed it had something to do with the anticipation.

Fact: She wanted more of him.
Alix squirmed a little on her dainty banquet chair. A weary-

looking waitress dashed around, gathering plates, asking guests what
they'd ordered for the main course.

Damn it. What had she ordered?
It was her turn to speak and people were looking. The man on

the podium had finished his speech, so there was no need for anyone
even to pretend anymore that they were listening to him.

She kept her hand under the table and between her legs.

Removing it now would be more obvious than just sitting still. The
tablecloth hid what she was doing, as long as she kept her arm as still
as possible. People would think she had her hand on her purse, in her
lap.

"Chicken," she murmured, not really sure which choice she'd

ticked on the invite.

The waitress nodded curtly and continued her rounds.

Suddenly Alix was aware of a new shape joining the others at the
table, sitting in the chair left vacant beside the jabbering twat she'd
made it her life's mission to avoid.

Apparently Mr. Hottie knew someone at her table. Yeah, he

was the type that knew everyone, fit in anywhere. Made himself fit in.

Her pussy quaked as she squeezed her fingers tighter against

her labia.

He was talking quietly, no whiskey glass in his hand now.

Pretending to be all professional and solemn. She wanted to stand up
and shout, "Hey, swanky-pants just fucked me in the bathroom."

A snort of laughter shot out of her. She couldn't hold it in.
He seemed to be the only one who heard, however. Dark

brown eyes pried for hers above the gaudy flower arrangement. Alix
slyly moved her hand between her thighs, the soft damp paper
stroking her sensitive, swollen flesh. Her muscles clenched, her pussy
walls tightening, the heat expanding. He didn't blink, just kept his

gaze pinned to hers. The person he'd sat down to greet hadn't noticed
his distraction—they were busy scoffing down food and talking with
a full mouth. Pig. On his other side, Metro-sexual was sulking into his
vegetarian choice, occasionally flinging Mr. Hottie a look that was
both peeved and curious. Mr. Hottie, meanwhile, didn't even
acknowledge the other man's presence.

Buzz. Still watching her, he raised his phone to his ear. Then

he winced and threw it down impatiently. Must have a bad signal.

She pressed her fingers harder and faster against her vulva.

The sopping wet tissue dropped to the chair and she slipped a finger
between those warm, wet lips. It wasn't nearly enough, of course.
Wasn't what she really desired. Her teeth dug into her tongue as she
worked her fingertip further in and looked at the man across the table.

Ah. He knew. Was he getting flustered? She didn't think it was

possible before. But he was pulling on his shirt collar again, staring at
her mouth, his own lips parted. His eyes gleamed, almost as if he was
angry with her. So that's what the fidgeting meant. Maybe he was
having the same problem she experienced.

Slowly she smiled, raised her naughty hand to her mouth and

licked her finger. She tasted her own sticky dew. Tall flames leapt in
her stomach and her breasts felt heavy, bigger somehow. When his
gaze lowered, almost imperceptibly, to her nipples, they tightened
further, as if he'd just pinched them between his fingers, caressed
them with his palms.

There might as well be no one else at that table.
Once was supposed to be enough. No big deal. Just a bit of

fun.

They were still having it, weren't they? After all, they never

said how many hours this one encounter should last. It hadn't seemed
necessary to make too many rules.

He scratched his cheek and she almost thought she could hear

a graze of stubble. His face had been a little rough against her inner
thigh when he ate her cunt, now that she thought about it.

The table bumped and glasses jostled, spilling wine. People

laughed, careless.

But she'd seen his eyes glazing over as her finger popped out

of her mouth. She knew his knee had hit the underside of the table
when he tried to cross his legs and crush the roused beast in his pants.

Good luck with that, Big Boy.

Dinner arrived—a puddle of gelatinous, lukewarm gravy

surrounding a pale blob of chicken, with a few hard potato slices and
strips of carrot floating.

Still not hungry. Not for food anyway.
Once more his phone trembled in little fits across the

tablecloth and he snatched it up, pressing it to his ear, turning in the
chair until he no longer looked at her.

Alrighty then. Alix finished her wine, got up and left without a

word. Head high, she made for the main doors.

