On the Edge

  Viv strutted into his black-themed office at the Flash headquarters, wishing she had the guts to get a boob job. Maybe he’d look at her again if she had fantasy-size boobs.

  She stopped in the doorway to his office, drinking him in – his crisp black hair, his hard-edged features, his lean, athletic frame beneath a custom made suit. She waited for him to look at her the way he used to – his dark eyes softening, his lips in a crooked half-smile, his hand reaching for her.

  But Jack didn’t look up from whatever paperwork he was reviewing. This wasn’t the reception from a man ready for reconciliation. This was the greeting of a man who’d replaced his love for his wife with his love for a professional basketball team.

  Her hopes dispersed like dying, autumn leaves on a dark and windy night.

  She felt as insubstantial as those leaves. For whatever reason – pride, love, stupidity – she couldn’t let Jack go. To piss him off, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of his desk, in his territory, almost kissably close. “You called?”

  Jack tapped his pen, pushed his paper aside, but didn’t look at or reach for her. “Something’s got to change about our situation.”

  Viv summoned her pride, it being difficult since pride was all she had lately and look where that’d gotten her – nowhere. “Be specific.”

  His dark gaze met hers squarely and without emotion. “You need to date.”

  She clutched the desk to keep from slipping off. “And you’re interested in my social life because…?”

  “You’re unhappy.”

  “And you’ve found someone.” Her voice sounded brittle. Inside, she began to shatter.

  “No. It’s just…” His hesitation was uncharacteristic. “You’re unhappy.”

  “Jack…” I still love you. She couldn’t say it. He could be so hard, so disparaging of public displays of affection. It was as if the heart she’d discovered in him years ago had flown out an open car window. Lost forever. And what was left… “You don’t seem that happy either.”

  “I’ll be happy when I finish this media deal with the NBA.”

  There was always a condition to his happiness. Always.

  It was pointless to have this discussion. She slid off his desk, willing herself not to wobble. “Thanks for the advice.”

  He didn’t say anything, which was rare. They saw each other about twice a month now that the season was over. It was standard operating procedure for him to yell at her on her way out.

  She imagined he watched her walk away, but she couldn’t manage any strut to her walk, no sway to her hips.

  She was almost to the door when he spoke.

  “I’ve asked Blue Rule at the Dooley Foundation to find a man for you.”

  That son-of-a-bitch.

  Vivian spun on her ineffective Fuck-Me sandals and flipped him the bird.

  Everyone thought Cora Rule was a bitch.

  Ninety-five percent of the time, they’d be right.

  She’d learned early that her looks could get her what she wanted – from everyone but her dad, that is. She’d learned early that if she wanted something, she had only herself to rely on to get it – people weren’t to be trusted. And so, she had few friends, no romantic relationships, and little reason to pursue either.

  But that didn’t mean she was a hermit, didn’t have a social life, and didn’t have sex. She had a couple of fuck-buddies, which suited her just fine. With casual sex, she didn’t have to be nice to a guy’s lame friends, his judgmental parents, or his boss.

  And so, when Cora’s phone buzzed with a text message after Blue cancelled their golf date, she was pleased.

  You home?

  I M free, she texted back. Then she hid her sketch pad, and ran upstairs to change out of her shorts and camisole.

  Perfumed, wearing nothing but black stilettos and a red silk robe, Cora waited by the door for Jack Gordon. He was older, not as controllable as her other sexual partners, but hotter than sin.

  The a/c came on, billowing the red silk over her breasts, bringing her nipples to taut, achy beads, making her wet.

  Jack had made millions in the dot com industry and was gambling millions on his NBA team. He was nearly ten years older than she was and nearly ten times kinkier. She’d seen him at Amber’s wedding reception last night, but he’d ignored her. The other men she occasionally had sex with didn’t dare ignore her.

  She stood at the edge of the foyer, trembling with excitement as she listened for his truck. When Jack came to her, he came hard and horny. He was a man who knew what he wanted and how he wanted it. Never the same way twice.

