This work of adult fiction includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned. No offense to any person, living or dead, is intended. Roche Laboratories is used as the pharmaceutical house in this story because it was the first one that popped up in our Google search. No disrespect is intended or implied by the use of their name. © Reagan Kavanagh and Diana Walker 2007.

Author's Note: If you’ve not yet read TEMPTATION, go back and do so before reading this. If you HAVE read Temptation, you may want to skip down to the §§§ sign and begin reading there, as it’s after that the story begins to change, both subtly and graphically. Diana




 
 
My name is actually Helen, but no one in Dallas calls me that; I did a legal name change to Helené as soon as I got to Texas.  Helen’s the name I was given when I was born 32 years ago in Ash Flat, Arkansas.  I got through high school and the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, then high-tailed it out of the sticks and headed to Big D. 
 
The first thing I did after finding an apartment in Dallas was to sit down with a Dr. Pepper and a copy of the Yellow Pages.  I needed a diction coach and some polish.  I was smart, and I knew that.  You don’t come out of the University of Arkansas with a 4.0 GPA and a Magna cum Laude in Molecular Biology unless you have a lot more than two neurons firing. 
 
That was all well and good, but no one’s going to pay attention to you if you sound like a hillbilly every time you open your mouth, or you can't tell which water glass is yours at a formal dinner.  One of the local hotels offers an ongoing class in social graces for business executives.  I wasn’t an executive yet, but I damned well intended on being one some day in the foreseeable future.  I’d signed up and didn’t miss a class.  When it was over, I not only knew which water glass was mine, I knew which fork to use and when.  I knew the difference in wine glasses, and now I raised my eyebrow at those who didn’t.
 
Finding a job hadn’t been hard; I left school with an offer from the biological research division at Southwestern Medical School in Dallas.  When I was at work, I mimicked the accents of the senior people in the lab.  I was also taking those diction lessons at night.  Within six months, I sounded as if I’d been raised in the Turtle Creek area of uptown Dallas. 
 
An interesting occurrence one day started me thinking medical research was not where I wanted to be for the rest of my life.  It was interesting, but I wanted more; I wanted a lot more.  I saw a woman in a $1,000 Bill Blass suit pulling a sample case behind her as she walked toward the elevator bank at Southwestern; she wore a lapel pin for one of the major pharmaceutical houses.  I’d seen her in the hallway and followed her downstairs.  While we were in the elevator, I realized she wore perfume the way Cosmo said you were supposed to wear it.  It was there, but it was subtle, and I knew she’d sprayed it in front of her and walked through the cloud rather than spraying it on herself like I did.  I didn’t know what the perfume was, but I knew it was good perfume and cost a lot more than I could afford on my lab rat’s salary.  I took a good look at her; I watched her walk out the main doors and get into a Mercedes coupe.  She already had the life I wanted. 
 
I started sending out my CV (such as it was) along with a copy of my transcript to the major pharmaceutical houses and applying for positions in their sales departments.  I thought I’d be a good fit in sales because I like people, get on well with most of them, and had the professional background to talk in terms the health care industry used.  I knew I had the drive it took to be good in sales.  I wanted the clothes, jewelry, and cars; I wanted to be very, very rich. 
 
I interviewed with half-a-dozen companies and got three offers.  I went to work for Roche Laboratories simply because I remembered someone back in school saying Roche had at one time been the largest and most powerful pharmaceutical house in the world.  I also knew they were the company that discovered and marketed Librium, Valium, and Dextromethorphan …that last one is the magic component in the cough syrup Robitussin.  If you have a cough and Robitussin won’t stop it, you have serious problems.
 
That was ten years ago, and I’ve come a long way since then.  I’m the corporate vice-president for sales and marketing for the Southwestern United States and have been for two years.  My promotions have come faster than those for most women.  I’d gotten two of them by knowing who to fuck and when.  The one I’d gotten on my own was a result of having stabbed the right person in the back at the right time.  I own my own condo on the edge of Turtle Creek and drive a silver BMW Z4; it’s been five years since I was in Ash Flat.  When the Hogs come to town to play football, I leave for the Caribbean.
 
