Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (15 page)

Rebecca clapped her hands. “I
knew
it!”

“At least, I
think
it’s an affair. I don’t
have a lot of experience with these things, so maybe I’m
wrong.”

Rebecca reached across the table and gave me a hug.
“Jasmine, I’m so glad to hear it! You’ve needed something like this
for a long time. You’re such a workaholic, I was beginning to
wonder if I’d ever see the day you found someone.”

I abruptly broke off the hug. “Now wait a minute. I
didn’t say that I’d ‘found’ anybody. As far as I can tell, this
thing with Rodney is just a fling. Not that I mind.”

Rebecca went to take the kettle off the hotplate,
and poured herself more tea. “Whether it’s for real or just a
fling, Jasmine, at least it’s
something.
Honestly, I don’t
think you’ve been on a date the entire time I’ve known you.”

“That’s because I haven’t,” I said, embarrassed. “Up
until yesterday, anyway.”

Rebecca raised her teacup in a toast. “Well, then
here’s to you and Rodney,” she said. “Cheers.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “I’m not really sure if
things are going the way I want them to with Rodney.”

Rebecca’s face fell. “Why not?”

“I dunno—it’s sort of complicated.” My throat
tightened up at the prospect of revealing the truth to Rebecca. I
didn’t think she’d take it well.

Rebecca patted my hand. “You don’t have to talk
about it if you don’t want to,” she said. “But I’m here to help if
you need it. All you have to do is say the word.”

I stared down into the remains of my cashew chicken.
“Thanks, Rebecca, I appreciate it,” I said. “I really do. But I
think this is a situation I’ll have to deal with on my own. It’s
very—ahem—personal.”

Rebecca’s expression softened. “Say no more,” she
said. “Like I already said, I’m aware of Mr. Doyle’s reputation
with the ladies, believe me. And my original offer still stands.
Whatever you might think of me or my personal life, Jasmine, I’m
not as innocent as you think.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied. “But
for now, I’d like to keep private things private.” I pushed my
plate away; suddenly I was no longer hungry. “You can have the rest
of the takeaway,” I said. “I need to get back to work.”

Chapter
11

At six p.m., my workday was finally beginning to
wind down. I’d spent most of the afternoon running interference
with the press—which had gone on the offensive when it became clear
via the House Speaker’s angry rant on C-SPAN that Senator Grayle
was in trouble with Congressional leaders for blowing town in the
middle of an important floor vote. The outlandish (and totally
false) standard statement I’ve been issuing to the world at large
in response to the whole mess was that Senator Grayle contracted
appendicitis while in jail, and had to be rushed home to North
Dakota so his personal physician could perform the appendectomy
surgery.

I doubted that would hold the press vultures at bay
for more than a day.

My only hope at this point was that some other
politician in Washington would also be caught with his pants down
in the next twelve hours, so the media would have some other press
secretary to pick on besides me.

Or maybe the President would decide to declare war
on somebody tomorrow. That would be an even bigger help. But
neither possibility seemed likely.

I peeked over t he cubicle divider and saw that
Rebecca has already gone home. Damn. I was hoping she might be able
to give me a tip on how to find another fuck-me red dress on such
short notice, but no luck. And it was too late in the day to pop by
the
couture
department at Nordstrom’s. I had just under two
hours to prepare for my next tryst—I hoped—with Rodney Doyle, and I
didn’t have a thing to wear.

I locked up the office and headed out to the street
to flag a taxi. A cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately, and
as I climbed in I was stunned to see it was driven by the same
cabbie who’d taken me to the House of Flowers that morning.

He smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Evening,
miss. Did everything turn out all right for you this morning over
in Columbia Heights? I was worried about you when you didn’t call
me for a ride back.”

“I got a ride home safely just the same,” I said.
“But thank you.”

“Where to now, miss?” The cabbie looked to be about
my father’s age, with deep-set smile lines in his face and around
his eyes, as if he’d spent a lifetime being happy. And no wonder.
Cab drivers arguably had the best jobs in Washington—a birds’-eye
view of all the political wheeling and dealing, powerbroking, and
scandals via their fares, without having to get personally involved
in anything themselves. I secretly wished I could lead the carefree
life of a Washington taxi driver instead of having to face my
fast-disintegrating career in PR.

