Talk Dirty to Me Read online

  “I know what third base is,” I call over my shoulder as I run. “Do you?”

  He bolts past me and jumps on third. He turns and looks at me for a moment. Then his face grows serious as he steps closer to me, still silent. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. He bites his lip and curves his finger. “Come here,” he whispers.

  “Why?” My eyes search his face. Is he teasing? Is he serious?

  But I can’t help it. I step closer to him, my body singing in anticipation. I’m vibrating out of my skin with sexual heat. If he doesn’t kiss me, I’m just going to have to take matters into my own hands. Specifically, those delicious abs of his…

  Once again, as I reach his side, he cups my face in his hands. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers, looking into my eyes. “I’ve been wanting to taste you.”

  I barely have time to nod. I can’t think straight.

  Slowly, deliberately, his lips brush against mine. Then his mouth presses into the sweetest kiss he has ever given me. Soft mouth, hard tongue and just the right amount of pressure that I can feel all over, but mostly between my legs. Rubbing my hands on his chest, I press my hips into his. He deepens the kiss, his knee sliding between mine. I grind my hips against his thigh, and feel his cock dig into my inner thigh. He’s hard and hot and every inch of that is for me.

  Fuck, I want him. I want every part of him. I want his cock inside me, I want to grab his hips and ride him until we both collapse…

  He stops kissing me and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Both of us are breathing hard, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the bases this time. At least, not the ones in the stadium. I reach down to stroke his hard dick over his jeans and feel his breath hitch, his hips rock toward mine. His hand creeps up my side, gripping me so hard it’ll leave bruises, but I fucking love it. He brushes stray hair out of my face. “Rose, I….”

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  No. I didn’t hear that.

  I press closer to him.

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  “Is that your phone?”

  I nod. “The emergency line from the station,” I mumble. I’m still staring at him with my hand pressed against his jeans. I feel that hard dick behind the denim, and god damn do I want it.

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  “Shouldn’t you pick up?”

  “I don’t want to,” I pout. But he raises an eyebrow at me, so I step away with a sigh and grab my phone out of my back pocket. “But I guess I have to.”

  He nods understanding and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand.

  “Hello?”

  “Rose.” It’s Chris. “We’re off the air. The transmitter blew. Right in the middle of a set. Calls are exploding but we can’t record or respond…”

  I scrunch up my forehead and resist the urge to scream in frustration. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up the phone and just groan for what feels like a minute straight.

  Mark winces in sympathy. “You have to go in?”

  I nod. “Disaster. Our transmitter burned out. If we aren’t back on the air within the hour…”

  He wraps his arm around me. “Come on, I’ll drive you over. If anyone can solve this, it’s you.”

  11

  Mark

  My therapist is always ten minutes early for our sessions. Not nine minutes, not eleven minutes. Exactly ten minutes. The man is consistent, and, if I’m honest, that’s part of the reason he’s starting to gain my trust. That, and he sat through at least ten sessions of me ranting about stupid Tommy Pizza and the idiots in the press who made me feign affection for him.

  Now he sits across from me sipping the tea I made for him. Tea I didn’t even know I had. Tea that magically appeared in my cabinet as if waiting for me to make it. “Earl Grey.” He sets the cup on the coffee table. “Always a good choice.”

  “I’m not sure how old that is,” I warn him. “It must be from at least four girlfriends ago.” That’s the last time I can remember dating someone who preferred tea to coffee, the more sensible caffeine choice.

  “Tastes fine to me.” He smiles, and that’s another thing I appreciate about him. This guy is down to earth. Not another pretentious overpriced head doctor.

  “How’s your kid, by the way?” After ten intense sessions with the man, I finally picked up some info about his life. Married for a decade, he’s got a 4 week old son, and that’s after he and his wife tried for years to get pregnant.

  “Good.” He grins. “Exhausting.”

  “You like being a dad?” I notice I’m rubbing my legs, so I stop.

  He looks at my hands and then back at me. “Even better than I expected. What about you, Mark?”

  “Me?” I am back to rubbing my legs, harder now.