  A door slammed out front.

  Cora held her breath, listening for his footsteps on the walk, hard soles on concrete.

  He knocked once.

  She blew out a breath and walked across the tile slowly, knowing he’d hear her heels on granite, wanting to create the anticipation he created in her.

  Booty call-booty call-booty call.

  Anticipation buzzed in her veins. She struggled to ignore it. Failed.

  Opening the door with a hand that shook, she perused his body as if he was an unwanted interruption.

  So not true.

  She started at his feet and the expensive leather loafers he probably wouldn’t take off. Black slacks with a tell-tale bulge beneath the zipper. His shoulders extended out beneath a burgundy shirt and black tie. Hard jaw, perfect lips, strong nose, black eyes burning with desire. A single lock of ebony hair fell over his forehead, an indication that his iron control had slipped. Something had happened that he didn’t like.

  Thank God. Because she loved it when things didn’t go his way.

  He reached for the silk sash at her waist, slipping the thin fabric free and spreading her robe, exposing her. Sunshine and warm summer air embraced her skin, while the air conditioner continued to tease her backside.

  Cora spared a nervous glance past his shoulder. It was the middle of the day. She lived in a stylish neighborhood in Beverly Hills and her door opened to the street. Someone was mowing a lawn nearby, filling the air with the smell of gasoline and cut grass.

  “Nervous?” he murmured, quirking a dark eyebrow. “Should I go?”

  She’d failed his dares before and he’d left her aching. She swallowed, spreading her legs, bolstering her words with false confidence. “Touch me.”

  He slipped two fingers into her mouth. She laved and suckled the salt from his fingertips, much as she wanted to lave and suckle him.

  His jaw clenched. His black gaze dropped to the landing strip of curls between her legs.

  Yes. Reflexively, she sucked harder, reveling in the power she had over him.

  Jack dragged his wet fingers down her chin, along her throat, between her breasts, which were heavy with wanting. He made a trail with his fingers across her belly and to the gold mine between her legs. Then his hand turned to cup her mound. He slid his fingers into her wetness, teasing her, filling her, making her knees buck with greedy need.

  He bodied up to Cora, pushing her inside, slamming the door behind them, ridding her of the robe, which pooled on the floor at her feet.

  The air conditioner was trying to make up for all that heat he’d let in, but it wasn’t working. Jack’s hands kneaded her flesh, he nipped at the cords of her neck, heating her body, priming her to go up in flames.

  She unfastened his belt and pants, slid her hands beneath the band of his boxers, and came up with a long, hard treasure. Her five inch heels guaranteed his gold could slip into her gold mine, right there in the hallway.

  “Condom,” she whispered, snatching it from him when he withdrew it from his pocket. Once protection was in place, she wrapped a leg around his waist.

  Jack gathered her up, while she guided him in, sheathing him where he most needed to be, where she’d get maximum pleasure.

  He shoved her against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough enthusiasm to excite her.

  She dug her nails into his shoulders, willing
him to look her in the eyes, letting the tension build with each of his powerful strokes.

  Look at me. Kiss me.

  Words she’d never say, as he might take them as a weakness. And Cora wasn’t weak, would never make herself vulnerable to a man. But she could demand, “Touch me.”

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t kiss her. He’d never been that intimate when he was inside her. It was an unspoken condition of their affair. No intimacy. No pillow talk. Just damn good sex.

  His hand slipped around as she’d commanded, applying just the right amount of pressure on her bud, bringing her up-up-up, until she was practically crawling up his body, crying out in pleasure.

  After her release, his hips bunched one last time.

  Cora clung to him, to that one moment of completion, where she felt loved.

  He raised his face to the ceiling. “Damn it.” He always spoiled the afterglow with regret. She never knew if his regret came from their disparity in age, his perception of her as his weakness, or – worse – a lingering affection for his wife.

  Regardless, he carried Cora into the kitchen, set her on the counter, and grabbed a bunch of paper towels. He wet them in the sink and cleaned them both off with efficient, gentle ministrations.

