Dare to be Seduced
Lena Macy rummaged through her Super Bowl party swag bag in search of the only thing she could think of that would satisfy her urge for sex—chocolate. On any given day¸ Miami was a hotbed of testosterone, estrogen, alcohol, drugs and hot and horny beautiful people, there to party and have sex. But on a Super Bowl weekend, the place was like an orgy on steroids. The Miami heat was definitely getting to her, in more ways, and in more body parts, than one.
She’d been down in Magic City for two days, losing much needed sleep and reluctantly partaking in the pre-game festivities—all in an attempt to land her man—Rickie Ross. Lena wanted Rickie. She needed him. And she wasn’t leaving town without him knowing how much.
She’d been damn near stalking him for months—calling, emailing, showing up wherever and whenever, trying to make a good impression. But getting next to a famous and hugely popular football hero, a man surrounded by groupies and hangers-on, all trying to get him or give him some, was no simple task. It would be a lot easier if she merely wanted to fuck him, but she didn’t. Lena wanted to hire him.
Since being put in charge of Sports Fan Network a year ago, her job was to turn the struggling SFN around and make it a must-see experience for sports-loving viewers. Lena’s plan was to shake up the programming by moving away from the traditional talking head analysis, making the network more user-friendly and
inviting to women as well as men. Fine-ass, charismatic Rickie Ross was central to that task, but until he finally decided on a new agent, talking business with a man whose main mission in life was to fuck, fraternize and play football, was a non-starter.
Lena bit into a Godiva hazelnut truffle, let the sweet creamy goodness settle on her tongue, closed her eyes and savored the moment. She heard several wordless moans, the kind let loose when THE spot gets hit, escape her lips and settle into the air. She’d read somewhere about a study where fifty-two percent of the women surveyed said they preferred eating chocolate to having sex. Lena couldn’t rightly say where she stood in that poll, but at this moment she understood it. Between her demanding work schedule, her last break-up nearly a year ago, and her crazy family issues, the only thing rushing her endorphins these days was chocolate. Usually all she had the energy and desire for was Godiva and Big, her trusty, always on the ready, never argumentative vibrator. But at this moment, after two days spent immersed in the closest thing to a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, she wanted more than chocolate. More than Big. She wanted dick. Real. Live. Hard as a rod. All up in her fuzzy stuff, penetrating dick.
Lena moaned again, this time out of frustration, and popped another truffle into her mouth. It was halftime and being upstairs in her suite watching this gridiron face-off alone was depressing. She decided to head down to the bar, grab a bite, down a drink or three, and watch the rest of the game in the company of strangers. Changing into a slim, white, shirt dress with a long string of gray, gold, and white pearls, Lena slipped on her strappy Jimmy Choos, added a spritz of Bellissima by Blumarine, and headed down-stairs.
• • •
“ONE GRAN PATRON PLATINUM COMING up,” The bartender said, removing her empty glass and smiling over the anticipated size of his tip. This pretty lady not only had looks, but class, and a wallet to match. He removed the sterling silver stopper from the lead crystal decanter and poured the thirty-dollar-a-shot, premium tequila into a shaker, gently chilling the liquor before pouring it into a shot glass with a twist of orange.
Lena sat, sipped her drink and people watched, uninterested, like most in the room, in the half-time show currently in progress. His cologne, a heady shot of Creed, hit her nostrils and commanded her attention seconds before his words. He smelled delicious. Downright edible.
“Well, it ain’t nipplegate, that’s for sure,” a low voice painted with wit and audacity, spoke to her as the celebratory crowd milled around them.
“Where’s Janet when you need her?” Lena responded, making friendly bar talk but keeping her eyes purposely glued to the row of flat-screen televisions lining the lounge walls. “But in the big picture, does it really matter who plays during halftime?”
“Absolutely! Everyone knows that if you wanna hold someone’s attention, a little sex, or even the idea of a little sex, will always do the job.” He finished his statement and let a devilish grin loose on her.
