A/N: This one's been stirring around in my smutty little brain for a while, but it finally came to fruition thanks to some tweets involving a certain Mariska gif and a friendly debate about who should get to wear the pants this time. Read on to see who won. ;) It's pure trashy fun, and I'm told it should include a warning label because a beta who shall remain nameless almost died while reading it and drinking water at the same time. So... caution! Possible smut-induced death lies ahead. Oh, and I was sort of leaning towards a different writing style with this one. I wanted it to be noir-esque (FOR REASONS), so I wrote it in the first person. I know that's not everyone's bag, but hopefully y'all trust me enough by now to hang in there. I think it works.
Special thanks to Amy for her input (and near sacrifice :P). Full cover viewable on my DeviantArt page (crystallinejen).
Tonight's the night. I knew it as soon as she gave me that look over the top of the kids' heads while we sat there watching Frozen II for the eight hundredth time. You know the look I mean. Her gaze downcast, hair falling over one eye like a raven-haired Veronica Lake. Then she glances up from under lashes thicker than the wild ryegrass that grows creekside back home, and she flashes me those bedroom eyes.
It's the look Delilah gave Samson before the infamous snip; the one Eve wore when she tempted Adam with that forbidden fruit. It's an age old look and it's been many a man's undoing. Tonight, I'm ready for it to be mine.
She owes me this one. I floated the idea weeks ago, just to see her reaction. Got a laugh, of course. I've felt that same throaty rumble between my legs, so I wasn't deterred. I can be just as persistent outside of the bedroom as in.
"Sweetheart, I don't think I even own a dress like that," she had said, twining a lock of my hair around her index finger. It sent a chill through me. Everything she does goes right to the bone. "Do you know how long it's been since I wore something 'low cut' and 'slinky'? You were probably still in uniform. Bet you were adorable."
I'd rolled my eyes at that, but she wasn't wrong. In the pictures from my days as a rookie, I looked like Jesse playing dress up in police blues. And here I was, almost twenty years later, trying to persuade my captain (who also happened to be my gorgeous, well-endowed girlfriend), to play dress up once again.
"Don't you think it's about time to fix that, then?" I had asked, trailing the back of my hand along the outline of her bra. My fingers rippled across her cleavage, flowing over the abundant curves. I longed to plunge right in, but I hadn't secured a response yet. She wasn't getting out of this one with sex. That was my game. "They have these newfangled things called stores, where you can actually go in and buy dresses. There's even a special place to try them on first."
I could almost see our exploits in the Victoria's Secret dressing room replaying in that pretty little head of hers. She scolded me with a nip on the ear, then purred into it, "What will they think of next, Detective?"
"Is that a yes?"
"Well, I did promise some special favors if you dressed up with me for Daph's Halloween party, so . . . "
She never finished the rest, because I was too busy kissing her senseless. Later, she moaned my name so loudly I had to put my hand over her mouth to keep her from waking the kids. I figured that sealed the deal better than any spit shake or even a blood oath. When you came that hard, there were no take-backs.
But she hadn't mentioned the words "role" or "play" in the same sentence since that night, and I was starting to get nervous. Sweatin' bullets, you might say. The tie and vest didn't set me back that much, but the damn hat had a price tag that would scare off Dick Tracy himself. Went to about ten different shops before I found the right one. Rabbit fur felt as soft as the real thing, grosgrain band around the crown, and such a pale shade of beige it looked dusty pink in certain light. Somehow, it reminded me of her. Soft, chic, authoritative. And the color. Only she and I were privy to the parts of her that reminded me of that sweet, fleshy tone.
Even the tweed vest had a rosy tint mixed in with the tawnier thread, like a network of pink veins. The tie was wine-colored, the trousers chocolate brown. I already owned the Oxfords, so at least that had saved me an awkward conversation in the shoe store.
What size are you interested in today, ma'am?
Whatever my girlfriend can pull off the fastest, before throwing me down and ravishing me.
