Rolling for Love Read online

  “You’re the one that told me to look professional,” I whine playfully, wanting him to both stop and strip me naked at the same time. “And now you’re messing it up.”

  I straighten to go to the next page and Amorino’s hands give my body a rest to help. The minute the page is settled, his hands put pressure on my lower back again. I wiggle my butt backwards to throw him off balance.

  “I didn’t think you would look so hot dressed up like a real secretary,” Amorino growls. He grabs my wiggling hips and grinds into my backside before giving me a slap on the butt. He brings his chest forward and rests his bulk against me. “I have always wanted to fuck someone on my boss’ desk,” he purrs.

  “Fuck someone on my boss’ desk,” I mumble, refocusing on the blueprint. “That makes me super-hot, Amorino,” I say, my sarcasm tinged with acid.

  “Aww, sarcasm is below you,” he teases. He starts taking the weights off the corners and we carefully turn to the last page. It’s a list of redacted names and places, with only a few key parts visible. Amorino starts picking it up before I say I’m ready.

  “How do you know if I’m ready or not?” I ask playfully.

  “I’ve known you since the fifth grade; what kind of a question is that?” Amorino’s voice growls into my ear. I feel his hot, wet tongue on my neck. He licks his way down until he finds the soft bruise he left where my neck and shoulder meet. As if renewing his claim, he bites down again, sucking and nipping. One hand braces us against the table while the other wanders under my shirt. I hiss and try to push him back with my body weight, but his hands move to my hips and he pulls me toward him. I can feel his very stiff dick poking into my butt.

  “Amorino, I don’t want to be some woman you fucked on your boss’ desk,” I snap. I fold my arms across my chest and turn toward him, my eyes meeting his. I want to be special … I want more and he knows it.

  “You would never be just some woman,” Amorino growls. His large hand enfolds the side of my face as he tilts up my head, his eyes never leaving my own. “I want you. Not some woman. You Sandy.” He bends down and places a gentle kiss on my forehead, and then my nose and lips. How does he always say the right thing at the right moment? I close my eyes and just let sensation take over reason. He wants me now and that’s good enough.

  He keeps moving down, kissing each button of my shirt as he undoes them. His sinks to his knees in front of me and lands butterfly kisses on my navel, his tongue darting out to leave little cooling patches of sensation in their wake. His hand moves to my legs and slides along the outside, slowly pushing the bottom of my pencil skirt up and up until he can grip the top of my pantyhose. He pulls them off of me, my shoes falling as I lift myself to the edge of the desk, opening my legs and curling my toes.

  “Do you want something?” Amorino asks huskily. I tilt my hips and nod in a way I hope is sultry. “I just don’t understand body language. You would like me to kiss your knees perhaps?” he asks, kneeling down to do just that.

  “Maybe something a little higher,” I reply huskily.

  He quickly starts kissing my leg and plants a big kiss on the folds of my bunched-up skirt.

  “Lower,” I command.

  “I need more direction then that,” Amorino growls. I can feel his hot breath on my inner thigh. “Right here?” Amorino asks as he kisses it. I rock my hips forward and wiggle. Amorino’s smile is evil as he looks me in the eye and mouths “say it”.

  “You know what I want,” I groan. “Your tongue …” My words are swallowed by a moan as his tongue slowly licks my slit through the outside of lingerie.

  “When will you learn to not wear these things?” Amorino groans. “I want to taste you.”

  I hold still as he peels off the offending garment. His tongue swirls around the top of my clit. Slowly at first and then darting in and out. I arch up as sounds start escaping my throat, one hand fisting in his hair and the other rubbing one of my breasts through my bra. He doesn’t seem to stop and breathe as his tongue puts more pressure on my sensitive nub. A finger slides inside of me and I moan. The double sensation makes my body tense, I can feel myself pulling Amorino’s hair, but I can’t stop. I’m so close when Amorino removes his finger and his tongue does a final suck on my swollen bud. “Amorino,” I beg.

