Talk Dirty to Me Read online

  When my bare pussy is exposed, he tilts his head, grinning. “I see you’ve prepared a landing strip for me.”

  My feet and knees are still together because I want to play a little hard to get. I want him to work for it.

  “I want to taste your little pussy.”

  My resistance crumbles. He spreads my pussy lips with his thumbs and trails his tongue along my slit. I had no idea his tongue was that long; he reaches my hot spot with ease, slipping the tip of his tongue into me. I let out an involuntary gasp of lust.

  He softens his tongue and lets it do slow waves along my clit, throwing in some soft lip puckering to mix things up and keep things interesting, sucking and nibbling on my clit between licks. It’s all warm rhythmic perfection and I find my legs spreading wider as his hands pin my hips against the door. His stubble rubbing against the softness of my inner thighs is fucking delicious. “It feels so good.”

  His tongue plunges deep into me with renewed force, withdraws, then circles my clit again, relentless. It doesn’t take long before I have both fists in his hair, clenching tight and panting with the effort of holding back.

  “Mark,” I whisper, my hips bucking as I open my thighs as wide as I can, riding his face, needing to feel his tongue fuck me even deeper.

  All at once I cum harder than I can remember in years, and collapse over him, my knees quivering.

  “You taste so good,” he says as he guides me into a chair. Then he bends over me, his blue eyes sharp on mine. When his lips find mine again, softer now, I can taste myself on his tongue, and it makes me wet all over again. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Not entirely,” I manage to gasp.

  He takes a breath and a knee. “Listen. I’m sorry about the other night, Rose. I had an emergency.”

  I toss back my hair and arch an eyebrow. “A supermodel emergency?” Damn. Why did I say that? All my cards are face up now.

  “Great.” He shakes his head. Taking my hands in his, he stares at me a few moments before speaking. “What, are you still jealous or something? I just told you—”

  “No. I don’t care.” Saint Pammy be with me.

  But I do care, I do. Cheerleaders. Supermodels. Sports reporters. Rockstars. This isn’t simply sexual jealousy. No, it’s something else. I care about him and I want him to care about me too. As more than just a fuck buddy. The realization makes me feel weak and vulnerable.

  “Then why the drama? I’m telling you the truth—I’m not back with her.”

  I shrug my shoulders and look away and mumble again that I don’t care.

  “So we have no problem, then?”

  His eyes are on mine and I’m melting. I have no choice but to sigh and admit, “I’m not a model…”

  He holds my gaze for a second and then softly laughs. “No. You aren’t.” He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. “And I’m glad for that.”

  Warmth and joy flood my body. Could I fly right now? I feel like I could. But I don’t want to come across as too excited. I smile and clear my throat to regain some snark. “You did still stand me up the other night, you know.”

  “I told you. I had an emergency.”

  I bite my lip. He looks serious. Deadly so. And a little sad, too. There’s a line between his eyebrows that I’ve never seen before. “What happened?”

  “You have to promise you won’t tell a soul. Seriously. It can’t get out to the press.”

  “I promise.” I rest my hand on my heart to emphasize.

  “Stanley had a heart attack.” He closes his eyes and grimaces. “A big one. He’s still in the hospital.”

  “Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I…” I feel like such a bitch right now. “Shit, I had no idea. Is he going to be okay? What did the doctors say?”

  “They said—” Mark holds his finger up and looks up at the speaker over our heads. “Wait, isn’t that the last song ending?”

  17

  Rose

  We sprint back to the controls just as MGMT’s Pretend is rounding out. I give Mark a nod to signal his mic is live and he leans into it as he slides on his headphones.

  “And we are back.” He licks his lips in my direction. “But I had a tasty break.”

  My entire being lights up in red and I widen my eyes at him. “What about you, Rose?” he purrs. “How was your break?”

  He gives me a wink and I bust out laughing, silently, so the mics won’t pick it up. “Relaxing,” I coo.

  “OK, diehards, you still have a lot of work to do today. The phones are open and I am expecting you to open your hearts and wallets for the kids.”