Who said Detective Amanda Rollins couldn't plan ahead?
It was putting an awful lot of thought into an outfit that would just get cast aside within minutes, but knowing Olivia, her ensemble would be completely authentic. Right down to the silk stockings and the garter belt to hold them up. You might not think fifties undergarments could be sexy—I didn't either, at first—but you'd be surprised. When you saw her in a sheer red bra and panties, garter straps taut against luscious thighs, backseam traveling up endless legs, you'd be real surprised, yessirree. Last time, at my request, she left her glasses on, too. That night had been strict headmistress/naughty schoolgirl. I hoped we'd revisit that one again soon, but if tonight was anything like I anticipated, it would blow Missus Benson and Mandy Minx out of the water.
So, when I caught that come-hither look I told you about, my heart beat double time. And then her lips, sultry as any silver screen bombshell's, mouthed the words, "Want. You." She snagged the bottom lip between her teeth, a habit I found irresistibly cute, and circled a lock of hair behind my ear with her finger.
I spent the next forty-five minutes tapping the kids on the shoulder and skipping forward on the Blu-ray while their heads were turned. Elsa and Anna were barely through their final duet about the bonds of sisterhood when I stopped the movie and loudly announced bedtime.
"Subtle," Olivia commented, smirking at me. Only made me want her more.
I rushed through tucking in the girls. Not something I'm proud of, but a mama's got needs too. Someday they'll understand. Jesse requested a second glass of water while I was halfway out the door, and I practically poured the drink down her throat in one long guzzle.
"Now I'm all wet," she complained, wiping at her dribbling chin and the front of her unicorn jammies.
"You and me both, sister," I muttered, and grabbed up the shirt to the pink triceratops pajamas she'd worn the night before. No wonder the thing had gone extinct, it was probably hornier than I was—and that ain't easy.
"You're my mom, not my sister. Tilly's my sister, right Tilly-Billy?"
"Uh-huh. I your sisser," Matilda agreed.
Only half listening to the girls' chatter, I tugged Jesse's fresh dirty shirt down over her head and smoothed the nebulous blonde hairs that stood on end from the static. In the next room, I could hear Olivia's rich, whiskey voice murmuring to Noah. The words were indistinct, but the sound hummed in my ears like the music inside that honky-tonk bar where we slow danced in the parking lot last summer.
Then, unmistakably, I detected the word "goodnight." The door to Noah's bedroom closed, and a moment later, a second door clicked shut elsewhere. Showtime. I popped a kiss to both of the girls' foreheads, made sure they had their favorite stuffies, and switched on the rotating paper lantern with the carousel horses on it. They needed to sleep good and hard tonight.
The bathroom light was on when I tiptoed down the hall, so I ducked into our bedroom and eased the door shut without a sound. Already, I was in character. The stealthy P.I., skulking through the shadows; the oversexed private dick, minus the unsightly appendage. If someone handed me a stiff gin and a smooth cigar right now, I'd accept.
I got dressed in three minutes flat. Left the tie loose and off-center, the collar of my rumpled Oxford shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled half-heartedly at the elbow. I was coming off a night of hard drinking and a day of hard living, I should look the part. My hair gave me the most trouble, until I finally wadded it up under the fedora and cocked the hat to one side.
Olivia always took longer to get ready, another trait I found endearing (most of the time). For someone who preferred a no fuss, no muss approach to most things, she could be an all-out girl about her appearance. I gave her five minutes before I cracked the bedroom door and peeked into the hall. The bathroom light was still on, but there were no signs of movement beneath the closed door. Strange.
Even stranger was the knock on the front door a minute later. I sighed and glanced back at myself in the mirror, debating whether or not to take off the hat and throw on a robe. In the end, I decided against it. Whoever saw fit to stop by on a Thursday night at 10 PM would just have to deal with my kinky sex games. Besides, I'd be a lot more apt to chase them away than my polite and accommodating captain.