  He waits for my eyes to meet his again. “Yes. Do you want a family?”

  “Yeah, some day. I just…” I let out a breath. “I got some stuff to work on between now and then.”

  As he flips his notebook open, he nods. “Speaking of which, do you have your homework? Last time I asked you to make a list of things that make you happy.”

  I peel the paper out of my pocket, wrinkled from being folded into my back jeans pocket. I wrote it about ten minutes before he got here, admittedly. But I remembered, which is more than I’ve done any other time he’s come here. I wrote it as soon as I woke up to prepare for his visit, tidying the living room and cleaning up the kitchen after my late night burger binge last night when I got back from driving Rose in to the station. I open the note and clear my throat. “First frost. My truck. My cabin. Hamburgers with extra cheese.” I shift in my seat. “Hitting home runs. Doing my morning show on the radio. My DJ partner on the radio….”

  “And who is that?” he prompts, so subtly I almost don’t notice.

  “Oh, just Rose. She’s an old friend from high school.”

  “Really?” He taps his pen on his notebook. “So you volunteered for her show?”

  “Well, no, but now that I’m doing it, it’s fun. And doing it with her is fun; we have a good rapport…”

  “Let’s talk about that rapport.”

  I shrug and look down at my hands. “It’s nice, I guess.” When I glance back up, he’s blinking at me, looking more surprised than I’ve ever seen him look.

  “Mark, are you aware you’re smiling?”

  I start to protest, but then I have to admit it—he’s right.

  12

  Rose

  I am a stress muffin.

  The transmitter—in place since 1984—has been blinking on and off all day and night. Even though I don’t see smoke coming from it anymore, I swear I can still smell it. Chris and I have been taking turns standing here eyeballing it, policing it to keep W-ALT on the air. I was able to get a little shut-eye on the couch, but not much. I took a splash bath in the bathroom sink, armpits and face only, and feel slightly revived, but I still might collapse from anxiety.

  All I need is for this damn thing to crap out again during Mark’s show, and I can kiss those national syndication dreams goodbye. Nobody will hire me to help with the show. Not when my only job is to keep it on the air and I can’t even do that.

  The shitty out of date transmitter shuts off again. I whack it, and it sputters back to life, but for how much longer, nobody knows.

  Doc’s response was predictable as ever. New transmitter not in the budget, he replied by text to my frantic calls. Never mind the extra cash we’re flush with from Mark’s show. Never mind that we have ad revenue out the wazoo now.

  I have every faith you will make it work, he replied to my string of curse words. This is what happens when a crazy old rich guy runs your media company for kicks, instead of needing to make an actual profit or anything.

  Damn him.

  “All good?” Night Vixen shouts between sets from the DJ booth. I can just hear her through the thin wall of the transmitter room.

  “Not even a little,” I mutter. I take a deep breath, but it doesn�
��t help. I htink it might be possible to die of a heart attack at 25. “Any luck with Chris?” I shout. He was trying to wrangle a deal with a nearby college station that went digital and get them to loan us their transmitter.

  If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what to do.

  But I kinda do, actually.

  Between whacking and wiggling and guarding the transmitter, I’ve been doing the math in my head. Calculating how much I have on my credit cards. Maybe between them I can finagle the thousands needed for a replacement transmitter, one built this century.

  “No joy,” Night Vixen shouts back, and my shoulders slump.

  Dammit. I am going to max out my debt.

  But I love rock and roll and I am fool.

  This is my studio. My baby. Night Vixen, Chris, all our listeners—they depend on me to keep her running. They are worth it.

  Somehow, despite the debt I’ll be racking up, I feel much calmer now that I have a direction. My energy levels are shooting up. I radio Chris. “Chris, please babysit this hunk of junk through the rest of Night Vixen’s show.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asks, with the air of a man asking a doctor how to cure his cancer.

  “I have a plan,” I assure him.

  We trade places, but I’m less than halfway out the door when I collide with Mark.