  He seems to inspect my wanton, sensitized body for a moment before undoing his own pants. “Stand up and turn around,” Amorino orders. I hear the crinkle of a condom; had he planned this or is he just always prepared?

  “Someone took all the pleasure for themselves and needs to be spanked,” Amorino teases.

  “I was so …” I start to say, moving a hand toward my own clit.

  “Don’t you dare,” Amorino comes over and stops my hand. “I worked really hard on that. Turn around.”

  I slowly lower myself off the desk, aching with need, and turn. His hand press my lower back and I lie front-down the desk, opening my legs. Amorino’s warm dick rubs across my entrance. Sparks of pleasure shoot through me.

  “I want to bury my dick in you so deep that it never comes out,” Amorino growls. He ruthlessly thrusts his ridged length into me, eliciting a moan of pleasure from my lips. “Fuck yes, you are so tight,” Amorino grunts as his long, rough strokes knock loose objects off the desk. He slows down for a moment, he readjust my hips. His hands find my wrists and brings them together behind my back. My nipples, already hard, are pressed further into the polished wood through my bra making me squirm. He transfers both my wrists to one of his hands, his hips reclaiming their rhythm.

  “I want to hear you whimper.” He slaps my butt.

  I do whimper, as the new position puts my clit right against the wood of the table and his every stroke pushes against it.

  “Fuck,” Amorino groans as he slaps my butt again.

  I begin to gasp in time with his strokes, each sound building as Amorino’s speed increases above me. I feel myself on the edge when he grunts and tenses; his weight pushes my clit into the table. My own orgasm overrides my senses as he bursts inside of me. I close my eyes as my entire body tenses. I can feel Amorino still rocking gently as I ride the waves of pleasure.

  “I have always wanted to do that,” Amorino says, slapping my butt one last time before sliding out. My body trembles slightly, my climax still ringing in my ears. Amorino removes the condom and pulls up his pants as I start looking for my pantyhose. Why is it so simple for men?

  “Here, let me help you with that,” he offers after I have fought the hose back into place. He nibbles one of my oversensitive nipples through my bra as he helps me finish the buttons on my shirt. “Do you need to see any of the blueprints again?” he asks me.

  Heat rise in my face. “I don’t think we have time for that.”

  Amorino laughs. “Already ready for round two?”

  I realize that he was actually asking about my memorization. “You are terrible,” I berate. “And no, as you were really asking. I should be fine, assuming you haven’t fucked my brains out by the time we need them.”

  “I’m really trying to.” Amorino comes over and pinches my butt again before we straighten up the desk we just violated, leaving the tube on the top of it.

  “Do you want to maybe get dinner tonight?” I ask Amorino as we get in the elevator.

  “Sorry, I can’t tonight,” Amorino replies. “I need you onsite early tomorrow. I’m calling the crew back to finish digging and I want you there to immediately answer any questions that come up.”

  “I can do that,” I answer evenly, disappointed.

  Amorino pulls out his phone as we exit the elevator and throws me the keys. “Drive so I can make calls?”

  “Sure, I can do that, too,” I answer with a small frown. I’m not hurt; sex is sex. And it was great sex! Amorino is great, and relationships are overrated anyway. And if I say that over and over enough, maybe it will be true.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Reality, The Kitchen Sink Restaurant

  One of the many restaurants
on Pearl Street, The Kitchen Sink is one large room with tiered levels to give it some structure. Glass walls help break up sound, and brass decorations highlight a collection of modern art on the walls.

  Joe Smartin

  I’m running late, twenty minutes late. I hate running late. I look at my text messages again.

  Sandy: Here, got us two local drafts.

  A woman after my own heart. I have known many people unwilling to take a chance and order for their own spouse, much less an almost stranger.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the hostess asks.

  “I’m meeting someone. I think you already seated her,” I explain.