The cab was approaching the Metro Center Mall. I
figured I could do a little shopping, then catch the subway back to
my apartment to freshen up in time for my date with Rodney. “Just
let me off up here at the corner,” I said. “I need to go buy a new
dress.”

The cabbie nodded his acknowledgement and pulled the
cab right up to the curb in front of the entrance to Neiman Marcus.
“My wife likes to shop here,” he said. “I hear they have some nice
things off-the-rack in the formalwear department.”

“Thank you,” I said, and handed the cabbie a twenty
for an eight-dollar fare. “Keep the change.”

The cabbie tipped his hat in gratitude. “Much
obliged, ma’am. My name’s Dexter. Be sure to ask for me by name
next time you call Yellow Cab for a ride. I’ll pick you up
anywhere, anytime. And when I say ‘anywhere, anytime,’ I mean it.
No place is too strange or out of the way for me to go pick up a
beautiful young lady in distress.”

Distress?
I wondered what Dexter meant by
that remark. Puzzled, I got out and slammed the cab door shut
behind me. Dexter gave me a wave as he sped off.

I headed into Neiman Marcus. I was a bit intimidated
at first, since I’d always considered the store too expensive, its
merchandise to “old” for me. I wandered the aisles of the women’s
formalwear department, not at all interested in the overpriced,
gaudy fashions that hung from the racks. It seemed everything in
the store was designed to appeal to women who were in their fifties
and older—lots of tent-like dresses in garish colors covered in
gaudy sequins. I thought the only place it would have been
appropriate to wear such monstrosities would be to a costume party
at a senior citizens’ home.

Fed up, I headed out of Neiman Marcus and into the
main shopping mall. I wandered up and down the concourse, glancing
at shop windows and searching in vain for inspiration. The few
stores that had dresses which appealed to me didn’t carry my size.
The only other options were “fat lady” stores, which just sold
cheaper versions of the gaudy tents I saw in Neiman Marcus. I
silently wished that I could go over to Nordstrom’s and get another
gown (and maybe a hot orgasm) from Rhonda Pearce, but it was too
late in the day for that. Rhonda and the
couture
department
closed up shop at four-thirty.

Frustrated, I headed out of the mall the way I came.
The subway station was just outside Neiman Marcus’ main entrance,
so I’d have to trudge back through all the hideous old-lady tents
on the way. I picked up speed as I entered the store, checking my
watch as I went. It was 6:21; I knew that the subway trains left
every fifteen minutes, and if I was quick I thought I might make it
through the store and down into the station in time to catch the
6:30 train. But in my hurry I took a wrong turn and somehow ended
up in the menswear department.

As I stood surrounded by bulky wool suits and
overcoats, I had an idea.

I grabbed a large black wool overcoat off the rack
at random. I checked the price tag and was delighted to find it was
marked down. I took it up to the nearest cashier’s desk and paid
for it with my Visa card.

The middle-aged woman behind the checkout desk
smiled sweetly as she wrapped up my purchase. “A gift for your
father, miss?” she asked. “Or for someone special perhaps?”

I grinned. “
Definitely
for someone
special.”

The clerk adjusted her reading glasses and handed me
my package. “Well, I hope he likes it, dear.”

“I hope so, too.” I turned on my heel and headed out
of the store. I’d missed the 6:30 train by then, but I still had
plenty of time for the 6:45. As I stood on the platform waiting for
it to arrive, I mentally went over the contents of my lingerie
drawer at home. It didn’t take long; with the exception of the
plain white bras and panties I wore almost every day, there was
almost nothing in it worth remembering.

Almost
nothing.

In my mind’s eye I could see the red teddy and
matching G-string I’d bought myself in the plus-size department at
Victoria’s Secret for Valentine’s Day last year. The teddy and tiny
scrap of panties were at the bottom of my drawer, in their original
paper wrappings and with the tags still attached. I remembered how
I’d been feeling a little depressed earlier that year at not having
a date or a boyfriend for the third straight Valentine’s Day, and
had given myself a little retail therapy by buying overpriced
lingerie I never thought I’d have occasion to wear.