"I'm comin'," I mumbled as I trotted through the living room, hurrying to catch the knock on the third try. It was little more than a tap, but I didn't need this jackass disturbing the kids and ruining roleplay night. "I'm comin', geez. Hold your damn—"
My mouth clamped shut immediately, because the jackass turned out to be my girlfriend. For a while, I just stood in the doorway, gaping at her in that black trench coat—the leather-shiny one that's not leather. It's something soft, with a satin finish. But the fabric was the last thing I cared about. I was more interested in the skin, of which there was an abundance.
It was the only thing she had on underneath the coat. I could tell because the hem fell just above her knees and there was no visible skirt. The top few buttons were undone, the collar pushed back on either side, and there was nothing—not even the lacy glimpse of a bra cup—to hinder the plunging neckline. She didn't go braless often, at least not in front of the kids, but I could still recognize the heavy, hypnotic sway of her breasts from seeing them unfettered beneath her pajama tops and nighties. She always laughed at me for staring ("It's like you've never seen them before," or sometimes, in a wry tone that was pure New Yorker: "My eyes are up here, pal").
Except, she didn't laugh now. Hip cocked seductively, one long, sculpted leg rubbing idly against the other, she tipped her head and gazed at me above her oversized sunglasses. Very Old Hollywood. Think Audrey Hepburn, but slutty.
Any disappointment I might have had about her forgoing the dress, or any dress, disappeared with a bat of her lovely, sable lashes. I wanted to ask how she'd snuck out of the apartment without alerting me, but I didn't dare break the spell she was casting. There would be time enough for questions later. Right now, I had my first client of the evening.
"You gonna invite me in, doll?" she asked, her voice so velvety soft I could almost feel it against my skin. She looked me up and down with such a cool eye, I actually blushed. "Or do you plan to leave me standing out here in the cold all night?"
I had never met this woman before, but one thing I knew right from the get—she was not Captain Benson. She even walked differently when I stood aside to let her in. Olivia's stride was confident, purposeful, and full of swagger, just like this one; but her walk commanded respect and drew attention to the face, the words. This one oozed sex and was all about tits and ass. She had plenty of both. Her chest brushed against me as she sauntered by (intentional, had to be), and once again I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't a man. I'd already be covering up the stiffness in my trousers.
"Wasn't expecting anyone else this late," I said, in lieu of an apology. Hard-boiled detectives didn't say they were sorry, even to gorgeous dames who showed up on their doorstep in the middle of the night. I locked the deadbolt, hooked my thumbs into my pants pockets, and casually turned to face the leggy brunette. "City ain't safe this time of night for a lady on her own. City ain't safe, period."
That may have been a bit much, but she didn't break like I thought she would. Not even a smirk at the gruff tone I used. She was taking our game dead serious tonight, and I either needed to step it up or be the one who ruined the roleplay I'd practically begged for over the last few weeks. That was not an option.
I sidled over to lean in the living room archway, arms and ankles crossed as I watched her pace to and fro on the large area rug. At some point before pulling that trick at the front door, she had dimmed the lighting in this room. (Sneaky little devil.) A single lamp with a scarf tossed over the shade cast dramatic shadows, darkening her every contour. It emphasized the muscles in her bare calves as she strutted. I didn't recognize the black fuck-me pumps, but the red soles made me suspect that they were the reason a new dress hadn't been purchased. Who could afford clothes when there were Louboutins?
"I had to wait 'til he was asleep," she said, pinching the black satin gloves off her hands a finger at a time. She held them by the cuffs, slapping them into the palm of her other hand, tugging a bit anxiously. On edge, I noted, feeling the urge to jot it down. Once a detective, always a detective.
"He." I pushed off the archway and strolled over to prop my elbows on the back of the armchair she stood in front of. No, stood wasn't the right description. That implied inertia, and she was very much alive and active. She vibrated sexual energy from the top of her dark, tousled head to the pointed toes of her Louboutins, in their wide power stance. "He who?"