  The hostess nods and points. I see Sandy’s long black hair, shimmering in the light of the fire, and I take a moment to breathe and collect myself. She didn’t leave.

  Sandy is bent over something; her jacket and sweater are neatly stacked on the back of her chair. She’s wearing blue jeans and a long green top of some sort that covers one shoulder and leaves one exposed. I wondered if she requested a seat by the fire or if It’s just luck. It paints a very cozy and romantic picture. One I could not have planned any better. Calmer, I walk over to her.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask, trying to be smooth.

  “No,” she answers and looks up from her e-book. “But I drank your beer, tax for being late.”

  “I always pay my taxes.” I grin and look down at the empty pint glass in front of me.

  A waiter appears at the side of our table and I order another round of drinks. Sandy turns off her e-book and it disappears into her purse.

  “My apologies for being late,” I explain. “I work in Aurora and the traffic is very unpredictable.”

  “Wow, why do you live in Boulder? Aurora is a solid hour commute each way,” she exclaims.

  “I stay at a friend’s place a few nights a week to make it better,” I assure her. “But I wanted to get away from where I work. I love beer and being outdoors, and I read that Boulder is the place to be for that.”

  “You read correctly,” she says. There is a moment of awkward silence. She picks up her beer and takes a sip. Her cheeks are rosy from the fire.

  I don’t remember seeing her wear make-up to game nights, but tonight I can see her sky-blue eyes outlined in smoky greys with a hint of green. I try to think of something to say and find myself tongue-tied.

  “I will try to get along better with Steven,” she reassures. “I will not apologize. He’s an asshole, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on Zack. Zack just sides with the strongest opinion in the room. It’s not his fault. It’s human nature.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting to talk about, but this isn’t it. At least, not right off the bat. I again try to get my mouth to open but my brain just sits there as I watch her face in the firelight.

  “I know Steven’s said some things behind my back,” Sandy continues, apparently thinking that I’m waiting for her to say more. “So far, I’ve enjoyed your game management a lot, and I know can be a difficult person to have in a game. I could see you were upset with me when I responded to Steven. And I’m still not apologizing, but I’m not ready to be kicked out of your game yet.”

  “I’m not going to kick you out of my game.” I finally get my tongue to work. “Did someone tell you I was going to kick you out of my game?”

  “No,” Sandy insists. “But I have been in enough games that ended poorly that I know the signs.”

  “Well, you got them wrong this time,” I state. I need to take control of this conversation; it is not going at all as I planned.

  Fortunately, the waiter is back with my beer. “Would you like to hear the specials for the evening?” he asks.

  “Yes, God yes,” I say. Anything to derail this train.

  Both Sandy and the waiter blink at me, and I realize what I said. I wasn’t sure if anything about this dinner could be going worse. Instead of putting my foot any further in my mouth, I let the waiter speak.

  A few minutes later we have two house specials coming, different dishes. And I’m reassured by Sandy’s order of an appetizer that she’s not going to bolt. I take a very long swig of my beer.

  “Can we start this evening over?” I ask.

  “I don’t think that’s how the space-time continuum works,” she deadpans.

  It takes me a minute to realize that she’s being funny. It’s the little tug at the corners of her mouth that give it away. I shake my hands above my head and clap them together in front of me. “As it’s my game, it’s my space-time continuum,” I declare confidently. “Hi Sandy, how was your day?”

  Sandy rolls her eyes. “It was fine, Dad, how was yours?” She mimics a whiny teenager so well that I doubt it’s from practicing it.

  I don’t take the bait. “It was ok,” I explain. “Work’s slow at the moment. I prefer it busy, but when it’s busy, things are usually breaking and people are yelling. So slow is good too. I get lots of reading done and notes for my campaign.”

  “What do you do that you get yelled at? I struggle to imagine anyone yelling at you.”

  “I manage an IT department. That’s the department that fixes computer issues,” I explain.