Today, that occasion had finally arrived.

The subway train slid onto the platform. I stepped
inside the last car, and even though it was nearly empty, made a
point to stand grasping one of the overhead hand-loops instead of
sitting down. The bumping and shaking of the subway car made the
Chinese balls still tucked inside my sheath that much more
enjoyable when I was standing up.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my
body be overtaken by the intense vibrations rising in my pussy as I
headed home. My crotch went hot and my forehead went clammy as I
felt my orgasm approach. Rodney’s prediction had been
right—carrying the Chinese balls around inside me all day
had
taught me control. If someone had told me this morning
I’d be able to have mind-blowing orgasms just by standing still on
the Washington Metro, I’d have said they were crazy. And yet, here
it was about to happen. The control and restraint my body had
learned in just twelve hours of keeping the Chinese balls clasped
tight between my legs was incredible; I was on the brink of a
body-quaking orgasm, and yet neither my face nor my body registered
that fact on the outside. Anyone who passed me by would only think
that I was just a little tired from a hard day’s work at the
office, not in the throes of multiple spontaneous orgasms.

My climax overtook me just moments before the train
arrived into the station closest to my apartment. The delightful
spasms stopped just as the train car doors slid open. Perfect
timing. I really had to hand it to whoever invented those ancient
Chinese Enlightened Pathway Balls. Thanks to that man (or woman), I
could now enjoy discreet, touch-free orgasms on my daily commute.
Pure genius.

I headed out of the subway station with a spring in
my step. There was nothing like having eight or ten spontaneous
orgasms during a workday to perk up my mood. Yesterday morning, I
wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible, and yet today,
“getting off” on the train seemed almost routine. What a difference
twenty-four hours could make!

And if my date with Rodney went as planned, tonight
would be one for the record books.

Chapter
12

I arrived at Rodney Doyle’s posh apartment
building at ten minutes after eight, just as I’d planned. I thought
being fashionably late would only add to the sexual tension. And I
needed all the thick, dripping sexual tension I could get in order
for my little plan to work.

The heavy overcoat I’d bought at Neiman Marcus was
at least three sizes too big. The sleeves covered my hands entirely
with room to spare, and the hem would have dragged the ground if I
hadn’t been wearing my three-inch fuck-me heels. I wore nothing
underneath the overcoat except my red teddy and matching G-string.
But to make me as nondescript as possible on the outside, I wore
wraparound sunglasses and had a black silk scarf wrapped over my
hair, Jackie-O style. I didn’t want to risk drawing any unnecessary
attention from the doorman or anyone else. Given some of the
stories I’d seen printed in the
Beltway Times
of late, I
wouldn’t have been surprised in the least of Rodney had hidden
cameras in the lobby and hallways of his building.

I checked my reflection in the lobby’s smoked-glass
doors before stepping inside. I was unrecognizable. Not a strand of
hair—which I’d swept into an alluring updo—showed from underneath
my black scarf, and the huge, mirrored wraparounds—a relic from the
80s that I’d found in my cedar chest alongside my old high school
yearbooks—took care of my face, which I’d also powdered bone-white.
The only bit of color that stood out against my all-over black
attire was the Joan Crawford-style red lips I’d penciled on. If it
weren’t for that, I could have passed for a Muslim woman out on a
night stroll.

I entered the lobby and was surprised to see the
same huge black male security guard I’d seen back at the
Beltway
Times
building yesterday afternoon. I wondered if perhaps he
pulled double shifts because he was Rodney Doyle’s own private
security detail. I gave him my name; the beefy security guard made
no indication that he recognized me. A good sign. Especially since
I felt a hint of yesterday afternoon’s arousal starting to build
between my legs as I watched him punch Rodney’s number up on his
phone with his thick, meaty fingers. He grunted something into the
receiver; I couldn’t help but find that grunt erotic.