  Our partner Bust Up sports drink has an offsite phone bank, but they are forwarding big donor calls and a couple of stand-out diehards for me to patch through. Good old Mack has been sent through and my eyes bulge out at the screen. This diehard has pledged a big number for the cause.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” I read. “Great job, Mack.”

  “I’m impressed,” Mark says. “I thought you spent all your money on mustache wax and nachos.”

  “Still hate you, Mark.”

  As they argue, I work the phones to find the next diehard to put through before we break into a song set. Then I notice that the dedicated line we have for the celebrity calls is lighting up.

  That’s weird. Eli Manning isn’t supposed to call for another half hour. Thinking he must have confused the time, I answer the call without thinking. “Eli?”

  “No,” a female voice says. “It’s me.”

  I know that voice but I can’t quite place it. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you down on our schedule, it must be an error. Who is this?”

  There is a pause, then an audible sigh. Whoever she is, she’s sounds like she’s bored to tears with my question. “Amber.”

  My stomach churns. “Oh. Uh. What can I do for you today?” Jeez. I sound like an airline ticket counter rep.

  “I want to talk to Mark.”

  I pause for a moment. “He’s busy.”

  “I’m afraid I really must insist. Who is this, anyway?” she adds.

  “Hold please.”

  Mark makes the signal that his conversation with Mack is drawing to a close. Even though a call is scheduled next, I play a Stone Temple Pilots song.

  “Mark,” I say into his headphones, ignoring the pinch in the pit of my stomach. “Amber’s on the line. What do you want me to do?”

  He groans. “Just hang up on her.”

  I nod and shoot him a small smile. Our eyes lock in perfect understanding and this time, I feel like I really can fly.

  Until 8 pm, the Radio Marathon remains fun; after 8 pm it becomes exhausting. By midnight, I go into robot mode, mechanically pushing buttons for songs, for commercials, for calls. Scar Jo at some point turned into Rod Stewart and my back, legs and neck feel like I’ve been breaking rocks with a sledgehammer all day and night.

  Mark, however, is amped. As the marathon drags on, each hour seems to bring him more energy and he’s showing his fun side. He’s really goosing the diehards and teasing the celebrities. He treats me to a lip synched performance of Wonderwall and really nails it. His energy is contagious and flows into me.

  Around 2 am we have a ten song break scheduled. Thank god.

  “Did you want to nap?” he offers. “I feel pretty good, I can wake you up in an hour or so…”

  “That would be a terrible idea. I think if I let my body rest I’ll fall asleep and never wake up.”

  “I have a better idea then. What time do we have to get back?”

  I look at my watch. “2:50.”

  “Let’s go to the roof and get some fresh air.”

  “How do you know about the roof?” I ask, suspicious. Shit, did Chris tell him about the secret stash of rum we keep up there for emergencies?

  Red floods to his cheeks. “Becks tried to lure me up there with a box of wine and some seriously filthy words.”

  I snort. “Oh.”

  “Then she tried again with a bottle of whiske
y and some different dirty words.”

  “Oh my god.” My shoulders shake with laughter now.

  He shrugs his hunky shoulders. “I didn’t go,” he adds, catching my eye and lingering there. “But she spoke so highly of the great time I would have up there, I am interested to see.”

  I lead him to the back of the office, to the door behind Becks’s desk. There is no lock on the door and if truth be told, anyone who wanted to get into the office could do so from the roof. Pre-Mark Carrington era, we had never considered security outside of Night Vixen’s occasional lovesick Hot Topic vamps, but even they just stalk the parking lot and pout.

  As I climb the spiral stairs, I remember I never did put my underwear back on, so Mark is getting quite a show.

  “Nice view.”

  “We aren’t even on the roof yet.”

  “Won’t be a better one.” He reaches up to squeeze my ass as I round the last step, and I let out a startled gasp, though to be honest, it feels more pleasant than surprising.

  Cool air hits me when I step outside and I wrap the blanket I lugged upstairs around me.

