“Do you really think that’s a code for being up for a threesome?” Mike asked, eyebrows arched. “I don’t know, Dyl...I think it’s a joke she’s making. You know how nervous and weird people can be when they try to distill their entire life into a few sentences.”
Dylan chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. “Good point. Well, even if she isn’t into a nice ménage arrangement, she is one fine woman.” A low whistle escaped from his lips. “I have a project on my hands now, don’t I?”
Mike nodded, peering at the screen, eyes lingering. “You are going to have a lot of competition.”
Dylan snorted. “Like I care. May the best man win.”
Mike went silent, then grinned, his fresh-faced boy-next-door look morphing into a Wall Street trader’s predatory smile that made Dylan suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he could pinpoint.
“Yeah. I hope he does.”
Ding!
The little chat box on the online dating site lit up like a Christmas tree. Laura sucked the last mouthful of her coffee and gaped at the screen. You have got to be kidding me, Laura thought. Already? She clicked and read a message from “9inluvr”:
Hey, babe. I live in the city and so do you, so let’s hook up for some FWB action.
She snorted. Oh, sure. Just like that. Yer a catch, Bud. A real romantic.
Ding!
This one was from some guy named Dylan. Before she read the chat she looked at his profile.
Well hellooooo there, Mr. Firefighter.
A thin line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth, an instant response to the picture before her. It was a professional picture, the guy wearing no shirt, a fireman’s hat perched at a jaunty tilt. Like a stripper’s picture in a firefighter’s role.
Oh, God. I can’t date a stripper, she thought. He’d have nicer g-strings than mine.
But no—he was a real firefighter. The picture, he explained in his profile, came from a charity bachelor auction he had been in. Bachelor auction? How much had he gone for?
As she studied the picture she guessed a solid four figures. She was already primed to empty her life savings for a night with this guy.
And he looked so familiar. Why?
On a whim she Googled “Dylan charity bachelor auction firefighter” and her drool increased so much she would soon need a bucket.
Oh, holy hell. The image search showed the same man, whose name was Dylan Stanwyck, in firefighter’s pants, boots, a fireman’s hat and suspenders, perched on the floor of a fire station right next to the pole. He was leaning on one elbow and had smears of soot on him, with well-oiled muscles and a smug-ass grin.
Whoever set up that photograph needed to be recruited for her company’s marketing department because damn—she was ready to use up every available dollar on her credit cards to get a night with him.
Maybe she could save a bunch of money and just set herself on fire. Or her car. It probably wasn’t worth much, but if she found out his schedule and whether he’d be the one responding...
And he was pinging her on the dating site?
She dropped her coffee and scrambled to write back in the chat room.
“Hi,” she said, all inspiration and creativity vanishing as the heat forming between her legs apparently melted her brain.
Hi. I’m Dylan. Nice to “meet” you. :)
Think, Laura. Think. Man, where was Josie? Of all the times for that girl to be on time to go to work. She needed help figuring out something witty to say.
Hi. I’m Laura. Nice to “meet” you, too!
She wrote back. Then he answered:
I was hoping you might be interested in going out? We can do coffee, maybe? Or go to a nice tapas bar?
Tapas! Her favorite. But wait—Josie always said any guy who likes tapas must be gay. Laura checked the photo again. No way. And even if Dylan was gay, she would still sleep with him. Cute, polite, and loves tapas?
Tapas sounds great! When?
Damn it. Now she sounded too eager. She waited. And waited. No reply.
Maybe he was having second thoughts. Or she sounded like a moron. Or he realized he didn’t like tapas after all. Or he really was gay. Or this was his cat impersonating him.
She began to pace, willing the chat bar to ping. If she stared hard enough...
Finally:
Uh, this might seem too eager, but I don’t care. I am free tonight. I work a 24 tomorrow, so this is my last chance for a few days. I don’t mean to be rude, asking you on short notice, but...please tell me you’re free tonight.
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to write. But she needed to play that stupid game, the dance of meeting someone new. Her turn to wait. She reread his message. What was a 24?
She puzzled over that one as she chewed on her cuticle, pulling on it until it bled. Brilliant! Screw up your manicure when you have a hot date tonight, Laura.
Might have. Might have. Don’t put the cart before the horse.
I am free. Prince William is now taken and so I have an opening in my busy social schedule.
She hit Send before she could change her mind. Too cheesy?
LOL. Sounds great. Meet me at Tempo Bistro after work. At 6?
Tempo Bistro? The most expensive, chi-chi restaurant in town? Not tapas, either—something she couldn’t quite remember. Asian fusion? How on earth could a firefighter afford that?
Not your problem, Laura. And she was making terrible assumptions. She needed to assume they were going dutch. Good thing she was a careful saver.
’lo?
The chat window pinged. Geez, Laura. Get out of your head. She typed furiously:
Sounds even better. I’ll see you there and you know what I look like.
And he replied:
Oh, yes. :P
What was that supposed to mean? Her eyes swept over the clock—now she had eight minutes to shower. Damn. Laura shook her head and walked to the bathroom, stripping naked by the time she crossed the threshold and turned on the hot water.
Sliding under the spray was bliss, the beads of water trailing their way down her body, her hair wet and ropy within seconds, the curl relaxed and the strands stretching long enough to tickle the top of her sacrum. Eh—why not leave the ad up? Who knew. Maybe she’d attract a better breed of guy. Or, at least, a different kind. She eyed the shower head—did she have time? Eight minutes?
More than enough for the last guy she dated.
Just enough time for some intimate attention from Mr. Showerhead, though. Josie was wrong. It wasn’t her battery bill that was getting expensive.
Her water bill, on the other hand...
Good thing her vibrator was waterproof. As she soaped up she was cognizant of the time, knowing she had minutes to finish. Pulling up the old standby fantasy always worked. Two men, luscious and thickly-muscled, both in the shower with her. Mmmm...
The fantasy worked, almost too well, and soon she was transported into that magic place where two men wanted her, needed her, craved her. Dreams had bedeviled her for years, but she’d told no one. In the shower she could indulge, let the steam and wetness turn into a private sanctuary.
She could pretend, but pretend well.
Laura tensed, knowing she was so close, craving all these hands, more than enough for two men who wanted and needed her, the familiar muscled cresting of her climax so innate she barely cried out, the release perfunctory but oh, so welcome.
And, now, the guilt. Because how could a “normal” woman really want two men at once? As she absentmindedly rushed through the rest of the shower, a persistent voice said, You, Laura. You.