Betsey Johnson five inch heels, oddly enough, are much easier

to walk in after a few glasses of wine.
****

He watched her pass through the crowded tables, his gaze

fixed on her sweet ass, moving under that short, short skirt like two
puppies fighting under a sheet. They'd promised one another that it
would be just once. But...damn...he wanted more of that. He could
still smell her perfume on his shirt. Where the Hell was she going
now?

Her dinner plate sat untouched, her wine glass empty. A faint

smudge of lipstick marked the rim. He could see it from where he sat,
because he knew where to look for it, having watched her take that
last gulp. He wanted to put his mouth on her glass and lick off that
lipstick.

Was that weird? Kind of stalkerish.
Well, he wouldn't follow her. Stick to the plan. Fuck her

brains out, get it out of his system. And hers. Next week they'd be
back to chatting online, miles apart again. Everything back in its
place, neat, uncomplicated, no expectations.

She passed through the doors without looking back. How

could she walk in shoes that tall? Women frequently amazed him with
their talents.

He should really go back to his table now she was gone. So he

stood, said a few more words to the man he knew and patted him on
the back—still trying to remember the guy's name—and returned to
his seat.

The lights were softened. Next to him, the pretty redhead

threw a coy glance. "It seems they're clearing part of the floor for
dancing. Do you like to dance?"

God no. He smiled back. "Sometimes." Like never.

Time to make his exit.
"Not hungry?" Redhead cooed, eyeing his steak.
"Nah." He pressed a hand to his stomach. "Think I might take

an early night."

"Oh." Disappointment flooded her face, but only for a few

breaths, while the "oh" lingered. Then she gave up on him and turned
her attention back to the man on her right, who must have kept her
company while he was gone.

He waited a minute to make sure she was fully engaged in her

other conversation and then he slipped out, heading for the smaller of
the two hotel bars. Couldn't go to bed yet. He'd never sleep. Needed
another damn drink.

It was a cozy bar, the light muted by fake Tiffany lampshades.

Dark paneling enclosed the walls and, above that, framed photographs
dotted the walls —views of the city landmarks over the past hundred
years or so. The bar itself stretched the length of the room and had a
row of stools before it. All empty, but for one at the far end.

Ah. Like minds.
She hadn't seen him.
Now should he approach her again, or ignore her? Maybe he

should leave the bar. He half turned away, but the barman saw him
and, obviously in want of customers, called out a cheery, "What can I
get you, sir?"

He knew she'd looked up, caught his reflection in the mirror

behind the rows of liquor bottles. If he left now he'd look like a jerk,
so instead he walked to the bar, rubbing his hands together.

"Scotch. Straight up. No ice."
The barman nodded and grabbed a glass.
"Quiet in here tonight."
"Yes, sir. Just you and the young lady."
He glanced over at her then, as if he hadn't noticed her before.

She kept her face turned away and reached for an abandoned
newspaper on the bar. Women in short skirts should not sit on high
barstools, he mused, admiring her long, long legs. Not unless they
wanted to get fucked. Again.

"You came from the function in the ballroom, sir?"
"Yes."
"How was dinner?"

"I....fine. Just too hot in there." Not much cooler in here, he

thought, shooting her bare legs another slow, appreciative glance.

"Charging the drink to your room, sir?"
"Sure." He cleared his throat. "Number 314."
At the end of the bar she turned a page of her borrowed

newspaper.

"Oh and—" he nodded his head toward her, "whatever the

lady's drinking. If she'll allow me to buy her one."

The barman grinned and hurried down the bar to ask her. She

turned her head, pretending to see him for the first time, and seared
him with those blue eyes that seemed to ask questions and answer
them for him, all at the same time. Turning away again, she mumbled
her reply and the barman, losing some of his jollity, returned at a
slower pace.

"The lady said thank you, but she doesn't drink with

strangers."

A flare of annoyance cut through his mood. Damn her, then.

She didn't drink with strangers, but she fucked them. In hotel
bathrooms.

She had a curious set of scruples.
"Maybe I'll have some ice after all," he snapped, sliding the

scotch back across the bar.

"Of course, sir."
Yeah, he better cool down, slow down. His cock was hard. He

had to adjust it before he could sit on a stool. It was starting to hurt
with raw need again already because of her. He should have been over
this, just as she was.

