On Demand - Page 2

Now it was my turn to laugh. 'Clearly,' I purred.

Some form of conversation followed, of the kind you might hear between Mae West and Sid James, predicated entirely on smutty innuendo. I don't remember what we said, but I do remember the feeling of being involved in a dirty-minded game of verbal tennis: serve, volley, lob, smash, grunt, new balls please. Just like our more athletic fellows, we were getting sweatier and hotter with each point scored.

Much as we pretended to wit and sophistication, the real gist of what was said was:

Him: Get your kit off.

Me: Work for it.

Him: Look at me like that and I'll have you up against the wall before you can say 'No win no fee'.

Me: Sounds good; prove it.

Before the cinnamon sprinkles of my cappuccino had melted into the froth, he had a proposition for me.

'Listen,' he said, eyes now piercing blue laserbeams of seduction, body wide open in a pose at once relaxed and predatory. 'How long do you have? Do you have to rush back to work?'

I bit my lip and smiled inscrutably.

'Come on, help me out,' he said. 'Do I have to issue a summons?'

This made me laugh again. I can't resist a man with a sense of humour. I also can't resist a man who looks as if he could be in the running for the next James Bond.

'What do you have in mind?' I asked. If he was James Bond, I was pretty close to Pussy Galore at this stage. 'Does it involve handcuffs?'

'Would you like it to?'

My mouth watered.

'You've got me on a technicality,' I told him, standing and taking his proffered pinstriped arm. The warmth and scent of him tripped my switches; I wanted that, just that, just for now.

'What's your room number?' he murmured, sweeping me past the potted plants into the lobby.

Ah.

'Can't we go to yours?'

He stopped smartly, frowning down at me. 'I'm afraid not; the conference finishes today.' He shook his head. 'You aren't staying here?'

I chewed the inside of my cheek, blushing. 'Well, no. Just came in for a coffee.'

'Just a coffee? You aren't another kind of solicitor, are you?'

I breathed in sharply. 'Fuck, no!'

He breathed out for me. 'I'm sorry. I didn't think you . . . OK. ''Fuck, no,'' you say, but I'm still thinking, ''Fuck? Yes!'' If you're with me. Still with me?'

I giggled, a little bit hysterically. It wasn't the first time I'd been taken for a member of the oldest profession, but certainly the least opportune.

'We don't have a room,' I pointed out.

He manoeuvred me behind one of the substantial palms, pulled me against him and patted the seat of my skirt. 'I do have a car,' he growled.

The feel of him, hard chest, taut shoulder, large crotch-bulge, was enough to chase away my doubts. I wanted that, on me, above me, in me.

'Reclining seats?' I asked.

'Of course.'

Tags: Justine Elyot Erotic
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