She hadn't taken off the sunglasses yet, but I saw the quirk of her lips and knew I'd been caught drinking in those killer legs. Wondering how long it would be until they were wrapped around me. I could just about pop like a tick thinking about it. I didn't bother to look away. She wouldn't have worn what little she had on if she didn't want me to look.
"My lover."
The word rolled off her tongue so smoothly, I wondered how often she'd used it before tonight. I would have expected "boyfriend" or "husband," but "lover" suggested a casualness that was nothing short of titillating. Most women didn't like to admit they were in it just for the sex. This broad wasn't like most women.
"He's a real bad guy, Detective," she confided, and though I couldn't see her eyes, I imagined they were wide and doey. That's how her voice sounded, despite its raspy quality. I found myself bristling at the idea of some lowlife sonuvabitch putting his filthy mitts on her. My own filthy little mitts were balled into fists, and I blew out a small huff of air when she finally took off the sunglasses. No bruises. I'd fully expected a black eye behind the shades, and my arousal was only fueled by the sudden surge of anger that preceded their removal.
I stood and jammed out my hand to her over the armchair. "Name's Rollins. Jo Rollins."
"Marguerite." Her hand slid into mine, fitting like one of those satin gloves, and her shoulder gave a flirtatious little twitch upwards. "People call me Maggie."
"Maggie," I repeated warmly. It was a sweet name; honey on the tongue. It made me want to taste her and find out if the rest was just as sweet. With a turn of the wrist, I brought the back of her hand to my lips and kissed it. A bit more gentlemanly than I had been aiming for, but my eyes were on her tits the whole time, so she probably got the message.
Sure enough, I heard a soft chuckle and her hand eased from mine, the fingertips poised lightly beneath my chin, lifting. "You got any smokes, Jo?" she asked, skirting the chair and taking a seat on the arm of it. She didn't just sit, though; with sinuous, catlike movements, she created an entire production of lowering herself into place. A production in which her legs and ass featured prominently. The former, she extended to the side, ankles delicately crossed; the latter shifted subtly beneath her, as if she were rolling her pelvis in an imperceptible circle. Maybe a figure eight.
In my mind's eye, I saw a vivid flash of her straddling the no-good lover's hips, riding him like that, his hands gripping at lush, feminine curves as he thrust. At once, I was so jealous and so turned on I could barely think straight. Cigarettes. She'd asked about cigarettes. I patted down my vest and pants pockets, aware of her eyes tracking my progress.
"Sorry, sweetheart, guess I'm fresh out," I said, with an indifferent shrug. (That was a lie. There was half a pack stuffed inside one of my old running shoes in the closet, strictly for emergencies only. But she didn't need to know that.) "Things'll kill ya, anyway. And that'd be a damn shame for a looker like you."
Maggie pressed her lips together for a moment, much like Olivia did when she tried to hide her amusement at something I'd said. She raised her eyebrows at me expectantly and glanced sideways a few times. When I didn't cotton on, she gave a nod in the same direction and said, "Well, you could at least offer me a drink, then. If it's not too much to ask."
Maggie was a feisty one. She was also a pro at sleight of hand. On the dining room table, right where she'd indicated with those big brown eyes of hers, a bottle of Maker's Mark and two tumblers were perfectly situated in a shaft of light from the reading lamp that usually stood beside the couch.
How, I almost asked, managing to bite my tongue at the last second. Olivia never bought bourbon; didn't even like it much, as far as I knew. I was just fine with my six pack of Bud in the fridge, but I did enjoy a mint julep or an old-fashioned from time to time. Kept it neat when I was feeling a little naughty. Tonight, I would definitely be drinking it neat.
"Sure you can handle somethin' this stiff?" I asked as I moseyed over to retrieve the bottle. I pinched the glasses between the fingers of one hand, lifted the Maker's by its long neck, and turned to give her the once- (or twice-) over. "Might be too much for a lady such as yourself. I can find you something tamer. Maybe a red wine . . . "
She rolled her lovely brown eyes and got up from the chair—with a body like that, she could charge admission for that act alone—strolling over to take one of the tumblers off my hands. Goddamn, she was tall enough to climb. "I'm not that delicate, Detective," she said, and tweaked at my necktie. "I like it stiff."