If it wasn't for the damn smoking laws, he'd light up a cigar

right now. That would help calm him down.

He studied his watch. Almost nine. It was only an hour and a

half since they finally saw each other for the first time, in the flesh,
and walked into that bathroom, but it felt like yesterday already. He
slipped off his jacket to help the cool down and laid it over the next
stool. Then he loosened his tie, remembering her lips on his neck. Had
she left any lipstick on his skin, he wondered, trying to see in the
glass behind the barman. When she'd kissed his mouth he'd tasted that
lipstick. Followed by her tongue slipping and sliding against his,
sharing a hint of peppermint. He should have kissed her longer, but

their time was on a budget. A quickie was what she wanted and what
she got.

At your service, ma'am.
Would she ever mention it again during their online chats?

Probably not. She still regarded him as a stranger. It made him want
to laugh. Angrily. The woman was so tightly wound up in knots of
distrust it had taken him three months of persistence just to find out
her name. She still hadn't given him a phone number. If she ever
stopped talking to him on the Internet, he wouldn't have anything.
Except for the memories of their encounter and what was left of her
perfume on his shirt.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Quickly he grabbed for it,

fumbling. "Yep?"

Static. Bad reception in this hotel.
Damn, and he was waiting for an important call too.
The ice chinked in his glass. It was a sound similar to the one

made by those little jeweled things that came unstuck, fell off her
pussy and tumbled into the sink while he reamed her lovely, tight, hot
ass. He blinked, downing a large gulp of scotch. Fuck.

Glancing at himself in the mirror behind the bar he thought of

those other men, standing in the bathroom, observing the action while
he impaled her, screwed her wildly, pants around his ankles, breath
scorching his throat, his skull feeling like it might burst open. He'd
never done anything quite that crazy before, but he hadn't felt inclined
to pause his fun and tell them to leave. He smirked into his scotch. In
fact, the palpable waves of their envy had increased his excitement.
Maybe they’d thought he'd share. Not likely.

He saw again his trembling fingers tearing off the condom so

he could cum on her, leave her dripping with his semen.

Taking a rough, shattered breath, he inhaled another whisper

of her perfume.

She'd told him in one of their email chats that she went to all

that trouble of decorating her pussy with little pink gems just for him.
Like most things she told him, he wasn't sure if he believed it—but he
wanted to.

She played her distant game, made him possessive of her

attention just so she could remind him that he really had no right to
be. He should have stayed cool, suave. Instead, he'd made himself

look like a fool by not being able to leave her alone. Pathetic was the
word that came to mind.

Now, after she left the ballroom to get away from him, she

probably thought he'd followed her into the bar. The curt remark
about "strangers" was like a slap to his wrist.

Each time he stole a glance at her it seemed as if another of

those blonde tendrils came loose, curling down the side of her neck.
For some reason he'd expected a brunette. There were a lot of
surprises about her. None bad. Yet.

She crossed her legs with difficulty on that stool and the top

one swung a little, the high heel sharp as a dagger. Those legs were
wrapped around his waist ninety minutes ago, while he filled her silky
smooth cunt with every inch of his swollen, aching, condom-covered
cock. In and out. Over and over. He'd almost jerked to a frenzied
finish inside her until he remembered the other part of her fantasy.
And his. That had required turning her over and spreading those
round, toned ass cheeks.

She was well prepared with her bottle of lube. He hoped she

hadn't done this sort of thing many times before. Damn her.

Look at me. I want to see those baby blue eyes again, eating

me alive.

She wouldn't look up. Something must be really fucking

interesting in that paper.

"I thought I heard thunder and felt that tension in the air," said

the barman, nodding at the TV, turning up the volume on his remote
with a stubby finger.

The weather report was on. Storms on their way tonight.

Pictures of lightening flashes.

"My wife hates thunderstorms," the barman muttered. "But I

like watching lightening. It's fascinating. What causes it? Do you
know?"

"It's when snowflakes and hailstones collide," he answered,

remembering a science class from too many years ago. "The collision
causes a transfer of electrons. It leaves one of them positively
charged, the other one negatively charged. Can't remember which is
which. Anyway, the lightening is everything trying to balance itself
out— equalize."

