Ten first dates, p.26
Ten First Dates, page 26
How about Romance Ring?
Delight Dial?
Climax Call?
Orgasm Outreach…
Oooh, I rather like that last one. “Hi there, Bridget. This is Hamish, calling with an Orgasm Outreach. How’s about it?”
But maybe it’s a bit too businesslike. As if those door-to-door missionaries were coming around, but instead of saving your soul, they were trying to get your nuts off.
Which would be a better way of saving humanity, in my opinion, but I don’t make the rules. If I did, you can sure bet I’d make Orgasm Outreach a priority.
As I lean against a pillar and scroll through my contacts, I realize the one I keep thinking about isn’t in my phone.
She’s not in my phone because I’ve never asked for her number.
Well, there’s no time like the present.
A quick walk to the front desk yields a thousand-watt smile from a woman who, a minute ago, looked like a grumpy female version of Shannon’s dour cat. Seeing me made her smile.
“Yes? Mr. McCormick?”
“That’s ma da, pet,” I say, my mouth suddenly craving the taste of Amy.
Not this sweet woman with the sidelong flirt and the look in her eyes that says her ankle bracelets can double as earrings on me.
No. Amy.
“I’m Jasmine,” she says with eyebrows up, as if to ask, Would you like anal with your wake-up call?
“Call me Hamish.”
She takes my hand and writes her number on the back of my wrist. “Call me when I get off my shift at seven.”
If I had a pound for every phone number a woman wrote on my hand, I’d have a nice bank account.
“Ye can put yer number in ma phone, ye ken.”
“I ken?”
“You can.”
“If I did that, I wouldn’t have an excuse to touch you,” she whispers as she looks around. Before I can understand what she’s doing, she raises my hand to her mouth and sucks my pointer finger in, giving it a tongue treatment that makes my cock-stand feel like a cricket bat.
“Jesus, pet, that’s nae how I normally shake hands when I meet someone new,” I say, trying to fight biology, which is readying my muscles to give her the sweaty pounding we both need. But in my mind’s eye is a fiery redheaded woman who insults me every chance she gets.
Wait a moment.
Ma head’s mince.
I’ve a gorgeous woman making love to my finger and I’m here to ask for Amy’s room number?
Because that’s why I approached the desk. To go find Amy’s room and give the door a good pounding.
Jasmine, though, would be a better choice.
“I don’t want to shake your hand,” Jasmine says, pausing to look up at me with eyes that say, I’ll let you do things you’ve only watched on free porn channels. “I want you to rock my world.”
Just then, a flash of auburn hair catches my eye and I turn to see Amy, holding an ice bucket as she heads toward the desk, her mouth screwed tight like, well…
Her cat’s puckered arse.
Shock covers her beautiful, flushed face and for a moment, as we lock eyes, I peer at her, realizing she’s not here for ice, or to ask directions, or for any reason other than me.
Me.
Amy is searching for me.
Her eyes flick to Jasmine’s mouth and my unfortunately occupied finger.
“Oh, gross,” Amy declares before stomping back down the hallway, leaving aftershocks in her wake.
When I pull my finger out of Jasmine’s grip, the sudden cold air makes me growl a bit. I have to jog to catch Amy. Explaining myself to an angry red hornet when Jasmine was back there using my finger as a lolly is the height of stupidity, but when have I ever turned away from making a bad choice, as Mum likes to say?
“Amy!”
She ignores me and breaks into a run, her cardkey in her hand in a flash, the door to Room 112 slamming shut.
Hands on my hips, the finger Jasmine tongued practically begging me for a post-coital cigarette, I stare at the number and shake my head.
What am I doing?
No, really. What. Am. I. Doing? I can go back to the front desk and fuck Jasmine until she screams my name so loudly, Amy will hear her.
I can go to the bar and find a lovely or three as well (though one at a time, thank you very much).
Blood and excitement race through me as I knock on Amy’s door, the movement involuntary, as if a supernatural force made me do it.
Nothing.
I knock again.
Nothing.
I know she’s in there. Know she’s awake. The curve of her beautiful bottom in her pajamas makes me peer hard at the door, debating my options.
My option is Jasmine.
As I enter the lobby, though, I see her flirting with a man in a suit, the kind who wears a watch worth more than my flat back home. The clock says 2:41, and I remember why I’m here.
Not to get pissed and bang my cousin’s future sister-in-law.
To stand up at his wedding.
My bones are loose and my body’s feeling fine, but as I head toward the bar, I’m surprised by the sign.
Closed.
There goes my supply of lovely bedmates for tonight.
One look back at Jasmine tells me she’s traded up–in the wallet area, at least.
I know a losing play when I see one. No need to pour good energy after bad.
I head for my room, taking the stairs three flights up. In a different part of the inn from Amy, I’m closer to the ceremony, while she’s closer to the reception area. On my way up, my hands begin to tingle at the thought of touching her, sliding my hand under her jaw to cup it, the tease of her long, beautiful hair against my fingers, the press of her curves against my body.
Too much blood rushes to where I don’t want it right now. In a fury, I open my door, slam the shower on, whip off my clothes, and climb into the bitter cold spray.