The bottle jittered against the brims of our glasses as I poured us two fingers each. Try as I might, I couldn't keep my hand steady. She smirked into her bourbon, sipping. I knocked mine back and promptly poured another.
"Nervous, Jo?" she asked innocently, continuing to play with my tie. She worked the ends free of my vest and trailed the whole thing through her loose fist, top to bottom. Her fingernails were siren red.
"Nah." I took the second drink a bit slower, although not much. My insides were burning, but only part of that was the liquor. She was guiding me back towards the armchair, the tie still clasped in her hand like a leash. And I, following along like an obedient pup. "Just need to take a little of the edge off. Tell me some more about this lover of yours, Mags. He the reason you came knockin' on my door?"
She pushed me down into the chair, nearly spilling the Maker's Mark. I rescued it by draining my glass and holding the bottle aloft. "I came because I heard you were the best," she said, and raised her empty tumbler for a refill. She tossed it back, and her long, luxurious hair with it, and winced at the burn. "That true? Are you the best in the city?"
"I'm the best anywhere, sweetheart." I spread myself out in the seat, legs cocked wide, feet planted apart, an elbow on either arm of the chair. Booze in one hand, more booze in the other. "Now, how's about you sit in my lap and tell me what's got you all hot and bothered?"
Her hand snaked out and plucked the fedora off my head, spilling blonde hair around my shoulders like I'd been doused with a bucket. She donned the hat herself, tilted low over one eye, and settled deliberately into the gap between my thighs. It wasn't enough space for her ample curves, which created a delicious pressure at my groin, but I had no intention of complaining. She glanced back over her shoulder with a wicked grin, snuffing out any doubt as to whether or not she knew the effect she was having. "You treat all your clients with this much hospitality?" she asked, turning to prop an elbow next to mine on the armrest.
I set the whiskey on the end table, leaned forward and scooped up her ungodly long legs, draping them across the opposite armrest. She made the cutest little sound of surprise to find herself spun around so deftly. Tough guy detectives weren't supposed to grin, but I did it anyway. "Only the ones with gams like yours," I said, coasting a palm over the limbs in question. The flaps of her trench coat had fallen back on themselves when I lifted her legs, exposing a generous amount of thigh. They parted for me when I reached them, my hand gliding smoothly in between.
"Legs, huh?" Her breath caught, the rest tumbling out in a shaky whisper: "That why you haven't been able to quit staring at my tits since I got here?"
Hearing a coarse word like "tits" coming from those pretty lips was such a turn on, I went a little breathless myself. My fingers were just about to discover if she really was completely nude under the coat, my mouth poised to overtake hers, when a sound in the hall made me jerk my hand back and sit her up on my knees abruptly. The remainder of her bourbon splashed the crotch of my trousers.
"Hafta go pee, Mama," Jesse mumbled, rubbing her eyes with both fists. She was facing the wall in the hallway, her hair and mismatched creature pajamas in disarray. My child, the sleepwalker and the cockblocker.
Didn't faze Maggie a bit, though. I could swear I heard a giggle as I hooked an arm under her knees again, another behind her back, and hefted her sideways from my lap to the chair. "Don't go anywhere," I instructed, finding it difficult to pry myself away from the sight of her—posture slouched from the hasty switcheroo, tits threatening to overflow the deep V-neck, legs splayed at the knees, trench coat riding up at the thighs. Christ, those thighs. "I'll be back in a jiffy."
"Better be," she called after me, sounding as if she were speaking into the glass of bourbon. "Or I'll find another private dick who won't make me wait."