  “I have threatened to shut this roof down a million times,” I explain. “Too much smoking weed. Too many antics.” I turn back to Mark. “And don’t get me started on the insurance issues we could have if this were ever found out by anyone in real authority.”

  “Then why don’t you shut it down?”

  I’ve never asked myself that, but I think I know why. I could say it was for peace of mind during the day or evening, knowing you have a spot to escape from work drama, but that’s not true. “Remember when we used to go places? Away from school? Away from town?”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  “It’s kind of like that.” I realize what I have just said and think of how to backtrack. “I mean, I…”

  “I get it. I loved sneaking off like that. While everyone else in our senior class was at that crappy mall or watching movies in the next town, we went to weird places no one else knew about or even thought to look for. It was just for us.”

  “Exactly.” I smile at him, and then we lapse into a comfortable silence, enjoying the view. After a few minutes, I shiver from the cold and hear some echoed shouts. “What is that?”

  Mark peers over the roof ledge. “Shh. Come see.”

  I walk over and take a look at the diehards below. Two of them are arguing about Babe Ruth almost a hundred years too late.

  He wraps his arm around me. “Kind of cool that I can see them and they can’t see me. For once.”

  I think of how different his life is from mine. “Do you like being famous?”

  He sighs. “I can’t really answer that.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. I’ve gotten used to it.” He pauses. “There are upsides and downsides. How do you feel about your fame?”

  “It’s not really fame,” I protest with an eyeroll.

  “Kinda is. Your profile has shot up a lot in the last couple of weeks.”

  I smile. True. “I dunno. I guess it’s cool.” I hate to admit it to myself, but in a lot of ways I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve Googled myself. In fact, I spent last Sunday looking at pictures of myself on the internet. I liked to think I was doing it just to see what camera angles worked for me, but at some point something inside me clicked and it was like I couldn’t stop. Before I knew it, a couple hours had gone by of me gazing at me. “Yeah, it’s cool,” I say again, but this time with a pinch of guilt in my gut.

  “It is what it is. It starts out great, but over time…” He shrugs again.

  For the rest of the break we watch the diehards below us. Eating junk food, playing with their phones, talking to each other. Mark’s arms stay around me as we sway in the cold, his cheek next to mine, and I wonder. Is this my life now? Only the rooftops will be private? I’ll need to have hideaways everywhere I go?

  On the other hand, with Mark beside me, it all seems doable. More than that.

  It seems right.

  By the time 10 am rolls around, we have officially surpassed our fundraising goals. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I don’t even remember the post-marathon press conference Mark and I did. I’ve hit the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel just sick. I realize now that with all the prep for this event, I haven’t slept for days. It’s been go, go, go and my body is rebelling. After the last press person leaves, I wobble out to the lobby and collapse on the beer stained couch.

  “I’m done,” I mutter into the not so fresh smelling pillow. “Finished. Just leave me here and let me die.”

  Mark stands over me and I feel his body blocking all the light. “You aren’t done yet.” I feel his big arms wrap my coat around me and then he lifts me up in his strong arms. Heat is coming off his body like he’s a nuclear reactor. Squeezing my eyes tight, I let my body go limp. After being large and in charge of the Radio Marathon for the last couple of days, it feels incredible to just let go.

  “I see you got her,” I hear Chris say with a laugh in his voice.

  “I’ll say,” says Becks. She sounds annoyed. Is that jealousy? My face twitches in satisfaction that I am the envy of the hot to trot office mama minx.

  I keep my eyes squeezed tight, hear the door open and feel the cold winter air kiss my skin. Mark holds me tighter as he walks out into the parking lot.

  “Rose!” Various diehards are shouting my name and my eyelids flicker at the flash of cameras. Chris assures the crowd that in spite of appearances, I am not dead, just dead tired.

  Mark says nothing but, “Hey buddy, will ya get the door for me?” to some rando fan who obeys his baseball god with a hearty “yes, sir.”