 
I had a two o’clock appointment, and it was almost one.  I hadn’t eaten breakfast and was paying the price with a pounding headache.  I pulled into the valet parking and tossed my keys to the attendant as I walked into Avanti.  The service there is always quick, and that’s what I needed today.  The place was packed, and there were 17 people in the foyer waiting for tables.  I glanced around …those 17 people were all in clumps of two or more, which meant they needed a large table.  I looked out into the restaurant floor, and it didn’t appear anything was about to open up.
 
Wait …there’s a single man sitting at a table for two.  The busboy’s just filling his water glass, and his napkin and cutlery are still on the table.  He’s just arrived.  Can’t tell much about him because of the lighting, but those shoulders are impressive.  His hair could be any color from chestnut to black; again, it’s hard to tell in the subdued lighting.  Nothing to lose, so I might as well go for it.  I walked up to the maitre d’.
 
“Excuse me, Bobby, ….”  He turned and smiled at me.
 
“Ms. Bonner!  Always a pleasure to see you.”
 
“Thanks, Bobby …I’m in a terrific time crunch today.  Do you think you could speak to the gentleman sitting by himself over there and ask if I could join him if he isn’t expecting someone?  Tell him I promise to keep my mouth shut and not be a pest.  I just need to grab a bite and get out of here for my two o’clock.”  He looks across the room to the man in question.
 
“Let me see what I can do.”  Off he goes.  He leans down to speak to the man, who looks my direction.  Still can’t see his face very well because of the damned lighting, but that doesn’t matter.  He could have looked like the south-end of a north-bound mule for all I cared as long as he let me share his table.  Bobby straightens, smiles and nods, and returns to me.
 
“No wurries, Ms. Bonner.  Just follow me.”  That was an odd phrase for Bobby; it amused him to use it.  The man stands as Bobby and I approach.  He offers his hand, a smile, and his name before I sit across from him.
 
“G’day.  Terry Thorne.” 
 
“Helené Bonner.  Thanks so much for letting me share your table.”
 
Holy Mother of God.  This just might be my lucky day.  The rest of him matches the broad shoulders.  Deep, barrel chest, big hands and feet (I can scan more quickly than you’d believe), thighs the size of tree trunks, and what he’s packing in the slacks of that custom-tailored suit made my mouth water.  Nice even tan – his hands were completely bare, though he could have slipped a wedding ring off and into his pocket, but a ring normally leaves an impression or a tan line – and unruly, chestnut curls spilling over his forehead.  The eyes are the clincher.  They’re a cross between blue and green, and he has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my life.   
 
His voice is a wet dream.  Low, well-modulated; it’s a rich baritone.  Australian or English?  Hell, I’ve never been real sure on those two because I haven’t been around that many Australians or Brits.  Maybe he’s Australian because I think they say ‘G’day.’  Who cares?  Actually, I haven’t done much traveling out of the States because I’ve been too busy working my way up the corporate ladder and looking for the man who would allow me to kick that ladder away.  Now I was regretting my lack of international polish; maybe it’s time I took a vacation abroad.  Back to the present.  This man can eat crackers – or anything else that takes his fancy – in my bed any day.  We make polite conversation, and neither of us is having to work to keep up our side of it.  We exchange business cards before I stand to leave, and he stands with me.
 
“Do you come here often?”  He shakes his head in disbelief at such a lame line.  I didn’t care how lame it was; he’d asked.  I have my opening.
 
“I stop by frequently for lunch, usually toward the end of the week.” 
 
“I’ll keep that in mind.”  And he smiles again. 
 
I return his smile though I know I have nothing in my arsenal that can match his, but I give him my best, friendliest smile.  I’ve been told its disarming, and there’s no reason to let him know I have my sights set on him.  I turn and walk away, but I can feel his eyes on my back all the way across the restaurant.
 
 
A week later I walk into Avanti at one o’clock and scan the floor.  There he is, sitting at a table for two.  He doesn’t look up, but Bobby approaches me with a smile on his face, though that smile is a bit more restrained than I’m used to seeing.  Maybe he knows something about Terry that I don’t.
 
“Ms. Bonner.  The gentleman said he thought you might be joining him today and indicated I was to escort you to his table.”  I smile as much to myself as to Bobby.
 
“Did he now?  Well then, I guess we’d better not disappoint him.”  The fact that he is waiting for me is further validation of the success of my diction and social graces; I am a scintillating luncheon companion.  Bobby leads me to the table, and Mr. Risk Management stood to meet me. 
 