The barman looked at him with blank eyes. "Oh, well, I just

like the way it looks."

He forced a smile. "Right." Leaving a tip on the bar, he picked

up his phone and left.

No point hanging around.
Yeah, lightening, that's what had happened. Like a bolt from

the blue. Lightening didn't strike twice. Or it shouldn't.

He needed some sleep, but he was still too warm. The air was

too close and humid, because of the storm that couldn't seem to make
up its mind whether to really break free over the city or just threaten
with low, gritty pulses. But he had a flight to catch early in the
morning, so somehow he had to catch a few zzz’s. Real life waited
and fantasy time was over.

In the elevator to his floor the lights flickered. He gripped the

handrail behind him, glad no one was there to witness his moment of
unmanly panic. Then he laughed at himself. Like the barman's wife,
he didn't appreciate thunderstorms. Never had. Once, when he was a
child, he was almost struck by lightening and could have been killed.
He was about ten when it happened and he was in the park with
friends on a sunny day, under clear blue skies. No one but him, it
seemed, had heard the thunder. Maybe it was the prickle on the back
of his neck, as if a ghost came up behind him and touched him with a
long, ice-cold fingernail. But something had made him run up to the
baby stroller parked under an oak tree and push it to safety, only
seconds before the tree was struck and the earth beneath it burst into
flames. Later his mother yelled at him for "trying to get killed", but
then a neighbor told her about the baby he'd saved and he was
forgiven.

Sometimes he thought about that baby. Wondered where she

was now, whether she was ever told about the lightening incident
when she grew up. Maybe storms had the same effect on her now, as
they did on him.

Very few things in life were out of his control. Dangerous,

unpredictable weather was.

He got out of the elevator and walked to his room, meeting no

one. Thankfully.

When he left his room earlier he'd turned on the light so he

wouldn't come back to a dark room, but tonight it made the room
seem even emptier, sadder. At least he could get out of this goddamn
tie now.

His gaze swept the room and found the empty ice bucket. Just

what he needed.
****

Alix stepped out of the elevator and looked for room numbers.

Aha - must be this way. She walked down the hall, her steps silent on
the carpet, her heartbeat the only sound she could hear. The rhythm of
it pounded through her like an engine suddenly turned up high,
pistons pumping.

314.
She stood a moment, waiting for a steady breath. Now what?

If she knocked, he'd look through that little spy hole first and maybe
he wouldn't open the door. He'd seemed angry with her in the bar, as
if it was her fault that they both went to the same one.

Oh well, just get it over with, you bloody idiot.
She raised her hand but the door swung open before she could

knock.

He stood there with his shirt half unbuttoned, an empty ice-

bucket in one hand. His brown eyes widened when he saw her there.
He even looked a little flushed, but that, of course, could be anger.
Maybe he assumed she did this sort of thing all the time.

Fact: She'd acted like a slut.
He must think she was stalking him now. Shit.
Anxious that he would get the wrong idea, she hastily showed

him his evening jacket. "You left this in the bar." She was breathing
too hard. "That's all."

"Oh." He looked at his jacket and then at her again. "That's

all?" His eyes narrowed, but she saw the glimmer of amusement.

"No. Actually...there is something else."
He leaned to one side, propping his shoulder against the

doorframe. "Go on." He made no movement toward his jacket, but left
her holding it. His lips pressed together as if he might start laughing.

She raised her chin, arched an eyebrow and said very

precisely, "Fact: It's hail that falls to the base of the cloud because it's
heavier. The positively charged snowflakes rise to the top of the cloud
because they're lighter. Of course. I'm surprised you didn't know that."

Slowly he nodded. "I guess there's a lot I don't know."
"I was almost killed by lightening once, when I was a baby. So

it's always interested me. I like to find out how things work. Why they
happen the way they do." She stopped. Was she talking too much?

An odd look had passed over his face. Suddenly he smiled and

she forgot her nerves. "Maybe you should come in and explain all
these facts you've learned to me."

A moment passed. She could almost hear a clock ticking in

her head, striking relentlessly against her temple.

"We could enjoy the thunderstorm together," he added. "It's

going to be a big one."