Nights like this don’t happen to me. This is a first.
And it’s all Amy Jacoby’s fault.
A shivering, icy shower doesn’t do a damn bit of good for the thick icicle between my legs, but a hand and a rush of imagining her moaning my name does wonders, the quick jerk easy but beneath me.
And speaking of things beneath me… I still can’t get Amy out of my head.
A quick rinse and I towel off, my foot finding my ever-present football. Toeing it, bouncing from knee to ankle, over and over, gets me warmed up, but it does nothing for the testosterone that needs a woman’s body to be fully neutralized.
Damn her.
The phone has a blinking red light, an old-fashioned alert that makes me grab it and listen. It’s a reminder from the wedding planner to be at the men’s dressing room.
It’s 3:00 a.m. now.
I drop to the floor and do a hundred push-ups, then a hundred sit-ups, ready for a round of burpees before I halt, panting and sweaty. Purging my desire through exercise isn’t new, but it is rare to need it like this.
I hate that she makes me need it.
The phone catches my eye again, and a plan forms.
Room 112, aye?
The cold shower and exercise haven’t taken away my buzz, and the impulse to find Amy, kiss her, make her see how good a night with me could be is so strong, I grab the phone and press her room number.
Then I wait.
If she won’t listen to me when I’m chasing her, maybe a sweet call will do the trick.
When have I ever failed at sweet-talking a woman into bed?
Not about to start now.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amy
What was I thinking?
WHAT WAS I THINKING?
I came back to my room, giving Hamish more real estate in my head than he deserves, and changed into my frumpy pajamas as a defense mechanism against doing what I was thinking about back at the piano bar.
Finding him, having a fling, and–
And. That’s the problem. The and.
The and… then what?
I can’t just sleep with my sister’s new cousin-in-law. Do you know how many complications that would create? No matter how many orgasms the man could give me–and trust me, I’m creative enough to imagine plenty of them–it’s not worth blowing up the extended family just to be banged senseless.
But then–then–I had to see that.
Watching the desk clerk treat Hamish’s finger like a cherry stem she was tying into a knot was revolting. When he stared at me, I swear I felt a flicker of regret.
Plenty of lust, too.
And it wasn’t just mine.
But ewwwwwwww. Now I can’t get that image out of my head. Does the man walk through life with women flinging themselves at him all the time? Is that the reality? Because the fantasy of Hamish McCormick is so strong, it almost made me make a fool of myself.
Almost.
Thank God for almost.
Ring!
The phone on the desk lets out a sound that makes me squeal with surprise. Why is someone calling me in my room at three a.m.? Did something happen to Mom, Dad, Shannon, or Carol?
I grab the receiver, unaccustomed to using a land line, the thick cord in my hand feeling strange.
“Hello?”
“Ach. Amy. I wanted ta say–”
I hang up.
Because if Hamish McCormick thinks he’s going to sweet-talk me, he’s–
Ring!
I ignore it.
But the man is determined. I’ll give him that. I count more than one hundred rings over the next five minutes before I give up and answer.
“Hey, pet, let me explain.”
“Explain why you let that desk clerk turn your finger into a blow pop?”
“What’s a blow pop?” His voice goes very, very low, making me shiver yet turn to warm caramel at the same time. “Because a blow pop sounds like something you and I should share.”
“Shut up.”
“I can, ye know. Shut up. How about I come to your room, and we don’t talk? Words are overrated, Amy.”
“How do you know my room number?”
“I followed ye. Knocked on your door.”
“I know. Quit stalking me.”
“I’m nae stalking. Just want a friendly chat.”
“At three a.m.? The only reason men like you call women at three a.m. is… Oh, my God! Is this a booty call?”
“It isna, but… it could be.”
His tone brightens, as if I’ve invited him over.
“You are a pig.”
“But I’m a pig ye want to share a blow pop wi’.”
“That sentence makes no sense.”
“Which is why ye need to invite me over, so we can unnerstand each other better.”
“I get the sense that your idea of understand doesn’t involve clothes.”
“See? We’re already coming to an agreement.”
“We are not!”
“I really do need yer help, Amy. Please.”
“What kind of help?” Is he… giggling? How drunk is this guy?
“Ah need ye to come help me wi’ ma ball sweat.”
“You–excuse me? Did you just say ball sweat?”
He starts panting.
“Aye. The weather here in Boston is atrocious. I could slurp the air.”
He makes actual slurping sounds.
“What does the humidity in Boston have to do with your testicles?”
“Say that again.”
“What?”
“Testicles.”
“Why do you want me to repeat the word testicles?”
“There’s something special about the way yer tongue hisses when ye say the ess sound, Amy. Verra sharp.”
“Sharp?”
“Like a dominatrix.”
“You want me to help fix your ball sweat because you think I’m a domme?” This conversation has gone from stupid to ridiculous.
“Hmph.” The sound is distinct, from the back of the throat yet through the nose, and I can tell I’ve finally said something that shuts him up.
I’m about to hang up when he asks, “Are ye?”
“Am I what?”
“A domme.”
“SHUT UP!” I snap into the phone. “And go away.”