“G’day.  At least it is now that you’re here,” he smiles and flirts.
 
I've memorized his business card; if I hadn’t been careful, it would be in tatters before I’d ever have a need to use it.  I’d gotten the feeling last week that he really didn’t want his name used in public.  Even without a ring, I’d bet a lot of money he’s either married or in a committed relationship, and I could live with that.  There has to be some reason he's here to have lunch with me though.  I probably should feel sorry for the boring woman he's with, but I just can’t be bothered.  If she isn't woman enough to hold him, her loss is my gain.
 
“Over the last seven days I’ve begun thinking of you as RM.”  He giggled but didn’t ask me not to use RM either.
 
We sat across from each other, and to the rest of the world we looked like two business associates having lunch together.  In his mind, I might only be a pleasant luncheon companion; time will tell his intentions.  In my mind, he could be either a good fuck or my ticket to the good life.  I’d like to be one of those women whose major decision for the day is what I was wearing to tonight’s charity gala. 
 
“What would you like to drink?” he asks as he holds his Pilsner glass up.  “Some wine or will this be as rushed as last week?”  An invitation is there in his dancing eyes as well as his words.
 
“I have a couple of calls to make much later this afternoon, but nothing that would interfere with a glass – or two – of wine.”  We look over the menu and make our selections before he hands me the wine list. 
 
“Please do the honors.  I’m sure whatever you choose will be excellent.  I’m working on giving over.”  Well, now.  I do like a man who isn’t afraid to relinquish a bit of control on occasion, even if it only starts with wine selection.  He definitely has a second meaning in ‘giving over.’  I have a supply of silk scarves that will be able to insure he gets precisely what he wants.
 
We enjoy our lunch, and when the waiter presents the check, I reach for it.  His hand stops mine, and I feel a jolt go through me just from that momentary contact. 
 
“My shout.  Though it wasn’t a formal invitation directly to you, it was extended through Bobby.”
 
He scans the bill and pulls his wallet from his pocket, withdraws two $50 bills, and slips them into the check wallet. 
 
He’s operating on cash.  There’s a reason when a man like this one doesn’t use a credit card for expense account purposes.  So …he knows the drill.  Either he doesn’t want to take the chance that his bean counter will ask questions if he puts it on his corporate card, or he doesn’t want ‘her’ seeing the charge slip if he’s married or living with someone.  Well, ‘she’ has much to worry about.  She just doesn’t know it yet, and hopefully, neither does he.  All I’ve done is have lunch with him – so far.  I have much bigger plans for Terry Thorne.
 
 
I start lunching at Avanti two or three days a week.  Sometimes Terry’s there; sometimes he’s not.  More often than not, he is. 
 
“Are you really that fond of Italian food?” 
 
“I can’t afford to be particular about what I eat.  National dish is Vegemite.  I’d rather have a bit of a flirt.”
 
“Do you always have lunch alone?” 
 
He smiles, and it seduces me.  He meant it to.  He picks up his glass in a salute.
 
“You’re making a false assumption.  I haven’t eaten alone any of the times we’ve met.”
 
He puts down his glass and picks up my hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb.  Oh yes, I could get used to this.
 
“You know what I mean.” 
 
He becomes more serious.  “I’ll have lunch with one or the other of my partners when in town.  Others times I head ….”  He lets that sentence trail off into nowhere.
 
Uh huh.  That’s what I thought.  He’s in what my mother calls ‘a cheatin’ frame of mind.’ 
 
 
I’d heard about this great bar-b-que joint a hop, skip, and a jump from the Oklahoma line and decided I’d give it a try.  I pull into the parking lot and look around.  High priced clientele if the cars in the lot are any indication.  I get out and start toward the door and stop.  Terry’s navy blue Porsche was in the third space to the left of the door.  I make the conscious choice to go inside.  I’d bet my life that the woman is with him, and this will let me size up the competition. 
 
I step inside and let my eyes adjust to the gloom after the sunlight outside.  I look around, and there he is.  They are at the far end of a table, close to the wall.  He’s wearing a flannel shirt.  She’s one of those blondes that Dallas has in abundance.  Nothing special about that.  Unless she knows more than the average number of tricks in bed, she can’t touch me.  The corporate VP behind my name proves that; some of my success included a well timed seduction or two.  Decision time …do I go over and say hello or not? 
 