She smiled wryly. "No kidding."
He stepped backward into the room. Further down the corridor

another door was opening. In the other direction the elevator pinged
and the doors prepared to slide open. Loud voices could already be
heard. Alix made a decision and stepped into his room, carrying his
jacket. She closed the door behind her, and he set his empty ice
bucket on the small table by the bed.

And then she saw him switch his phone off before he dropped

it into a drawer and turned to look at her.

Fact: She had his sole attention. Also fact: She actually liked

it. It didn't frighten her off. It made her feel warm, protected, needed.

A bolt of lightening shot through her, left her skin tingling,

lifted her heart.

He came to where she stood, took his jacket and tossed it onto

the bed. "Tell me about the snowflakes."

"They're made of ice crystals."
"And if you try to hold one too long it melts."
"Right."
Thunder rumbled outside the windows, behind the drawn

drapes.

He put his hands on her waist and drew her against his body.

She felt his heat through their clothes and her nipples spiked. Fingers
splayed, he ran his hands up her spine, pressing her closer still until
her breasts pillowed against his hard chest. She couldn't catch her
breath anymore. Didn't really want to.

"And hailstones?" he prompted, his lips lightly dampening her

brow.

"Hailstones are larger, more solid forms of ice. Some can

cause damage." She lifted her face, her mouth trembling with need for
his.

Suddenly the light went out. A flare of blue shimmered

through the drawn drapes, pulsing over the contents of the room. He
lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

Every tiny hair on her skin felt the electricity. It shot from her

erect nipples to her mouth one way and her pussy in the other. It
stabbed out in sharp, jagged breaths, and he drank each gasp out of
her throat, greedily, roughly. He licked it off her tongue.

Alix ran her fingers through his hair, kissing him back,

opening for him, her body clamped tightly to his. She felt his hands
move down again, gripping and kneading her ass cheeks, lifting her
until her pussy rubbed against the stiff package in his pants.

He moaned her name.
The lights flickered back on, but they weren't as strong. It

gave the room an unreal atmosphere, like a stage-setting for a play.

"You might hurt me," she said, watching his mouth as it

hovered above her.

He shook his head. "Never." Lifting her off her feet, he carried

her to the bed. "How long do I get to keep you in my hands before
you melt?" he breathed, pulling her dress up over her head.

"That depends," she purred, wriggling to reach for his zipper.
He stayed her hands. "On?"
"How long the storm lasts, of course."
He looked down at her for a minute and then he let her finish

unzipping his fly. "Fine."

"Fine."
His pants fell, followed quickly by his underwear, and his tall

mast, a natural lightening conductor, once again confronted her. She
cupped his balls in her hand and hitched forward on her knees to take
the dark crest in her mouth.

Question: What the Hell are you doing, Alix?
Answer: This. And this. And this. Now shut up and leave me

alone.

The questions were finally silenced. She knew what she was

doing this time. She knew all the whys and wherefores. She knew
herself and she knew him.

He groaned deeply as another low growl of thunder rolled

across the sky above them. Slowly she swallowed more of his shaft
and sucked, her tongue trailing up and down over the engorged veins
while her fingers gently squeezed his balls.

Suddenly he pulled back and his cock popped out of her

mouth. "I want you over me," he commanded, his voice husky as he
lay back on the bed.

Even though he didn't say please, she obeyed, turning herself

so he could tongue her while she sucked his beautiful cock.

Oh, that was good. Damn.
The storm better last a while yet.
As his tongue worked over and between her pussy lips, slowly

and deliberately making its way to her clit, she shivered, closed her
eyes and sucked harder. His arm closed around her hips, holding her
down on his face. She couldn't lift up, couldn't prevent herself from
coming. And he swelled in her mouth, his cock twitching, pushing at
the back of her throat, losing control.

Last a while? Something told her this particular storm was

never going to end. It would just keep coming. Like them. Until
everything evened out and they melted into each other.

And the sky was blue again.

The End

www.georgiafoxauthor.blogspot.com

Other Books by Georgia Fox:

The Ever Knight

The Virgin Proxy

The Craftsman

The Good Sinner’s Naughty Nun

The Wagered Wench

Lumina

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com