Roxie

Because it’s summer, I didn’t think I’d need a jacket, but the night air is on the cool side, running icy fingers up my arms, and I shiver.

“Here.” Caleb slips off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.

I stare at him. “Seriously?”

He gives me a puzzled look. “What?”

I just shake my head, and we start walking. I pull the edges of the jacket close around me. No man has ever offered me his coat before. I feel like Queen Elizabeth the First from merry olde England. Would he lay it over a puddle for me?

He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunches his shoulders.

“It’s not far,” I promise. He just smiles, which sends tingles all through me. Jeez, this man is sexy. He’s classy and a gentleman, and yet I have a feeling he’s going to be hot as sin in the sack.

We walk fast, and we don’t talk again. It seems stupid to make small talk, although he was easy to chat away to in the pub. I can’t believe he also plays the guitar. I wonder whether he owns any nice ones? I’d like to ask him, but I feel oddly tongue-tied, something I haven’t felt since high school. He’s quite a bit older than me, and for the first time I feel a flicker of nervousness at the notion of asking him back to my place. He probably thinks I do this all the time, but I don’t make a habit of it. I mean, I’m no simpering virgin or anything, but I don’t ask just any old guy back—I’m fairly choosy.

I tell myself not to worry. Technically, he’s my boss, and Colette told me he’s one of the good guys, so I don’t think I have anything to stress about.

Unless you count the idea of getting down and dirty. My heart doubles its pace at the thought of having sex with him, and I feel the last remnants of caution drift away in the wind. I’ve probably had a bit too much to drink—maybe I’d be a bit more cautious if I was stone-cold sober—but right now I don’t care. I’m feeling hot and horny, and Caleb seems like the perfect choice to scratch my itch.

We reach my apartment block, and I open the door with my key and let him in. He closes the door behind. Where he’s lifted his hand, his tee stretches across his biceps—wow, talk about muscles a girl can hang onto.  Moistening my lips, I lead him up the first flight of stairs to my door, and we go inside.

I hadn’t expected to pull tonight, but luckily, I’m fairly tidy, and the apartment is neat enough. Suddenly, though, I see it through his eyes; it’s small because I can’t afford much and don’t want to waste money, so it’s just a living room with a miniscule kitchen, and a tiny bedroom out the back. I bet my apartment would fit into his ten times over.

“Nice place,” he says, though, and I smile at him as I slip off his jacket, liking how polite he is, the same way I liked how he didn’t comment on my guitar. He has style—I’m not used to that. I could get to like it.

“Whiskey?” I ask, and when he nods I go into the kitchen and take out a bottle. “It’s only the cheap stuff,” I say, conscious that he probably has one-hundred-year-old malts aged in oak barrels made only from trees planted in leap years.

“I’m used to cheap whiskey,” he advises with a wry smile. “I wasn’t always a director of my own firm. Seb, Harry, and I lived not far from here when we left university, and we learned to live on a budget.”

“I bet your idea of a budget is a lot different to mine.” I pour two large shots of the whiskey. “When you left home, did Daddy warn you he’d only pay off the first two thousand of your credit card every month?” I bring the glasses over.

He takes one, his smile fading a little. “You think I come from a privileged background.”

“Don’t you? What was your last girlfriend’s name? Poppy? Autumn? Clara?”

His lips twitch. “Felicity.”

“See! There you go. I bet the women you’re used to are all vegetarians or vegans. I bet they do Pilates and play tennis and refuse to have their kids vaccinated.”

He tips his head to the side, and his eyelids lower halfway, which gives him a hot, sultry look. “So why am I here?”

“You fancy a bit of rough?”

A frown flickers on his brow. “That’s what you think of me?”

“Caleb, it’s okay. I get why you’re here. I bet when the other girls you sleep with are in bed they’re checking their reflection over your shoulder to make sure their hair is still in place. I bet when they come—if they do come, because that means being out of control, which women like that don’t like, so they probably fake it—they go, Oh!” I make a little French-like squeak.

He studies my face, but doesn’t say anything.

I move closer to him, my heart racing. “You’re here because you think I’m different. You think I’m going to be loud, and dirty, and that I like it rough. You think I don’t care what my hair looks like, and that I’m going to scream your name and claw your back. You think you’ll be able to do anything you want to me, and that I’ll lie back and let you, or give you a few ideas of my own.”

I stand in front of him, take another mouthful of whiskey, and then lick my lips. “And you know what? You’re right.”

Caleb stares at me. For a second, I think I’ve frightened him off, and he’s going to grab his jacket and leg it out of the door.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he moves closer, slides a hand to cup my cheek, and bends his head to kiss me.

His lips are cool and surprisingly soft. After my little speech, I half expected him to stick his tongue down my throat, throw me onto the bed, and just take his pleasure from me. But to my surprise, he kisses me gently, pressing his lips against mine as tenderly as if we’re teenagers on a first date.

I resist the urge to turn up the dial, close my eyes, and give myself over to the kiss. He smells amazing, expensive, the way I’d imagine James Bond smells. Mmm, I could eat this guy on a waffle for breakfast. He’s like warm caramel, all sweet, salty goodness, rich and smooth, and oh-so-bad for you, but you don’t give a damn because he tastes so good.

We open our mouths at the same time, and I welcome the slide of his tongue against mine. I lift a hand and place it on his upper arm—oh yeah, those biceps are as hard as I thought, firm enough to dig your teeth into.

I bend briefly to place my glass on the table and he does the same, and then I return to him and kiss him while I slip my hands beneath his sweater. Yowza, he has a six pack, every muscle defined like on an old Hollywood version of a Roman breastplate. I skate my hands across his ribs up to his flat nipples, and circle them with my fingers. He shudders and exhales against my lips.

He wants me, I don’t know why, but clearly, he’s as turned on as I am, as ready for me as I am for him. If he’s half as good as I’m hoping, I’m in for a terrific evening. I’m going to fuck this guy senseless, give him thirty minutes, then fuck him again. And possibly again, if we can manage it before he has to go.

Opportunities like these don’t come around very often, and I’m determined to make the most of this one.