He’d looked up as soon as the door opened and saw me.  His face didn’t change, but he reached across the table and picked up her hand.  I could see his thumb stroking her fingers from where I stood.  He pulled her hand up and kissed it.  Ouch.  She’d benefited from his fake romance; he’d sent me a message. 
 
He’d rubbed my hand, and I knew the effect it was having on her.  I decide against going over and saying ‘hi,’ and order to go.  I’ve already pushed my luck far enough by walking in the door.  As I wait for my food, I look back at the two of them and check out the blonde more closely.  I smile to myself.  Her t-shirt is sloppy and dirty, and she looks like she’d spent all morning cleaning a barn; I bet one of the gimme caps on the rack by the door is hers.  She’s a little mouse; no competition there.  Well, well, well. 
 
That was on Saturday.  My cell phone rings at ten on Monday morning.  Mr. Thorne.
 
“Are you available tomorrow night?”  The usual warmth in his voice is noticeably absent.
 
“I am.” 
 
“Draelion on Oak Lawn.  Five-thirty.”
 
“I'll be there with bells on.”  He doesn’t laugh.  My little stunt on Saturday was obviously ill-advised.  I suspect he may have seen someone he knew at Avanti and meeting me there was getting a little dangerous.  Seeing him with ‘her’ on Saturday had made him even more guarded.
 
 
I’m about ten minutes late thanks to the damned traffic.  Terry’s waiting for me in the foyer when I walk in the door.  His posture – hands in his pockets, a visibly tensed body – wasn’t that of a man waiting for a would-be lover. 
 
“I’ve another engagement tonight, but we needed to chat.”
 
The first words out of his mouth say he’s out of here and running home to the Dallas Blonde.  I can ensure he’s late for that homecoming, as well as several more in the future.  Farm girl has no idea what she’s up against.   
 
Now you might wonder how a woman from Ash Flat, Arkansas, and raised in the strict Southern Baptist tradition can be so blasé about dating a man so obviously in a committed relationship.  First off, I'm used to it; I know what’s necessary to get ahead, and I’m willing to do it.  The good life doesn’t come cheap in effort or morals; it’s hard work, and what are a few sins along the way – nothing.  Second, I had the feeling this man is worth the risk.  Third, Terry Thorne is absolutely the most drop-dead gorgeous, magnetic man I’ve ever met in my life.  He’s extremely intelligent – always a big factor for me – and hasn’t yet tried to get me into bed, and that makes him a challenge.  Hopefully, he’ll get past his guilt and get on with the program in the near future.  I’ll work on lessening his current guilt as well as giving him a lot more guilt to carry around later.
 
The maitre d’ shows us to our table, and we sit down.  Terry doesn’t ask what I want to drink, just orders for both of us.  No wine or charm tonight.  He asks for green tea.  I still hadn’t decided for sure if he was Australian or British, but tea made sense for either one.  Before I can say that I’m glad to see him, he proceeds to tell me that my behavior on Saturday wasn’t what he considered cool, cool being my word, not his.

“That was a stupid thing to do, and you …are not a stupid woman.  Now I could assume you are stalking me, and as a stalker, you are dangerous.  I manage complexities like you every fucking day; you don't rise to the level of a difficulty.  I don’t think you want me handling you as a stalker; I could be your worst nightmare come true.  Am I clear?”
 
Okay, Baby, the restraints are off.
 
I slip off one of my Ferragamos and run my foot up his leg.  He ignores it completely.  Damn!  He’s going to make me work for this one.  When we sat, he’d made sure that my back was to the door, and he sat across from me.  After the second lunch at Avanti, we’d always been next to each other.  I move my shoe to the chair beside him, stand, and move over to where he’d always seated me.  My foot returns to seducing his leg.
 
Which weapon in my arsenal will be most successful?  Wide-eyed innocence mixed with a healthy dose of sexual realism.  I’ll meet farm girl strength for strength.  “I had no idea you’d be at that restaurant.  Once I saw you, I could have come over and introduced myself to your wife or girlfriend, but I didn’t.  Which is she, anyway?” 
 
“It doesn’t matter.  You will NOT go near her again.”
 
I look him dead in the eyes when I ask the next question.
 
“Why are you cheating on her?  I saw you kiss her hand.  That’s the mark of a man who’s afraid he’s just gotten caught with his pants down.”
 
