Smart Man by Janet Eckford Page B

feel him hard and heavy against my knee. The gentle glide of his hand from my knee under my skirt and to the tops of my thigh-high stockings has me almost panting with need. The little gasp of surprise he lets out once his inquisitive fingers find the delicate lace of my stockings makes me smile.
              “Very good.”
              The resonant tones of his voice send a tingle along my spine, and I have only one thought. Shifting off the barstool, I place a napkin over my drink and give the bartender the eye. The place isn’t quite full enough that I need to worry about my spot, and from the nod of his head I know he’ll have a fresh drink waiting for me when I return. Holding Mr. Sexy Pool Player’s hand firmly in mine, I weave us through the small crowd until we are at the back of the bar. Turning the knob on the storage closet, I sigh with relief when I realize it’s unlocked. It’s often hit or miss, and tonight I’m hoping for a home run.

 
    Fulfillment…
     
              “You know your way around.”
              Turning to look at him, I notice he still has his bad-boy persona firmly in place, and I don’t take the statement as one of censure.
              “Quite well, actually,” I reply, pulling him into the room.
              Closed in the room, I don’t bother turning on the light. There is a tiny window, and the neon sign of the next building provides enough light for what we are planning.
              “Come here,” he states with a soft growl that lights me up from within.
              Pulling me into his embrace, he crushes his mouth to mine. Like flirting, I love kissing, and there has been many a man that I’ve turned away because of his lack of the fine art of the lip lock. This man, though, this man is a master, and he coaxes a groan from deep within as he plays his lips across mine. Opening for him, I expect the hot, slippery sensation of his tongue dueling with mine, but instead he waits. He nibbles and bites and soothes all at the same time. Those hands, those gloriously calloused hands, hold my face firmly as he dictates the pace and strength of our kisses. I clutch at his hips, hoping to bring him closer to me, to get him to placate the frenzy that he has now built, but he is like a mountain that will not be moved.
              “Don’t tease,” I practically sob when he allows me to come up for air.
              “Not teasing,” he says, kissing now at the corner of my mouth.
              “Please.” I would be shocked at the needy thread of my voice if I actually gave a damn in the moment.
              I am no longer Ms. Cool Professional. I am my dark part, the part ruled by touch and taste, the little animal within that lives on heat and desire—and I want him pressed tightly to me. As if sensing the sharp edge of my need he pushes me up against the door. There is a controlled roughness that has me clutching at the confines of his clothes. Reaching blindly for his belt and zipper. I don’t need soft caresses and soothing words. The little beast that I have become wants it hard and fast and now.
              He’s finally following my cues and has pushed my sensible pencil skirt up, and he’s tugging at the edges of my panties. Those fingers, those lovely rough fingers, are twirling in the wetness that my body has created just for him, and I gasp out with pleasure.
              “Is this all for me?”
              The feel of his hot breath on the side of my face causes me to arch into his touch as I continue to claw at his treacherous pants. Panting at the feel of his fingers now inside of me, pushing and stroking me into a heightened frenzy, I practically crow with the feeling of success as I get his pants undone. Slipping my hands inside, I moan at the feel of him hot and heavy in my hand. I love the feel of a man, silk and steel, and as I make out the