I whisked Jesse from the hallway into the bathroom and back to bed in under a minute. She slept through it all, curling on her side the moment I pulled up the covers, her favorite stuffed animal Speedy the sloth tucked securely under one arm. I made her blanket burrito extra tight, just in case. She usually didn't get up more than once a night, and Matilda, little ray of sunshine that she was—currently sound asleep with her thumb in her mouth—only woke up in the morning light. I peeked in on Noah, confirming that he was out as well, then gave a celebratory pump of my fist when I closed his door. Jo and Maggie were free to say and do whatever filthy thing they took a notion to.
Slowing my footsteps at the end of the hall, I tugged the bottom of my vest into place, ran a hand through my hair, and entered the living room at a lazy stroll, hands in my pockets. She was right where I'd left her, an arm dangling over one side of the chair, the tumbler of amber liquid dangling from her fingers. From the looks of it, she was on her third glass. I swiped it on my way by and rounded in front of her, downing the last of her bourbon. The liquid fire still on my tongue, I nudged her knees apart with my own and stood between them, surveying every inch of her.
"Cute kid," she said, eyes twinkling with amusement. She looked like the cat that ate the canary. Appropriate, because she'd be purring like a kitten by the time I was done with her. "I didn't take you for the motherly type."
"I'm full of surprises." I lifted the hat off her head, rolled it down my forearm, and popped it back on top of my head with a quick snap of the elbow. Maggie wasn't the only one with a few tricks up her sleeve. I couldn't see a thing, but I played it suave and propped the hat back at a jaunty angle. "Got two more just like her. All of 'em sleepin' like angels. You could drop the A-bomb right here in this room and they wouldn't hear a thing."
"That right?" She was lounged against the chair back, a cunning little smirk on her lips, but she seized the front of my vest so suddenly, I almost yelped. As easily as I had flipped my fedora, that was how effortlessly she swapped our positions, plunking me down in the chair. Never even saw it coming. "And what makes you think—" Her hands toyed with the belt of her trench coat, gradually untying the knotted middle. "—anything's gonna explode tonight, Jo?"
"I'm good at readin' people. Their body language." I set aside the empty tumbler and reached for the belt, twining the loose ends around my wrists, jerking them taut. I reeled her in until her shins bumped against the cushioned chair. Until her freckled chest was close enough to nuzzle—or to lick. "And sweetheart, yours ain't subtle. Told me exactly what you were after the minute I opened the door."
"So?" she asked, head tilted coyly. "You gonna give it to me then, or just keep reading?"
"I've never been much for books," I said, unraveling the belt from my wrists. I doffed the fedora one last time and flicked it aside. It landed on the knobby corner of one of the dining room chairs, as perfectly as if I'd practiced beforehand. Amanda would have raised her fists in triumph. But I was Jo, and I simply shrugged. "Payment's required up-front, FYI."
"I don't have much money." She'd already begun to unfasten the trench coat a button at a time. Her voice wavered with the confession, but I couldn't tell if it was part of the damsel in distress act or just sheer lust. This gal was good. "Maybe we can work something else out?"
"I'm open to suggestions." My voice came out in a rasp—but at least it wasn't a squeak—as she reached the button near her navel. The coat draped enticingly over her tits, parted enough down the center to expose a side view of ripe, flowing curves. She definitely wasn't wearing a bra. And when the last few buttons were liberated, displaying a sweet little stretch of belly and even more sweetness beyond that, I found I wasn't a bit disappointed that she'd skipped the lingerie too. She didn't need it. All she needed was right here in front of my greedy, roving eyes.
She left the trench coat on when she crawled into my lap, a knee on either side. "Will this do?" she asked, guiding one of my hands inside the coat to cup her breast. She did the same with the other hand, the other breast. "And this?"
Her nipples were already hard, striving against my palms like tender buds, needy and craving warmth, affection. I gave it a little too eagerly perhaps, because she hissed and crushed my hands flat beneath hers, instructing me how to massage. Slow and sensual circles, my fingers consuming all that delicious, bountiful flesh.