“It was meant to dissuade you from doing something foolish.  You mean nothing to me.  We’ve had a few laughs.  That’s it.” 
 
“Really?  What about those kisses in the corner booth at Avanti?”  By that time, my foot was under his pants leg and at his knee.  He hasn’t made to move my foot away, and I take that as good sign.  He’s the one who’s allowed things to go as far as they have.  If he’s allowed it to get this far, once he’s over his huff, he’ll allow it to go a lot farther.  Oh, yeah.  This man is ripe for the picking.
 
“I think you know me well enough to know that I’d never attempt to jeopardize your relationship with her.  I don’t do things like that.”  I was lying through my fucking teeth, but it wasn’t the first time. 
 
“The fuck you don’t.  Trusting your words after you’ve already set a foot wrong is not a risk I’m taking.”
 
I put on my most sincere look before I answered that one.
 
“You’ve already taken the risk.  You need to understand that with me, it isn’t a risk.  I’m looking for companionship.  It’s never been my intention to make your life difficult.” 
 
Companionship is such a wonderful word.  It can have a variety of meanings.  His intensity decreases a little at that, and he sees me as a person for the first time since this conversation began. 
 
“If I see you again, it will be on MY terms.  I’ll call you.  Forget you ever knew how to contact me.  Take it or leave it.”
 
I’m not sure why he made that request …he’d been the one making the contact this far.  Well, I suppose you could say I’d made a few simply by walking into Avanti on days he was having lunch there, but a girl has to eat.
 
“I won’t call you at the office, and I’ll never try and get your home number.”  Time to use a different tool.  I put as much sultriness in my voice as a July day right before a thunderstorm – hot, thick, and suggestive.  “And since we’re already here, why don’t we have tonight be special?” 
 
He reaches over, picks up my hand, and rubs that big thumb over it even as he squeezes it hard enough to compress the knuckles together with an implied threat, but he had taken my hand.  GOTCHA!
 
I think he’s about to spill his guts about why he’s with me, but he doesn’t.  Well, not in so many words. 
 
“Helené, my work is demanding and time critical; I never know when I’ll be called away or for how long.  My known travel schedule would choke a goat.  Two days in advance is long-term planning in my life.  Most likely a few hours notice will be all I can give you if I even take time to call beforehand.
 
“I built my business from the ground up.  I won’t jeopardise it for you.  My clients are best described as conservative businessmen; some might call them stodgy.  If we ever meet again, it will be in places unknown to them.” 
 
I read that as he’d also really like not to encounter his business associates and/or any friends of farm girl either. 
 
I smile when I answer.  “I can live with that.”
 
He walks me to my car at five minutes of seven and stands there for a minute, just holding my hand with a bit of pressure, just enough to let me know that he is capable of carrying through with his threat if I don’t live up to our bargain.  It’s as plain as the nose on your face that if I’m to get back in his good graces, I’ll have to make the first move, so I do.  He’s bought that crap about my wanting companionship hook, line, and sinker, and had relaxed.  I really don’t have any intention of making his life hell …right now.  He hasn’t had time to think about what I might have actually meant when he was at his most vulnerable.  One thing I learned as a kid back in Ash Flat was to strike while the iron was hot.
 
I step up to that chest and kiss him on the lips – just a little peck as a gesture of submission – and almost step back and write it off as a lost cause.  That’s when he stops me.  The hand holding mine pulls me back in, and he twists my arm around behind my back encircling my waist as his right hand comes up to the back of my head, crushing my face into to his.  So Mr. Thorne likes a bit of rough – not a problem.  The kiss he plants on me curls my toenails.  He takes the time to look at me before he leans in and bites and tugs on my upper lip and moves to my lower.  He doesn’t ask for anything from me; he takes me – all of me – with the intensity of his kiss.  His tongue in my mouth demands I respond.  I do, and there is nothing sweet about the way my kiss answers him.  I can feel the heat start in my gut and move upward like a flame-thrower.  I’m panting like the bitch in heat I am when he lets go of me.  He smiles coldly as he pushes me away from him, and his eyes gleam in triumph.  The bastard knows he can have me whenever and wherever he wants, on his terms.
 
He turns and walks to his car, leaving me beside mine to fend for myself. 
 