  “Good morning!” He holds out a cup of coffee and holds up a box in his other hand. I don’t move. He places the cup in my hand, but it barely registers—because my eyes are glued to the box, the unbelievable, giant, branded box. What in the…

  “Whoa.” Night Vixen sticks her head out of her DJ booth to stare. She looks like a kid on Christmas morning. “Is that…?”

  I am aware my mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut and just stare at Mark, who is grinning ear to ear. “Digital was all I could find. Hope that’s okay. I don’t think they even make analog transmitters anymore.” Mark winks, even as I radio Chris to come out of the dungeon tech room. “Do you think you can get it to work before the show?” Mark is saying when Chris joins us, jumping up and down, his eyes bulging as much as Night Vixen’s did.

  “Hell yes, I can,” Chris shouts.

  Me, I’m still speechless.

  Chris shakes Mark’s hand. “Thanks, man. This has gotta be the best transmitter I’ve ever touched.”

  And still I am just staring at Mark.

  “Did I hit a home run, Rose?” he finally asks, that sly little grin I love playing on his lips.

  “You didn’t have to…”

  He holds up his hand. “Yes I did.”

  “But…”

  “Rose…” He looks at Chris, then at me. “Let me do my part, ok? Like I said. Team player.”

  “I…” I just can’t believe it and I am truly touched. “Thank you,” I finally say, finding my voice.

  He nods. I think he might be blushing a little. “You are very welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat. But this time it’s a whisper, just for him.

  The show is a blur of callers, my Scarlett Johansson imitation, and Mark’s intense looks from across the room. I have been riding a wave of victory endorphins. The calls have been on fire today and that transmitter is working like a charm. Mark’s T-shirt is nice and tight, but we keep locking eyes. As each second of the show passes, I want him more. I keep staring at him and touching my fingers to my lips. During our last segment, I take down my sloppy bun and shake my hair lose.

  “Tomorrow is, uh…” Mark trails off to stare at me. He bites his lip. “Uh, what’s tomorrow again?

  I lean into my mic. “Tomorrow we have Alex Rodriguez and Daily News sports journalist David Bell,” I coo. “Not to mention more calls from your awesome diehards.”

  Mark laughs, a little forcibly. “Gonna be a great show,” he says. “Later, wankers.”

  As Ralph shuffles through the studio door with his vinyl, I give Mark a come hither look and head to the production room. Ostensibly, he needs to do some voice work so I can splice it into the finished promo piece we have to finish today.

  But that’s not all I want to do in there. We have unfinished business to settle.

  Home run, here I come.

  Wordlessly, Mark follows me to the production room down the hallway.

  What the hell? A little sex never killed anyone. I break out the Shakira hips right now. They roll with a deliberate sexiness and can tell no lies, dammit. I feel the hot wetness build between my legs and my entire being shivers with anticipation. I want to be alone with him. I want to touch him.

  I want to fuck him. And I don’t give a shit about the consequences.

  I slam the door behind him and turn to see he has his hand raised in the air for a high five.

  Really. I do not do high fives. I’m a fist bump girl. I just stare at him with fake annoyance until he gives me a light tap on the fist.

  “I am awesome,” he says, grinning.

  I bow to his truth. “You are. You saved the day and won again. And for that I am eternally grateful.” I point to the headphones around his neck. “Now get those back on. We have to record a couple of lines.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He snaps them on.

  It’s just three lines of copy. Simple. I could do it in my sleep. And so could he, apparently, because he’s perfect on the first take.

  But I don’t want him to leave. As I work the knobs, I brush my hips against his and rewind the tape. “Again,” I command.

  This time, his voice sounds a little thicker. Deeper. His outer thigh gets a stroke from my hand, and I lean way too close to point out his line. “Again,” I repeat, my boobs brushing his bicep. He gives me a smile that tells me he knows I’m stalling, he knows I’m teasing. And he’s teasing back by leaning in. The only question is who is going to seal the deal.

  He repeats the line again, and this time, his voice hitches when I brush my hand lower down his thigh.

  “You know,” he murmurs after the tenth take. “I think I know what my problem is.”

  “Hmm?”