  His gaze turned remorseful. He was thinking about leaving. It didn’t matter why.

  She reached for the strategically placed remote on the counter and turned the television to ESPN. Distraction, she’d learned, kept him there for at least another round.

  Lord, have mercy, they were showing a basketball college scouting report.

  Cora hopped down and, still naked except for the stilettos, poured him a whiskey on the rocks.

  He accepted the drink almost absent-mindedly, and went to sit in the living room on the couch.

  Cora debated. She could put on her robe, but he wouldn’t notice. His mind was spinning around possibilities for his team, value calculations, playing statistics, fit with the players he had. Not that he said any of this to her. Since her father had introduced them last year, Cora had studied the game and what information Jack needed as owner and general manager of the team. In case Jack ever asked her opinion.

  He’d never asked her opinion.

  Intellectually, she knew what this relationship was – a dead end. He was separated from his wife. Cora was available. He didn’t ask her out. He didn’t take her to dinner. He just fucked her. And she liked it that way. Or she would have if he’d just look her in the eyes during sex.

  It wasn’t worth arguing over. It gave her a rush to have been chosen by Jack – a rich and powerful man – and to have him return to her, again and again. She’d come into this taking just as much as he had, but somewhere over the course of the past few months, the power had shifted from being equal to her feeling as if he was in control.

  Cora didn’t like it.

  She opened a container of white whipped frosting she’d bought the other day, along with other inventive items she’d purchased to entice him to stay for a second round. She didn’t want anything about his time here to be short or boring.

  Her heels clacked with slow purpose across the kitchen tile to the hardwood in the living room. She knew on some level he could hear her, but he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t smile. He wouldn’t reach for her.

  That was the demoralizing part of his booty calls. He looked at her body. He didn’t see her. She was a distraction and if she wasn’t careful he’d treat her the same as he did when he saw her in public – like he barely knew she existed. She resented being dismissible. If any of her other bed-buddies tried to dismiss her, she’d dismiss them. Permanently.

  She didn’t want to think about why.

  Standing in front of Jack, but not blocking the big screen, she knelt before him, undoing his zipper. She slid his boxers to his thighs, pleased to find he was erect once more. She dipped her fingers into the small cup of whipped frosting and slathered it over his penis. It jerked and trembled, as if it couldn’t wait for what she planned next.

  He swore, sparing her a glance that held a hint of reluctance.

  “I’m not bothering you, am I?” And then she began to lick the frosting from him.

  His large hand fisted in her hair, guiding, encouraging, controlling.

  She resented his control. She wanted the power.

  Cora yanked his hand out of her hair and toward her breast. She was half in his lap now and in a strong rhythm. The frosting was gone, leaving her with nothing but silken skin over hardened flesh.

  He swore again, coming in her mouth, squeezing her breast. His expression was fierce, no hint of remorse.

  Triumph cascaded through her.

  She reached for the frosting, crawled onto the couch next to him, and lay back. She dug one heel into his thigh and the other into his shoulder, parting her legs so he could see every inch of what heaven looked like. And then she spread frosting on each nipple, making a frosting arrow down to the gold mine between her legs.

  This time when he cursed it wasn’t with reluctance.

  This time when he cursed she knew she wasn’t dismissible.

  www.PlayboyAvengers.com

  “Our Philosophy” Page

  After a break-up, who gets the restaurants where you used to go for romantic dinners together? If you think it’s you, Playboy, think again.

  When we unmask you, it’ll be publicly – on a billboard, on our Facebook page, on our Twitter feed and YouTube channel. When we unmask you, nothing will be the same.

  Chapter 7

  Blue sat at Chinois in Santa Monica waiting to meet Ulani Mott for dinner. The lights had dimmed for the evening crowd and the crane statues stood among the tables like silent, aristocratic maitre des. Beautiful women he’d normally give a second look to peppered the room, but he sat as if he had blinders on.