She heard his tongue-in-cheek delivery, and it made her laugh. Do I have horny bitch flashing across my forehead, she wondered. Usually, such an obnoxious opening would have been ignored, but the shot of tequila that preceded his arrival was too smooth, and she was too bored to brush his comment aside.
“So you’re saying that a two-second glimpse of a naked breast—fake at that—trumps a world-renowned, internationally revered rock band?”
“Fake but with a pierced nipple. There is a difference,” he schooled her, the flirtatious smile in his tone enticing Lena to turn his way.
Not sure if it was the talk of erotic piercings or the chocolate brown face sporting a dazzling combination of pleading brown eyes and a can’t-say-no smile that made her nipples stiffen, but he’d proven his theory. He definitely had her attention.
STOP IT, her brain shouted, demanding that the girls ignore his Djimon Hounsou look-alike qualities and simmer down.
“So you’re saying all men like body piercings on a woman?” his prize questioned, surprised to find herself willing and wanting to engage in the conversation.
“Nooo. Not all men. And not all body piercings. Take belly button or nipple rings. What men are drawn to is the idea that a woman who would do such a thing is sexually free and adventurous. The piercings suggest that she’s daring and willing to experiment.”
“And down there?” Lena inquired, too polite to say the word clit, even though hers was warming up, without permission mind you, to the conversation.
“A clit ring? That’s like crazy sexy, and not in a good way. Little too hard-core S & M for my tastes.”
“And tongue piercings?”
“Nah. That just screams slut. Too visible. Too obvious. Unless, you know, you’re simply looking to get your knob slobbed.”
Witnessing the widening smile of this bodacious charmer, one who had the nerve to be talking blowjobs to a perfect stranger, for some odd reason, only made the girls tingle all the more.
“But I thought the idea of you know . . .getting worked over by a studded tongue . . .really turned men on.”
“Well, yeah, but no man wants other people thinking that his woman is a blowjob machine. That just ain’t right.”
“I don’t know . . .why else would all these young girls be doing it?”
“Cuz they’re stupid little girls and not thinking about how ridiculous they’re going to look when they’re real women,” he said, adding a silent but complimentary, like you with an appreciative eye caress of her glistening bare legs. “Look, if you don’t believe me, let’s ask him,” he suggested, calling over the bartender. “I’ll bet you the next round, that if given the choice, he’d pick nipple ring over tongue ring.”
“Dude, could you settle a bet for us?”
“Tongue ring or nipple ring?”
“Depends. Girlfriend or one-nighter?”
The face with the uninhibited grin, sitting below a perfectly bald, domed head, erupted into a deep and rolling laugh that shook the cobwebs from her vagina. Lena joined in, her sing-song chuckle blending nicely with his.
“Bartender, another round please, on me,” she requested, taking her loss with grace.
“Sir, what can I bring you?” the bartender asked over the hubbub of fans cheering the second half kick-off and the New York Jets’ bullet train return to the New Orleans Saints’ forty-yard line.
“Grey Goose, straight, on the rocks with a twist.”
“You got it.”
The cheers following the Jets’ touchdown turned to boos as the snap was bobbled and the extra point drifted wide. Still, New York moved ahead of their rivals 20-7.
Lena raised her glass to his before tipping it to her lips.
No wedding ring. His eyes grabbed hers, electric interest flying between them, before lowering to check out her luscious,
peach-stained lips wrapped around the rim of her drink. He exhaled the decidedly devious request for those same lips to be wrapped around his wakening dick, replacing them with a more apropos, stranger-friendly query.
“Jets or Saints?”
“Well, I’m definitely no sinner,” she cooed, raising her eyes to meet his, while fingering the edge of her glass. Her looks, actions and words didn’t match, leaving him wondering how much of an angel she could possibly be.
“I’ll take that to mean that you’re rooting for the Saints.”
“You are correct.”
“So you’re a big Kim Kardashian fan?”
“What?” The out-of-left field quality of his question threw her. “Oh please, do explain,” she requested with an amused chuckle.
“After she put Reggie Bush on her show, every woman in America became a Saints fan. They love her, so, by association, they love him, too.”