  He points at my David Bowie shirt. It’s vintage and thinned from a million washings. My nips are popping like mad and it makes him smile like a devil. “Never been a Bowie fan.” He traces the Thin Duke’s face, which just happens to cross my breast. His fingers linger on my hard nipple. “I’m distracted by your shirt.”

  “Oh.” I look down with a fake pout.

  “Take it off.”

  My eyes light up. “That could work.” I let my gaze wander all over his chest. “But you first,” I say, tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt. “It’s only fair.”

  He half smiles. “No problem.” He removes his headphones and takes his shirt off in one glorious swoop. He keeps his eyes on me as it drops to the floor. “Let me help with yours,” he whispers.

  I take my headphones off and set them on the production desk.

  “You have the most luscious tits.” He smiles.

  His hands are on me before David Bowie even hits the floor. Hot and rough, his fingers feel amazing on my cool, soft skin. He squeezes and kneads them, pinching my nipples, harder with each pass. His thumb flicks one nipple as he gently kisses the other, and then does this loving, long, slow suck on my left nipple until I can feel it in my pussy.

  “Is that better?” I manage to gasp. I want him to kiss me, so I guide the back of his head up until his mouth is inches away from mine.

  “Almost. But I’m going to need a little more from you,” he purrs just before our lips collide. It’s the kiss I have longed for and it makes me want more, more, more.

  He licks my lips and then his own. “How we doing?” He reaches his hand under my skirt. As he kisses me again, he strokes just the right place outside my panties. Sweet tender touches that set off sexy sparks. My knees forget how to be knees again. “You’re soaking through your panties,” he says.

  He pulls me close to him and his hot, naked chest against mine drives me wild. I can feel every inch of those pecs on my tits, his washboard abs hard aga
inst my stomach, digging into me, our hip bones colliding. I bite his lower lip and then kiss him, my tongue probing in time with his fingers against my undies.

  And then my panties are suddenly off, but I can’t testify as to how or when. I just feel a rush of cool air in the throbbing spot between my legs. This is it. No more waiting. I hungrily tug at his pants, completely forgetting how to unbutton or zip them. He stops me with a grin, fingers curling around mine. “I got this.”

  He gazes at me as he slides his hard dick out of his jeans for my inspection.

  Jesus. It’s bigger than I remembered.

  More than I expected, but I can deal. “Think you can handle…” he starts to say, smirking, but my fingers touch his tip, shutting him up.

  Lifting my skirt up, I press my back against the production room wall. In one fluid movement, I kick my leg up and he hooks it in his arm. We could be on Dancing with the Stars or, well, maybe Dancing with the Porn Stars. The next thing he does is swirl the head of his cock against the entrance of my pussy. Then he pauses, just as I’m wet and aching for him, ready to take him into me.

  “I’m going to fuck you with my huge cock. You think you can handle it, Rose?”

  “Yes,” I pant.

  “But my condoms are in my wallet…which is in my jacket…which is in your office…”

  I smile at him and jerk my head to the side. His gaze follows mine to the right. On the production table sits a large glass bowl of condoms, a gift from the NJ Board of Health before last summer’s music fest.

  “You’re one hell of a Girl Scout, Taylor.” He grabs one.

  As I bite my lip damn near bloody, I watch him tear the wrapper with his teeth and roll up the condom with one hand. I savor the view as the rubber rolls down his thick delicious length. He doesn’t even look. He is talented.

  As he stares at me with those intense blue eyes, he lifts his hips again, braced at my entrance. “I’m not gonna go easy on you,” he says, those eyes hard and hungry all at once, and oh fuck I can’t tell him how much I like the sound of that.

  “Fuck me, Mark,” I gasp.

  In a single, deep thrust, he fills me with his cock. I melt as he penetrates every inch of my pussy. He grinds against me, into me and I thrust back with fury until I can’t see or hear. I just feel red hot bolts of energy. My knee buckles and I feel the strength of his arms holding me up and the power of his dick banging me to another place. Every thrust sends me higher, closer to the edge, and I’m so wet and hot, but I can feel every inch of him in me, every thrust making me gasp in ecstasy.