Sin With Me

7

His shoulders are lightly framed in muscle, his waist is narrow, his legs are long and lean. He has a lope like a wolf’s, a Cheshire Cat grin, and a husky laugh that puts you in mind of the bedroom. The man is just plain sexy.

He also dresses like a Johnny Depp GQ ad, which sets my lady parts aquiver. A well-dressed man simply slays me.

Today he’s wearing black Doc Martens and black designer jeans paired with a pale gray dress shirt—cuffs rolled up his strong forearms—topped with a fitted black silk vest. A leather cuff adorns one wrist. Around his neck on a leather cord is a small silver medallion. He’s got a silver ring on his right thumb, a silver stud in his left ear, and a wicked gleam in his dark green eyes—

Busted.

I break eye contact with him and pretend to inspect the hideous still life of flowers on the opposite wall.

In a low voice, Brody says, “Grace.”

That’s it, just my name, but hell if it doesn’t raise all the little hairs on the back of my neck and make my n*****s hard.

Goddamn it.

“Hello.” I continue to stare at the painting. Across from me, Chris and Ethan smirk around mouthfuls of burger and share a glance.

Apparently I didn’t sound quite as disinterested as I was aiming for.

Nico clears his throat and tries to make some casual conversation to relieve the sudden odd tension. “So you said you had to make a stop on the way.”

“I, uh, yeah. I did.”

There’s the strangest tone in Brody’s voice, almost as if he’s embarrassed. I glance at him and find him looking at the floor, squeezing the back of his neck with one hand. His face is turning red.

In my practice as a marriage and family therapist, I’ve seen a thousand men tell a thousand lies. I’ve become something of an expert at detecting them. Unlike sociopaths who can lie without batting an eyelash, a generally honest man with something to hide becomes very uncomfortable when questioned. He shows his discomfort in concrete, physical ways that he isn’t aware of. A hard swallow. A shifting gaze. A nervous laugh. The list goes on, but one thing these tells all have in common is that they’re unconscious, and uncontrollable.

And obvious as hell.

I don’t think Brody’s admission that he made a stop is a lie, but whatever the stop was is something he definitely doesn’t want to talk about.

Well, good. One more reason to stay away from him. My two best friends got involved with men who had massive secrets, and I want nothing to do with that kind of drama. Some straightforward shagging followed by a quick exit is much more my speed.

Speaking of which . . .

I dig my cell phone from my handbag. As Nico smoothly turns the conversation to another topic, I send a text to my d**k du jour, Marcus.

My friend went into labor today. I’m at the hospital. Have to cancel dinner tonight.

Because he’s a talent agent to some big movie industry names and has to be available 24-7, his phone is always attached to his hip. So even though it’s Sunday, it’s no surprise when I immediately see three little dots appear on the screen, indicating he’s composing his answer.

I’ve never had s*x in a hospital . . . ?

There are some women who’d be insulted by that response, especially since today is Valentine’s Day and it’s supposed to be all about the hearts and flowers, yada, yada, yada, but his interest in casual s*x as opposed to committed relationships is one of the top two things I most enjoy about Marcus.

I’ll give you a hint what number one is. It has four letters, starts with C and ends with K, and is longer than eight inches.

I type: I have. It’s not as exciting as you might think.

Unlike the man himself, his answer comes fast. Quickie in the parking lot?

I consider it, but decide to pass. I suppose I can forgo c**k for a few hours for my best friend. This time.

Can’t. I’ll catch up with you later. Send me a d**k pic to tide me over.

I have to wait a little longer for his answer, but my patience is rewarded by a gorgeous, close-up shot of Marcus’s erection, jutting proudly from his unzipped trousers. I’m sure he’s sitting behind the desk in his home office at this exact moment, reviewing some boring contract, but getting a boner is like his superpower. The slightest s****l innuendo will make the man’s d**k jump to life as if it’s spring-loaded.

My thumbs fly over the keyboard of my iPhone. Stroke it. I want video.

The conversation continues around me but now I’m completely focused on the cell in my hand. I swear these things are mankind’s greatest invention.

After about thirty seconds a video loads, opens, and starts to play.

Loudly. As he strokes himself, Marcus’s deep baritone blares from the phone. “You want my hard c**k, baby, you got it—”

I yelp and try to get the video to stop. In my fumbling rush I hit the lock button instead. The screen goes dark, but Marcus’s voice plays on.

“—right f*****g here for you any time you want it—”

Kenji, whose timing is always impeccable, returns with his drink in hand just in time to hear Marcus say, “—you bad sexy girl, you make me so f*****g hard, I want your sweet wet p***y on my face—”

“Jesus Christ!” I shout at the phone, frantically hitting the volume button on the side. I finally get it silenced, and blow out a relieved breath.