I get into my car, lock the door, and just sit there watching him walk away and get into his own car.  He never looks back; when he walked away, I had ceased to exist for him.  He doesn’t even look my direction as he accelerates out of the parking lot.  As I back out of my parking place, I wonder how long it will take him to call.
 
 
We continue meeting.  The restaurants remain upscale but become smaller, more out-of-the-way, and more intimate.  So do we …get more intimate, that is.  We sit at small tables in dark, secluded corners; we touch, we whisper, we kiss.  We talk about our jobs.  I tell him about moving to Dallas. 
 
“What exactly do you do for a living?”
 
“The less you know about me, the better for both of us.  Suffice it to say that I’m in a dangerous industry.  Don’t ask again.”
 
He speaks briefly of his partners but only to mention their names.  I already knew their last names; they were on his business card.
 
One night as we stand at my car, he announces, “I’ll be out of town for a bit.  I’ll call when I get back.”  I read it as a kiss-off.  The chase had been the only part that had interested him.   
 
This had been going on for five weeks, and he’d never suggested we go to my place or a hotel.  I knew his firm kept a corporate apartment in downtown Dallas, but he hadn’t suggested we go there either.  He never again mentioned his woman, but she was always there like a specter between us.  It was obvious that he was in love with her; he was just as obviously in lust with me.
 
He has someone to go home to and on whose body he could release the sexual tension I created in him.  I had an empty condo, an empty bed, and a hand-held shower head with a pulsing massage spray in addition to my rabbit vibrator.  Both were getting a workout. 
 
He didn't call while he was out of town, so that night at Draelion had been the beginning of the end.  I was shocked as shit when the phone rang ten days later. 
 
“G'day, Luv.  Miss me?”  He sounds cocky. 
 
“Have you been gone?”
 
“Sorry I bothered you.”  His tone says I’m a dime a dozen.  He’s cheating on her; why wouldn’t he have more of us stashed here in Dallas and at his destinations?
 
“Wait, Terry.  I'm sorry.  Are you back in town?”
 
“I was.  I had to leave again.”
 
“You know, when you get home, you should come to my place and let me cook dinner for you.  I’m pretty good in the kitchen.” 
 
“I’m sure you are.”  He had ceased his easy ways the night he issued his terms at Draelion; we’re long past the harmless flirting stage.
 
He calls me at ten the morning after he gets back to town.  “Are you available for lunch?  I managed an earlier flight and have some time.  This is one of the short notices I said would happen.”  He was completely unapologetic.
 
“I can’t wait to see you.  Where do you want to meet?”
 
“The Café on the Green in the Four Seasons complex near the airport.”  Good.  A hotel.  The Café is only a convenient meeting place before we move upstairs.
 
One o’clock was our usual time to meet, and he didn’t say what time before he hung up.  Terry wasted no words on me any more.  He’s no longer playful; we are now all about unadulterated, dripping, unconsummated sex.  He’ll fuck me when he’s ready.  Terry holds the power. 
 
He’s in a booth in the back of the place when I walk in, and he stands in case I can’t see him.  Before I can slide into the booth, he pulls me into his arms and plants one on me.  The man can kiss better than anyone I’ve ever known.  I just wish I knew how well he could fuck because if he fucks like he kisses, I’d be on the short road to Paradise.  We’re out in an hour because – you guessed it – he had to get to the office.  So much for meeting in a hotel restaurant; maybe he did it to tease me.
 
I’m driving back to the office when my cell rings.  I pull it from my purse and look at the display …it’s Terry.  I smile.  He’s having second thoughts about not making use of the hotel.
 
“Hello.” 
 
“Do you reckon you could stand seeing me twice in one day?”  Now he’s all charm and accent with an underlying, seething anger.  “I find myself free this evening and decided your dinner invitation would work a treat for both of us.  It could even be a late dinner as I’m available until the wee hours.”  The farm girl must have left him swinging in the wind tonight.

"I think I can work you into my schedule.  How about seven?"

"Seven it is."
 
“Don't you need my address?”
 
“I know where you live.”  He's done his homework.

The farm girl was not expecting an earlier flight and had her lovely, little life arranged without him.  Ya snooze, ya lose.  I've always found a grudge fuck to be about the best there is.