"It's a start," I said thickly. My tongue felt swollen, but if it was desire or the Maker's Mark, I couldn't tell. Either way, when she leaned down and drew my tongue into her mouth for a hungry little suck, she ignited a fire in my belly that rivaled any whiskey. I squeezed her tits—a bit ruthlessly, I'm afraid—making her pull away from the kiss, rosy-cheeked and gasping.
Had her right where I wanted her. Sliding my hands around to her back, I buried my face inside the coat, hugging her tight as I devoured every inch of her large and succulent breasts. Keep your size 0 twenty-somethings with their perky tits you couldn't find under a microscope. I preferred a woman with something I could sink my teeth into. And an ass that didn't quit. An ass I could dig my nails into and hear her moan. Just like . . .
"Aman— Jo," she murmured, her arms looped gently around my head and shoulders, goading me on.
That.
Her chest was pink and heaving by the time I came up for air. She sank her fingers into the thicker hair at the back of my head, closing it in her fists, and pulling until I had no choice but to look directly up at her. (Olivia never did that, I noted, a tiny thrill traveling from my scalp to my groin.) "You're wet," she announced, her eyes on my lips. Until I met her, I hadn't known brown eyes could blaze. Hers were an inferno, and I was happy to burn.
"You ain't exactly high and dry, kid." I could smell her arousal, musky sweet and mouth-watering, drifting up from my lap.
She gave me the eyebrow, then dropped her gaze to my crotch. Still wet from the bourbon. "Your pants, genius."
"Oh."
"Take 'em off." She whispered it near my ear, which she had plenty of access to—she hadn't let go of my hair yet, preventing me from lowering my head. I was at her mercy, and she took full advantage, nipping at my ear and jaw until I rumbled like a diesel engine. The minute I did, she released my hair and moved aside for me to take off my trousers.
Never would have suspected such a warm body could be so cold-hearted. She grinned when I hesitated, peering over at the hallway. "'Fraid the A-bomb's gonna be too much for ya, Jo?" she teased, doing that head tilt I was fast becoming enthralled by.
Screw it. If one of the kids did wander from their rooms, all they would see was Mommy (she sure looked like Mommy, anyway) in a long coat and Mama in a messy button-down. Just cuddlin' in a chair together, like mommies do. The risk of getting caught excited me more than it probably should have. But Jo didn't dwell on the whys and wherefores. Jo took off the damn pants.
Kicking off my shoes, I shimmied out of the trousers while Maggie snickered at my contortions. Her shoulders bounced beneath the coat, an awful lot like Olivia's did when she laughed. She was not being modest, and the trench gapped open fully down the front as she reclined there beside me, an arm slung languidly along her hip. My apartment was no penthouse, but damned if I didn't have the best view in Manhattan.
"Bombs away," I said, and tossed the pants at the couch. Who knows where they landed. I was too busy watching as she rolled her eyes and resumed her spot in my lap. Only this time she straddled my thigh, literally gliding into place. We fit together like a bullet and gun. Like warm peaches smothered in cream. That's how she felt against my thigh, and when she started to grind, I couldn't help humming my approval, as if I'd just taken a heaping spoonful.
She ran decadently long fingers up the back of my neck, kneading the skin there while she rode me, slow at first and then increasingly faster. Her breath came in small, pleasant hitches, tickling my eardrums. She pressed her cheek to mine, nuzzling as she confided, "My guy's gonna be jealous if he finds out about this. Prob'ly go crazy."
Again, that threat of being discovered, of her (and possibly me) being in danger. Was I really that transparent? Did I care if I was?
No, I found as my hands went to her hips, steadying her as she rocked—I did not. "Let 'im," I said, boosting my knee by resting a heel on the chair leg. It gave her a little more purchase, me a way to rub into her more firmly. "I ain't afraid of him, or any other rat bastard in this city."