  At his feet, Mr. Jiggles whined. He’d spent a good portion of the day in his carrier.

  Blue put his hand down to the mesh, felt the poodle’s breath on his fingers. “Another hour, buddy, and then we’ll get you out of there.”

  On the other side of the narrow, Asian-themed dining room, Portia, his most recent ex, sat with Kaya at the counter. They should have been watching the chefs at work in the cooking area. Instead, they angled so they could watch Blue. He found it hard to believe their presence was a coincidence, especially after seeing Jenny at The Ivy. His jaw clenched against the urge to walk over and tell Kaya where she could stick her pink Avenger thong next. But he was banking on the element of surprise come Monday. Lawyerly surprise.

  Kaya’s bold appearance matched her stab-you-in-the-back personality. She looked like a punked-out hedgehog with her short hair standing on end, the tips dyed red. He’d found her looks exotically attractive until he’d gotten to know her better. On the other hand, Portia looked like she was about to walk on screen in that noir film she’d made a few years back. Her blond hair was expertly styled in an up-do. Her patterned blouse, white skirt and sandals pure classic. Both women kept sending dark glances his way.

  Unease shifted in his veins. They were planning something.

  The shadowy restaurant dimmed.

  “Are you Blue Rule?”

  Blue glanced up…and up…and up. Ulani Mott was well over six feet tall and blocking the light. She was dark complected, perhaps Hawaiian. It was hard to tell since she was wearing a black leather cat suit, had styled her hair in a tight French braid and applied an extra coat – or three – of make-up. She was the kind of hard muscled, broad shouldered woman that nature had given small breasts as an afterthought.

  Blue stood and offered his hand. Ulani’s grip nearly crushed his bones. His smile flinched, along with the rest of his body.

  Ulani didn’t seem to notice.

  Kaya laughed uproariously, despite the brief snap of Blue’s glare. Discretion had never been part of her social repertoire.

  Cheeks deepening with color, Ulani’s hold tightened. She was one solidly muscled woman.

  “Ignore them.
Please, sit down,” Blue ground out, trying not to bend over and beg for his hand back.

  Ulani released Blue and perched gracefully on a chair as Blue’s hand fell limply to his side. “We should have met somewhere private.”

  “Why? It’s always a pleasure to be seen with a beautiful woman.” Ulani was beautiful, in a shouting sort of way.

  Her dark gaze cut to Blue’s face before dropping to her lap. “You sound like your father.”

  Blue decided to attribute his annoyance to the tingling in his hand. After a few more pleasantries, he came to the point. “Tell me about yourself. I’ve read your file, but I’d like to hear what’s on your mind.” That was a big fat lie. There was nothing in Ulani’s file beyond a couple of scribbled notes about wrestling, a few flowers – wilted – and a huge smiley face.

  Ulani waited until the waiter poured her water. “I want a baby,” she said softly, giving Portia and Kaya a sideways glance.

  He wasn’t getting the vibe that a baby was what Ulani truly desired. “There are several ways to have a baby – ”

  “I want to fall in love first.” Her tone was tighter than her uptight veneer.

  “One doesn’t necessarily require – ”

  “I want to fall in love!” Ulani’s voice rose loud enough to carry across the room. Her body undulated with tension. “I don’t want casual sex. Frozen pops aren’t for me. And I know I won’t qualify for adoption.”

  Portia’s tittering laughter twined with Kaya’s guffaws. Blue had the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and propose to Ulani just to shut Kaya up. Even Mr. Jiggles, at Blue’s feet, growled in Ulani’s defense.

  “Ignore her.” Blue reached across the table to take Ulani’s hand.

  Her face flushed.

  “Falling in love takes time,” Blue explained, using his indoor voice in the hopes Ulani would follow suit. He couldn’t get a handle on Ulani in her cat suit and volatile emotions. Was she a dominatrix? A devil worshiper? On the wrong meds?

  “I don’t have time. I’m on the circuit or I’m training. I’m exhausted. And I’m not getting any younger.”