“I’m nowhere near ye, pet.”
“We’re in the same inn, and you’re harassing me.”
“How am I harassing ye? We’re nae even touching.”
“You’re using your mouth to harass me.”
“Oh, that’s a waste of ma fine mouth, then. I can use it in much better ways on ye.”
“Go powder your balls, Hamish.”
“So ye want me to touch maself while ye tell me what do to? Sounds good to me.”
Is that the sound of a fly zipper being lowered?
“What are you doing?”
“Exactly what ye ordered. Touching maself.” His moan makes it clear he really, actually is.
Great. Now my mind is stuck on that visual.
“I did not order you to do anything! You called me! You’re the one who interrupted my sleep, calling at three in the morning, right before the most important day of my sister’s life, and blathering on about ball sweat.”
“Blathering?”
“It means you are saying a lot of stupid shit!”
“I ken what blathering means.”
“How about being a Chatty Cathy? A stupid Chatty Cathy.” Sure, it’s old-fashioned and something my mom says, but it fits.
“New American slang to remember.”
“Is there a Scottish equivalent?”
“Which one, lass? We do have a lot of words to describe stupid.”
“Hamish has to be one of them.”
“Nae,” he says thickly. “It’s actually a form of James.”
“You’re named after your uncle?”
“Half-uncle. But yes.”
“There is no such thing as a half-uncle.”
“Ah. Right. Ma Da always calls James his half-brother, so we started referring to him as our half-uncle.”
“You’re even weirder than I thought, and by weird, I mean—”
“But tha’s a funny one. Different words fer stupid. Aye, we have plenty. Numpty. Bampot. Choob. Doaty. Dafty. Dobber. Though that last one can also mean–”
“Please stop.”
“Ye asked.”
“I did not!”
“Amy?” His voice is suddenly earnest. Intimate, even. “Why did ye call me in the first place?”
“I didn’t call you! You called me.”
“Nae. I dinna have yer phone number.”
“You clearly do. You called me.” I squint at the clock. “You told me you followed me to get my room number!”
“I’m a smart fellow, then.”
“Look. It’s now 3:11, and I want the last nine minutes of my life back. I’m quite sure I lost a few IQ points.”
“Why don’t I come over and help ye lose yer virginity?”
His laughter makes it clear he’s joking, but I freeze, my stomach dropping, throat going tight.
All I can say is, “Ha ha.”
“What do ye really have to lose, Amy? I’m a grown man. Yer a lush, gorgeous woman. We’re both a little pissed and horny. What’s it have to be so complicated fer? Come on.”
“If that’s your best line, Hamish, someone needs to take your phone away when you’re drunk. You can’t even make a booty call the right way.”
“Do ye know this from experience? Regale me wi’ yer finest pickup lines from all the booty calls ye’ve made, Amy. I’ll wait.”
“I’ve never been so desperate that I needed to make a booty call.”
“Ye mean ye’ve never had the courage to let yer lust be in charge o’ yer body.”
A sharp inhale is all I can manage in response because he’s right.
Damn him.
He’s right.
“Who are you to try to tell me who I am?”
“Is tha’ how ye took ma words? Telling.”
“What do you mean, telling?”
“If ye equate being told ye need more courage to live life to the fullest with me telling ye who ye are or defining ye, think it over. That’s… deep.”
“You’re so shallow, you think a puddle in the sun is deep.”
“And yet yer still talking to me on a booty call, Amy. One ye started.”
“I did not!”
“Tell me.” There’s a catch in his throat as he sighs, the sound so intimate, alluring, and authentic. “Why’re ye arguing wi’ me on the phone like this? Either ye want a good shagging, or ye’d hang up. By now, I’d have thought ye’d hang up. So…”
“Shagging?”
“A good lay.”
“See? That’s so arrogant. You assume I want to have sex with you, and that you’re good in bed.”
“Those aren’t assumptions. They are facts.”
“Why don’t you go shag that front desk clerk?”
“She moved on to a man with something much bigger than I have.”
“I do not want to hear about the size of your penis.”
“Wasna talking about ma boaby. I meant his bank account.”
“So the shallowest man in the world got ditched by an even shallower woman? Priceless.”
“Is this how ye talk to all the men who booty call ye, Amy? Because it’s nae sexy.”
“Only you, Hamish.”
“I’m the only man who’s ever called ye for some fun last-minute sex? I’m honored.”
And that is the moment I slam the receiver down, unplug the phone from the wall, and throw all the pillows at the door.
He’s such an ass.
But then again, he’s right.
Because no other man has ever called me for a shag in the middle of the night, and damn it, I am flattered.
No way in hell am I sleeping with him. At the wedding, I have to stand in front of nearly a thousand people in my stupid tartan dress while Mom’s stupid idea about our cat being a flower girl proceeds, with Hamish McCormick at my side as we walk down the aisle together.
Him in a kilt.
Sweaty balls right… there.
I crank up the air conditioning, shut off the lights, and climb under the covers, hoping for at least five or six hours of decent sleep.
My body does not cooperate.
It buzzes. Hums. Vibrates with need.
And just like that, I understand booty calls.