  Mark sets me in his truck and snaps the seat belt on, making me feel safe and secure. He must have turned his truck on with his key remote from the lobby, because it’s warm inside and W-ALT is blasting on the speakers. “You’ll be OK,” he murmurs.

  I already am. Dude has seat warmers and my ass is cooking. Mmm… Sleepiness plus horniness feels nice as hell, even though my body still aches.

  When we hit the 17, I reach across the gear shift to trail my hand up his thigh. He casts me a sideways knowing smile, puts his hand on my leg and lets his fingers dance up my thigh. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and listen to our relief DJ Rockin’ Ralph announce a PJ Harvey song as Mark strokes teasingly between my legs. It doesn’t take my fingertips long to find the bulge in his jeans, and trace the outline of his hard cock through the fabric, even as he fingers my clit through my skirt.

  “I’m going to get you feeling good again.” With one hand on his steering wheel and his other under my skirt, I watch as strip malls and billboards whirl by. His touch is gentle, with just a slight pressure, not taking me on a trip to ecstasy, but keeping me lingering in a sweet place, half awake and half delirious with desire. “I am taking you to my cabin, and I am going to fuck you well.”

  “Hmmm.” I close my eyes.

  Promises, promises.

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know we are in a forest. Mark urges me to wake with a peck on my cheek. “OK, sleeping beauty,” he whispers. “Time to wake up.”

  As I rub my eyes and fight to keep them open, he walks around the truck and opens the passenger door, letting in cool country air.

  “Can you walk?” Mark holds the door wide for me.

  I would love for him to carry me again, but I don’t think I can pull that baby move off twice, so I nod. “Where are we?”

  He gives me a shy smile. “My place.”

  His ‘place’ is a glam-rustic, beautiful cabin. Mostly surrounded by trees. I spy a barn in the distance and some fallow acres to the back.

  “You live on a farm?” Not exactly what I pictured after his doorman kicked me out of his city abode in the overpriced, fancy-as-hell high rise.

  “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  “I wasn’t knocking it, I’m just…”

  “Surprised?” He grins.

  Groggy and still wobbly
in my torture heels, I have the gait of an eighty year old woman, but I make it up the porch steps to his front door with his arm around my waist to steady me. Before he opens the door, he gives me a proud smile. “I’ve wanted to have you over, you know. This isn’t just a ploy to get under that sexy skirt of yours. Although, that is also the plan.” He turns the lock.

  Once inside, I can see why. My brain quickly registers a couple of things within the huge interior of the cabin. One: the view of huge trees and rolling farm land. Two: Mark has come a long way from what he was born into.

  “Nice,” I slur. I am so tired I feel drunk and I collapse onto his couch. I want to live on this couch forever.

  “Stay here,” he says, as if I can move. “I’ll be right back.”

  As I lounge around the couch, I take a gander at his space. Yeah, this is a long way from the sticks. Dude’s got a Basquiat and a Warhol that don’t look like prints.

  So 80s. I love it.

  Everything is perfect and clean, but Mark was always fastidious about his personal hygiene. He always smelled freshly showered and his clothes were always spotless, an amazing feat considering his home life. His hands especially were always meticulous. Not many teenage boys pay that much attention to their nails, but his were always trimmed a la Korean manicure.

  A grand piano dominates the room; it’s black and gleaming with its lid up to reveal the intricate harp inside. I look around his apartment for touches of the Mark I knew back in the day. It takes a minute, but finally I find it. Behind his grand piano is his framed baseball jersey from Lambertville High School, number 13, in the school colors, maroon and gray. That he kept his high school jersey, that he framed it, makes my whole body go awww.

  He’s back and sees my eyes on the jersey. He goes over and makes a move to straighten the frame even though it’s not crooked. He catches my eye and kinda shrugs. “I believe no matter how much success I have, no matter how much money I make, I should never forget where I came from.”

  “Good idea. I still have the tapes from my shows in high school. They make me cringe when I listen to them, but I have them.” Then, while he’s nodding in understanding, I rub at a tight spot in my neck and wince. Damn. Headache.

  He releases his jersey frame. “I know just what you need.”