I call my secretary and tell her to cancel anything on my calendar for the afternoon.  When I get off that call, I call Georgette Klinger's and wheedle appointments for a manicure and pedicure, a facial, and to have my hair done.  I turn the car around and head for the Linen Gallery to pick up a set of 1200 count Egyptian cotton sheets and matching towels.  I'd also make a stop at my favorite shop to pick up new lingerie and then Marty's for wine.  The poor man would never know what hit him.

Three hours later I'm talking to my hairdresser as he dries my hair.

"Special night?"

I grin.  "You could say that.  And very probably a very special morning."

"So how do you want it done today?"

"Put it up, but no hair spray.  As few hairpins as it takes to keep it in place through dinner, and when he takes it down, I want it to tumble over my shoulders."

"Raymónd laughs.  "Poor bastard won't stand a chance."

"That was my entire intention."  It's time for a power shift between Terry and me.

"Well, Honey, if it doesn't work out for you, give me his phone number."


I put the new sheets on the bed and hang the towels in the bathroom.  The flowers in the living room are fine; after all, Terry's given me no indication that he even notices flowers.  He's never sent me any.  The wine's in the cooler.  The Waterford crystal glasses are sitting on the bar.  The Rougie foie gras is on a crystal plate in the refrigerator.  I look around, and it all looks perfect.

Time to get dressed.  Well, maybe undressed is a better term.  I head upstairs to my bedroom and laugh when I look at the La Perla lingerie on my bed.  A demi cup, sheer bra and a matching, very small thong with a robe that gives only a semblance of cover.  They're a far cry from a sweaty t-shirt.  As I said, the poor man won't know what hit him.

It's ten minutes to seven, and my change is complete; momentarily, I revel in the feel of the silk on my skin.  I know I won't be wearing it for long.  If he wants to take it off, it will be in shreds.  If I take it off for him, it might survive the night.  In the bathroom I pull loose the requisite tendrils of hair around my face and step back to admire the effect.  We both know precisely why he's coming here tonight, and it sure as shit isn't for dinner.  I've seduced him fully clothed until now, but I'm pulling out all the stops tonight. 
 
The doorbell rings promptly at seven.  I detour by the refrigerator and get the pâté, setting it beside the wine before going to the door.  I open the door, and the smell of alcohol is on his breath.  His eyes take in the body before him, but no compliment is forthcoming.  He takes off his coat and tosses it on the couch then removes the gun and holster that’s over his shoulder.  He doesn’t say a word; his hands just go to my hair.  His eyes bore into mine before his mouth bruises my lips.  I’d given control of my body to him long ago; he’s finally getting around to taking what he’s wanted for a long time. 
 
One hand comes down and pulls me into his groin, and I could feel him.  Jesus Christ.  He’s fucking huge!  His cock seems longer and thicker than my previous explorations had revealed.  He doesn’t even have to know how to use that thing …all he needs to do is point it in the right direction, and I’ll make damned sure that happens.  My arms go around him; his hands come back up to my hair, sending the hairpins flying.  My hair tumbles just the way I’d hoped it would. 
 
His hands drop from my hair to the silk of my robe, pawing up and down my back like an animal, stopping periodically to knead my butt as if he was trying to sculpt me into his own personal fantasy.  I can – and will instantaneously – become whatever he desires.  His mouth has been up and down my neck and comes back to mine as his hands pull my hips even harder into his.  I dig my nails into his scalp and deepen the kiss.  If I only have one shot at this, tonight and everything I do could be the make-or-break point for my getting him to dump the farm girl and make me Mrs. Terry Thorne. 
 
His hands leave my butt and move all over my body again, but this time it is almost professional.  They were everywhere.  Up my back, sliding forward and under my arms and breasts, before moving down the front of my body, and over the part of my legs covered by the short robe.  I pull back and look at him.
 
“What the hell are you doing?  Checking me for weapons?”
 
“Yes.  And giving you a little foreplay.”  He grabs my robe, crushing the fabric at the shoulder.
 
“Take it off.” 
 
“Whatever you want, Darlin’.”  My voice is rough, giving him permission to do anything that got his rocks off and would keep him coming back to me.  I pull my hands away and drop my arms, letting the silk drift to the floor.  I arch my back as the robe falls, shoving my boobs in his face.  His mouth devours the tit in front of him.  He attacks it the way he claimed me in Draelion’s parking lot.  He nips then bites; he makes no attempt to slow what started so long ago.  He has no finesse, only a driving hunger.  I pull one of his hands to my breast and the other between my legs. 
 