"You'll protect me, right Jo?" Her breathy voice made her sound so vulnerable, I almost paused to see if she was okay. But she rested her forehead against mine, a hand cupped to my cheek, eyes daring me to stop. And if there was any doubt what her eyes were saying, she dispelled that by moistening two fingers against her tongue and slipping them into my underwear, into me. "Right, Amanda Jo?"
"Oh my fu— yes." I nodded adamantly, my pelvis giving a sharp jerk. I grasped at hips, thighs, ass, using whatever I could find to drive her towards me, and vice versa. It was awkward in the chair, but I liked a challenge. "Yes. God, yes."
"Good girl."
I came before she did. Not surprising, considering I wasn't the one balanced on someone's knee, with four-inch heels on. The sight of her in those lethal-looking Louboutins, trench coat fanned out around her, bottom lip clasped between her teeth, and that long hair cascading with each loll of her head—that was all it took.
I came a second time, closing my legs as tightly around her thigh, and around those decadent fingers, as I could. It must have been the push she needed. She balled the front of my shirt in her fist and let out a wanton cry, head thrown back in ecstasy. It wasn't the A-bomb, but I bet the neighbors had gotten an earful. The dogs definitely had.
"Lord have mercy," I said when she finished, wilting against me in the chair and panting heavily. I had just enough room to scoot over so we could both rest a hip in the seat, facing each other. Even more cozy when her legs entwined with mine. "I think you were louder than me this time."
"This time?" She raised her head off the headrest and narrowed her eyes at me. "You must be getting me confused with some other dame, Jo. How many girls you got?"
Oh, so we were still playing. That was fine by me. I liked this game quite a lot, especially my partner/opponent. She was a real dish, the real cat's meow. I combed my fingers through the hair that fell over her eye, sweeping the dark strands behind her ear. "After tonight? None but you, Maggie-O. None but you."
After sex that hot, I was dying for a cigarette, but I resigned myself to the glass of bourbon we shared, passing it back and forth between us like schoolgirls with a dirty note. I gave her most of it, delighted to learn that the reason she didn't drink much whiskey was because it went straight to her head—and her libido. She couldn't keep her hands off of me, and I spent the next half hour making out with and getting felt up by my late night visitor in the trench coat. I returned the favor wholeheartedly, and when she went down on me in the armchair, my fists tangled up in her thick brown mane, I dropped the second A-bomb of the evening and a few F-bombs as well.
Next morning, I woke up alone in the chair, my grandmama's quilt over my lap and bare legs. The Maker's Mark and tumblers were gone, along with my wingtips, trousers, and fedora. My neck hurt like hell and my mouth tasted like I'd eaten the erasers off several No. 2 pencils. Maybe some lead too. I desperately needed a shower and a toothbrush, but the thing I wanted most was the woman who had put me in this state. I didn't like waking up without her. I'd forgotten how.
I got up and stretched—my legs were damn stiff, particularly my thighs—then realized I was still in my skivvies and Oxford shirt. My vest and tie had seen better days; my hair . . . well, it was blonde at least. As I was wrapping the blanket around my waist just in case I ran into a stray kid in the hall, I saw the note stuck to a ring of amber liquid drying on the end table:
Hey Jo,
You're a real doll, but I had to split. It would never work out for us. Find yourself a nice girl who'll stick around to see those blue eyes of yours in the sunshine. Maybe I'll bump into you again some night in the big bad city.
M
Grinning to myself, I tiptoed past the kids' rooms and made it to ours without incident. She was still asleep, her mussed head on the pillow the only evidence of last night's activities. Half an hour later, she woke to find me stretched out on my side next to her, smiling in the sunshine that poured through the curtains.
"Hey, stranger," she mumbled, pulling me in for some sleepy morning cuddles. "Missed you."
Missus Benson and Maggie were a lot of fun, and I couldn't wait to meet everyone else that was undoubtedly residing beneath my captain's buttoned-up exterior, but this version of Olivia, my Liv—she was my favorite.
"Well, here I am. All yours, city girl," I murmured back, and sealed it with a kiss.
. . .
THE END