“Women love her?”
“Yeah, they relate to her combination of innocent, but smoking hot, sex appeal. It’s like she’s saying, ‘I’m a good girl, but I can be bad when I want to.’ Beyoncé is the same way.”
It’s like he’s reading me, Lena thought as she felt the good girl inside of her smile in agreement. Even at 42 years of age, she understood all too well the concept of being good while her bad girl was screaming to get out. But like most women she knew, she’d been taught from birth to be refined, respectful and mindful of her reputation, so she ignored the screams and carried that good girl mind-set in and out of the bedroom.
“No, I’m a Saints fan because I appreciate the skill and drive of Drew Brees. Given his foot agility, his release, his accuracy and the fact that he is smart as hell, he’s got a skill set that makes him an amazing athlete and great quarterback.
“And, yeah, Reggie is a cutie, but he also can haul ass,” Lena continued. “In just four seasons, he’s rushed for nearly four thousand yards and scored twenty-four touchdowns. And let’s not forget Garret Hartley. The boy has a leg on him. Deadly accurate inside of forty-five yards. He would have never missed that field goal like Feely did in the first half.”
“Hey, it happens. But you’re selling the Jets short. Mark Sanchez is just now coming into his own. He’s got a strong arm, makes good decisions and is a leader on the field. His first year in the league, he led his team to the playoffs. How many rookie quarter-backs have done that and actually even won the first game?”
“Four,” Lena offered, happily showing off her knowledge of sports.
“Really?” he asked, biting his lip and turning up the twinkle in his eye. “Damn, I think I’m looking at the perfect woman—a hottie who knows football.”
And basketball, and baseball, and even a little hockey and NASCAR, she wanted to tell him, but didn’t. You can’t sit at the helm of one of cable broadcasting’s first sports networks and not pick up a thing or two.
Lena gave him a wink and a tilted smile before turning her attention back to the Super Bowl. It was an exciting game; one that looked like it might go all the way down to the wire. The two watched as possession of the ball changed hands several times, neither team giving up enough yards for a score. On occasion, Lena could feel the stranger’s eyes drifting away from the television and over to her. They never seemed to settle on one spot for long. Instead, his gaze roamed like a player in the backfield, weighing the options in front of him.
They jumped up with the rest of the crowd, brought to their feet by the running prowess of the Saints’ Rickie Ross. His dodging and weaving brought New Orleans three yards shy of the Jet’s thirty-seven-yard line and a first down.
“What do they say? Poetry in motion.”
“Oh, so you’re a Rickie Rosster?” he asked, referring to the player’s legion of fans while trying to determine if she was just another groupie in town to get laid by a baller.
“He has skills.” Lena downed the rest of her tequila, allowing the silky smooth liquid to coat her throat and loosen her tongue. “So skilled that he’s about to take the lead. I will bet you another round that the Saints will penetrate the Jets’ defenses and score.”
He took in the body language that accompanied her offer—one heavily punctuated with sexual innuendo. She crossed her shimmering bronze legs and drew them closer to her body, all the while allowing one high-heeled sandal to dangle from her well-pedicured foot like a fishing lure. Was she fishing? He certainly hoped so, because between the foot, the flirting, and that woodsy floral scent that kept wafting over to his side of the bar, he was already hooked.
“You’re on.” He smiled, happily taking the bait.
“Bartender, another round on me,” Lena requested with good-humored exasperation after the Jets stopped the Saints at the line of scrimmage with no gain.
“Here comes your boy,” he teased. “Care to sweeten the pot?”
Her competitive nature, like the rest of her, was now aroused. Lena threw back her shot of tequila and smiled in response, secretly wondering if his chest was as smooth as his head. “Name your wager.”
“If Hartly hits this field goal, dinner is on me. If he misses, it’s on you.”
There’s that smirk again. Goddamn, this boy is good looking, she thought, while quickly visualizing the literal interpretation of his suggestion.
“That makes the assumption that we are having dinner together,” she replied, adding a little cat to her mouse.