  “Really? I thought it was the department that dissected aliens,” Sandy smirks. She picks up her beer and takes a drink.

  “That’s the ET department, they’re just down the hall,” I joke.

  “So, you work down the hall from the people that murder childhood memories?”

  I don’t have a comeback for that one, so we sit on it for longer than appropriate.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “Dillon says that I purposely make the people around me uncomfortable so that I have a reason to ditch them before they can ditch me.”

  “Dillon told you that?” I feel a twinge of jealousy shoot through me.

  “We got drinks after my showdown with Steven on Saturday,” she explains. “Dillon straight up asked me why I was being so mean and making things uncomfortable. I have never been asked that before. And now that he asked me, I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “I‘m not sure what to say,” I finally manage to stammer. Internally I curse, I don’t think I have said the right thing once this evening. Dillon obviously has more skills than he’s letting on.

  “I don’t either, anymore,” she says. Our appetizers arrive, and as soon as the waiter turns his back, she stabs her artfully arranged pile of cheese, tomato and basil harder than necessary with a fork. “Let’s just talk about D&D,” she says after a few more stabs. “I was hoping you would bring it up so I didn’t sound so conceited giving my opinion on your choices. But you did ask for it, by email.”

  “I was planning on bringing it up,” I defend. I take a bite of my potato tartiflette instead of arguing the point further. The combination of flavors and textures is perfect. I let myself enjoy my bite, closing my eyes. When I open them again I see Sandy studying me. “Is everything ok?” I ask her.

  “I think I’m observing a foodie in his natural habitat,” she replies.

  I laugh and sip my beer at a more reasonable pace. This is going to be a strange meal.

  “Ok,” I say, putting down my pencil. Dessert has come and gone. Both of us are nursing dessert beers, because we’re living during a magical time where people put salted caramel into their brews. “You just have an incredible memory. I think you know the system better than the people who invented it.”

  “I think those changes will be good and help balance out what you want to do,” Sandy recounts. “Especially when dealing with technology like cell phones.” I can hear the excitement and satisfaction in her voice. “I also think it will put us on the same page.”

  “So, you don’t storm out of my campaign?” I smile at her.

  “I don’t storm,” she laughs. I could live in that laugh. “But yes. If you create a world with rules, you can’t just break them. It breaks the game.”

  “But you have to account for human error,” I counter. “And balance and
role-playing. What if you tweak a rule because it makes more sense to the storyline?”

  “Rules are rules, no tweaking. Where would it stop?” she asks matter-of-factly.

  “I just think you’re wrong.” I can see by the blink in her eyes she doesn’t hear that often. Although this was the worst beginning of a dinner I’d literally ever been part of, the night had gotten better and better. Sandy is stupid smart. Stupid defensive. And drop-dead gorgeous. From her mind to her slim figure. Our conversation had been less of a back and forth, and more a battle of wills, that neither of us is willing to give up on. The verbal sparring turns me on and I’m grateful for the large metal table hiding my lap.

  “I’m not wrong,” Sandy says.

  I’ve had enough beer that I can’t stop my laugh and regret it immediately. “You are wrong,” I affirm, standing my ground. “Tell me about Nozomi’s back story.” I pit our wills against each other once more. But my bravado deflates as Sandy’s body language wilts like a flower after my question.

  “I just don’t know,” Sandy says. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to know what Nozomi wants when I can’t figure out what Sandy wants. I just want to play the numbers. Why does everyone need to have a fucking goal?”

  I cringe a little at the f-bomb, not because I don’t hear it often, but because it’s the first time it’s come out of her lovely perfect mouth. Before I can answer, she stands.

  “I’m leaving now before I can destroy what has been a wonderful night. I’ll pay next time,” she promises.

  She must have practiced getting dressed that fast, as she’s gone in the blink of an eye. For the third time, Sandy Yuhi leaves my life like a tornado. But this time, she threatens to take my heart with her.

  Chapter Eighteen