I smile when his fingers pull the string of the thong down and over, out of his way.  Two dig into me and retreat.  On his next thrust, there are three.  Nothing he is doing is for my pleasure.  It’s turning him on, but I don’t think he’s enjoying it.  His fingers are so far inside me that I’m forced onto my tiptoes.  They have gone so far into me that he hurt me, and my instinctive reaction is to move away.  But I’m not going to let a little, momentary twinge stop me, and before I can fully distribute the pain, I grind down on his fingers. 
 
The bra, panties, and robe are soft and seductive; they are the camouflage for the determined woman wearing them.  The robe barely has time to land before the hand on my boob drops and grabs my arm, dragging me across the room and up the stairs.  I don’t really think he’d actually hurt me, but this is a very dangerous man, and he is on the edge. 
 
This is going perfectly according to my plans. 
 
He doesn’t have to decide which way to go at the top of the stairs because my condo is a loft.  He shoves me toward the bed, and I stumble, catching myself as his hands reach to his tie.  He loosens the knot and pulls the tie off; he tosses it behind him.  I walk back to him and start on the buttons of his shirt.  His right hand comes up between my breasts, grabs the front of my bra, and rips it away.  The gossamer silk shreds, and the $390 bra is history.  If I’d known he wanted it that rough, I could have worn something more appropriate, but that little scrap of silk had been a good investment while it lasted.  He unbuttons the last two buttons of his shirt and shrugs it off.  I shimmy into his arms, starting low and moving up until I press my naked breasts into that chest.  I move my hands between us and start on his belt.  His fingers are back inside me, and his teeth are in my neck when I get his belt undone and reach inside his slacks, grabbing that rock-hard cock.
 
He sucks in air like a drowning man and fucking freezes.  It’s like I’d thrown a bucket of ice water on him except for his dick.  His hands grab mine, and he carefully steps away from my grasp.  He shakes his head as if to clear it and says one word.
 
“No.” 
 
I stand there speechless and watch him pick up his shirt and tie and walk out my bedroom door and down the stairs.  He doesn’t have enough time to dress before I hear the front door close and know I’ve lost my chance. 
 
 
I couldn’t bring myself to look for him any place other than Avanti because things started going south after we quit meeting there.  I went there at least twice a week and finally asked Bobby if RM had stopped coming there for lunch.  He said he hadn’t seen him since the last time we were there together.  After that day, I stopped going there.  I thought I saw his car on the freeway one day, but whoever it was sped up, and I couldn’t be sure it was him.
 
I was sitting in a scummy little bar in Manhattan.  I’d had one too many and was spilling my guts to the bartender.  I had a meeting yesterday at headquarters in New Jersey and was spending the night in New York before going home.  The bartender mopped up the sweat from the glasses and looked at me as I finished the tale.
 
“So, that’s my story.  Guess you hear a lot of them, don’t you?”  He nodded.  “You know, I’m not sorry for what I did.  I just wish it had worked out differently.”
 
 
TERRY
I drove home slowly and carefully.  All the liquid courage I’d had before my fuck date made me a prime candidate for a DUI.  By the time I drove past the crepe myrtles, I was as at peace with it as I’d ever be.  My behaviour had been reprehensible, but I’d stopped in time; I hadn’t taken that final step across the line even though every fibre of my being said Diana would not agree with where I’d drawn the line.  She would feel betrayed; I felt as if I’d betrayed her.
 
Diana’s not refused to marry me, but her reluctance had started grating on my soul.  Another Miranda who had time for me dropped into my life.  Why the fuck did I think another cunt would have a different outcome this time? 
 
I need to get what almost happened out of my head.  Diana and I have the agreement that if something is bothering me, I’m to tell her so we can get it sorted.  She’d always thought me too honourable a man to walk into a sordid affair that had no meaning; she’d never prepared herself to discuss something like this.  There's no doubt in my mind of what her response would be, and I'd deserve it.  The first mention of Helené would have my worst fear come true – Diana would throw my arse out.  I’d substitute work once more and die a lonely, half man.  I’ll toss this transgression away as I have the others in my life; I’ll make my own peace with it so she’ll never know.  I couldn’t face a future without her. 
 
It will never happen again.  
 
 
 

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