Splat! Mrs. Miller’s bowl of color hit the floor with a thud, golden cream darting across the tile.
More chuckling. “Catch you off guard, babe? Or are you that revved just from talking to me?”
Both. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Superman.” Nasty mouth, too. Her heated, quickly dampening sex remember that part especially well.
“Always when it comes to you.” She heard a door shut on his end of the line. “Where are you right now?” he asked. “It’s awfully quiet.” Jesus, was that a zipper?
“I’m mixing hair color in the back of the salon. Where are you?” Fingers edging toward the elastic waistband of her leggings, she was pretty sure she already knew where this was going.
“Don’t worry about me. You got a door? A lock?” Definitely a zipper. He was already breathing a little harder, too.
She bit her lip, a giddy, he’s-totally-thinking-what-I’m-thinking-grin on her face. “You are so bad.” Then again, so was she. Her fingers were already in her panties.
“I’ve been fucking hard since you left. Jerking off isn’t even helping anymore. It’s like I’m in goddamn high school all over again.”
“I didn’t know how to do this in high school,” she confessed, scooting up onto the short counter after she flipped the lock on the door.
“Didn’t know how to have phone sex? I sure as hell hope not.”
She giggled. “I meant touch myself.”
“Is that what you’re doing right now? Touching that pretty pussy?” She was pretty sure the rustling sound was his pants hitting the ground. Was he wearing his training gear already or jeans? She’d pretend it was the gear. So much hotter.
Circling a fingertip around her clit, she clamped her lips together to keep from moaning aloud. Mrs. Miller would probably go into cardiac arrest if she overheard. “Yes,” she breathed, her heart already beating faster in her chest. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Isn’t that my line?” he laughed, but the sound morphed into a strangled groan. “Fucking hell, this is gonna be quick. Uh, I’m in my utilities. Mostly. I’ve got my cock in hand, pretending you’re on your knees in front of me.”
Wish I was. Closing her eyes, she slid her fingers further south. Yeah, she was thinking about him, too, but her fantasy probably wasn’t all that different from reality. Just him in the locker room all alone, camo piled around his boots while he leaned against the wall with one hand, stroking himself slow and tight with the other. “God, Brody.”
“Finger yourself. I wanna hear how wet you are.”
“Very,” she whispered. “I can feel it on my thighs.”
“No, babe—I wanna hear.”
Oh, sweet Lord. “Like...?”
“Uh huh.”
He was going to make her come before she even got to the good stuff. “You’re bad, Superman.”
“All your fault.” He grunted and she indulged his fantasy, despite the burn in her cheeks. Never before had she been so willing to please...and never before had wanting to please ever turned her on so much. “Ahh, shit, that’s hot. Does it feel good?”
“So good. ” Her head spun, almost as fast as the pressure building between in her legs. “Wish you were here,” she panted, fingers feeling like they were everywhere at once, hitting all the right spots.
“Mmmmmm...” His strained hum crackled the line. “Me, too.”
She gasped as stars lit up behind her eyelids and her orgasm locked in hard. “Brodyyy...”
“That’s it, baby. Christ, I love my name on your lips.” Another strangled sound somewhere between a groan and growl preceded his quick intake and then, “Ahh, fuuuck.”
The mental image of him coming, jetting over his hand sent another wave of heat through her sex and she shuddered. It was going to be one hell of a long week, even as the sated, blissed out fog fell over her.
“You okay?” she asked quietly, discreetly adjusting her panties and her leggings, suddenly all too aware of the elderly lady she had sitting in her chair with a issue of Good Housekeeping. Had she heard? Would she say anything if she did?
He gave a gritty chuckle. “You’re a wet dream come true, babe. Can’t believe you just did that with me.”
Me either. She sighed, a goofy grin breaking through the composure she tried to gather. “Believe it,” she said, mimicking him. “I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”
“That a promise?” She heard rustling and then water running. “Because I’m game if you wanted to make a plan.”
“Sunday night?”
Another rumbling laugh filled her ear. “You really are going to kill me. Death by jerking off. I can see it already.”
She smiled, washed up, and began mixing another batch of hair color. Hopefully the stuff on the floor wouldn’t ruin the tile, because it’d have to wait until later for cleanup. “And you’re going to make me lose customers. I’m surprised she hasn’t come looking for me.”
“Who’s bad now, huh?”
No doubt about it—he’d officially corrupted her. And she wasn’t complaining one bit. “Thank you for that little soiree. Call me Sunday on your way home?”
“Fuck, yeah. We’ve got a date, remember?”
***
“Jennifer Lynn Riley...”
Her mother’s voice, in that admonishing tone that only mothers and grandmothers could pull off, sounded before Jenny turned the corner into the main part of the salon.
“Mom?” God, she was totally going to know. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to take my daughter to dinner after she closed up shop, but it looks like she’s planning to be here all night.” Helen scowled, looking between Jenny and Mrs. Miller, still content in the chair with her magazine, thank God.
Talking about her in third person. Hmm, not a good sign.
“This won’t take long at all. Just a little touch up.” She set the bowl of color down, pumped Mrs. Miller’s chair a little higher, and adjusted her drape. “How did you get here anyway. Please tell me you didn’t drive.”
Her mother rolled her eyes and hobbled over to a vacant chair with her claw-footed cane. God, but she’d aged since the fall. It made Jenny’s heart ache just to look at her.
“Of course, I didn’t drive. I had Gladys drop me off. Figured you didn’t have anything going on tonight since your love life is in the crapper.”
Mrs. Miller stifled a laugh and Jenny shot Helen a glare. “Really?”
“I don’t know.” Her mom lifted a shoulder, but the all-knowing gleam in her eyes told another story. “You tell me.”
Unbelievable. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Not you apparently.”
This time, Mrs. Miller let her laugh fly. “This is why I love coming here. There’s always a juicy story.”
“Mom, seriously...” Shaking her head, Jenny focused her attention on applying the color. Why did she suddenly feel like she was seventeen-years-old being admonished for breaking curfew?
“Don’t seriously me,” Helen scoffed. “Just tell me who he is, for God’s sake. I’m old. I could die at any second.”
“Why do you always do that?” Her voice rose higher than she intended it to, but she didn’t apologize. Mrs. Miller and her mother went way back. This wasn’t the first argument the woman had witnessed. “You’re not that old and you’re not going to die!”
Helen made a dismissive face. “Is it so wrong for me to want to know the name of the man you might very well marry? What if something does happen to me? I’d like to go with at least a little reassurance that you won’t become a crazy cat lady. No offense, Lorna.”
“None taken. I love my babies.” Mrs. Miller smiled naively.
Jenny narrowed her eyes. “Don’t do the passive aggressive thing, Mom. It’s not flattering. At all.”
“Okay.” Helen nodded enthusiastically. “Since you’ve given me permission, I’ll just come out and say it—I want you married before I go. I want grandkids. Is that too much to ask?”