“But aren’t we?” he asked. There was no challenge, just matter-of-factness in his eyes.
“It’s on.” Who am I trying to kid?
“YES!!” Tequila and competitiveness combined caused Lena to stand up and cheer, and add a corny Cabbage Patch dance to her celebration. Thanks to Hartley’s sure foot, Lena had dinner plans and the Jets lead was narrowed to seven points.
“Looks like I owe you. So I assume eating here at the Setai will work for you?” he asked, while in his head running down his room service menu, one that included everything but food. “I mean, I’d love to take you anywhere you’d like to go, but considering the fact that this town is crawling with Super Bowl fans, I don’t think we’re going to have much luck.”
“Are you staying here?” Lena asked, not revealing that she was already a guest in one of the suites.
“Yes. I’m here on business. And you?”
“Same.” Though mixing in a little pleasure seems like a real possibility, she thought, but didn’t add. “And, yes, dinner here is fine.”
Another round later, the two-minute warning sounded, leaving the Saints with possession of the ball. Lena and her mystery man watched as their quarterback led his team up the field and into scoring position. On the next play, with only twenty-six seconds left on the clock, the New Orleans fullback rushed past the New York defense and into the end zone, making the score 21-20.
“He’s got to go for it. They need two points to win,” he declared.
Tipsy and feeling flush, Lena leaned in close enough to breathe in his smell and with it, watered the seeds of arousal sprouting like wildflowers in her. “I’ll bet you anything that they make this conversion.”
“Yep. Winner takes all.”
“That’s a hefty wager to make with a perfect stranger.”
“I’m Pocahontas,” she said, raising her empty glass to his. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pocahontas?” he asked with a chuckle. “No last name?”
“Why be so formal?”
“True, and Disney characters don’t tend to have last names anyway.”
“Exactly.” Lena smiled at him. When she upped the ante, she’d already decided to have sex with this stranger, but she had no intention of being herself while doing it.
“Well, in that case, Pocahontas, I’m Mr. Johnson.” He smirked.
Lena giggled to herself, amused by not only his willingness to play her game, but his choice of moniker. She leaned in close to his ear. “As in Mr. Big Johnson?” she whispered coyly.
“Oh, I see you’ve heard of me,” he said, shivering slightly from her warm breath tickling his ear.
“I have a very good friend with the same name,” she continued while lightly brushing his earlobe with the tip of her tongue. Johnson turned his face to meet hers, leaning in, wanting to touch her lips with his own.
Lena gently backed away. “You haven’t won yet, Mr. Johnson.”
“It appears that I have,” he said before devouring her mouth as the room exploded into joyous bedlam. The New York Jets held firm, denying the Saints their two-point conversion, and winning the championship game by one point.
The room melted away under the heat of Johnson’s kiss. It was the perfect kiss for the occasion. It was not fueled by quiet discovery or the sweet pretense of sensuous coupling between lovers. This kiss was powered by an overwhelming need to get to know each other on the basest of levels—a lust demanding to be satisfied. This kiss was the prelude to a fuck.
His tongue crossed her lips, at first like a wandering vagabond looking for a place to land, but as Lena greeted it with her own, it stiffened and began to rhythmically move in and out between her lips as a preview of things to come. Lena felt every erogenous zone on her body come to full attention. Through a series of well-choreographed tingles, pulses and throbs, they informed her that the bad girl was making a break and the bitch wanted a full-out, one-night-only, fuck-fest. A sexual romp designed to clear her mind and body from the want and need that had been distracting her for months—hell, years, if she owned up to the truth. Forget her reputation, her mother, her peers and colleagues. Even forget Douglas. Tonight, she wanted hot, heavy, uninhibited, one-night stand, never see your ass again, stranger sex.
The party atmosphere reappeared as Lena pulled away and opened her eyes.
“So, you won. Name your prize,” she said, her voice rough with desire.
“Do you have to ask?” he said, gently running his finger across her lips. “I want you.”
“Looks like everyone’s a winner tonight,“ Lena declared as she gathered her things to follow him upstairs.