Maddie’s coworkers have no idea that she gets off on calling random men, whispering raunchy fantasies in their ears and hearing them orgasm at the sound of her voice. Her fetish is fun, daring and most importantly, safe. That’s paramount for a transplanted Texan now living in New York.
Sex with strangers is risky. Phone sex is totally anonymous. Until Maddie calls a coworker by mistake. And when Adrian recognizes her voice, he turns her safe little fetish into a dangerous game. One that Maddie can’t possibly win.
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I drop the phone as if it just sprouted thorns.
The sound of my name is like a bucket of ice water flung at my face. I fumble for the button to end the call then throw the phone as far away from me as I can get it. I hear it land with a soft thud-probably on top of the laundry hamper at the far end of the room.
My heart feels as if it’s about to break out of my chest. I slide the vibrator out of my pussy, cringing at the slight spike of pain from pulling it out too fast. My libido has cooled to Arctic levels, leaving me bereft and shivering.
Oh God…I have to think.
Who was that?
I rack my brain, trying to fit the voice to a face I recognize. Deep and husky, with a touch of an accent. British maybe or Australian. If I wasn’t so damn terrified, I’d be turned on. He had the kind of low bass timbre I love, with a slight natural rasp to it.
And then it hits me.
An abrupt ringing startles me. I don’t recognize it at first. It’s not my home phone, and it’s not my cell, which I programmed to play the theme song from Sex and the City.
It must be the disposable cell. My heart sinks all the way into my stomach. Damn technology. Can’t even make a prank call anymore without someone being able to call me right back.
Well, I’m not about to answer. What would I say, anyway? I can’t exactly fess up to making lewd phone calls while I masturbate, now, can I? And certainly not to Adrian Morgan, who sits in the cubicle behind me at work and who’s been a giant distraction ever since he started working for the collections call center of J&J Credit two months ago.
I groan and roll over, burying my head under a pillow to drown out the ringing. Nearly ten million people live in New York City. I limit myself to the 212, 718 and 247 area codes—mostly to avoid long distance charges—which means my chances of randomly dialing someone I know should be slim to none.
Of all the people who could have recognized me, why did it have to be Adrian? He’s been pursuing me relentlessly ever since arriving at J&J. I’ve been steadfast in turning down his invitations for dinner dates, coffee dates, movie dates and getting-to-know-you walks in the park.
And now this.
I’ve only just managed to convince him I’m not interested. Which is a giant lie, of course, but it’s a whole lot better than the truth. I know where one date will lead, and it’s not a place I want to go again. I learned the hard way that I can’t simply confess my little fetish over a cocktail. If I had a penchant for being whipped or burned with hot wax, well, I could share those sexy kinks with a partner.
Telling a new lover that I need to call a random stranger while we’re having sex so I can get off? No man is quite that understanding.
I found this out when I let a boyfriend in on my secret. The aftermath of my revelation wasn’t pretty, nor was it something I ever want to experience again. So now I have two rules. No casual dating, and no sharing of kinks. I haven’t broken either in over two years, and I have no intention of starting now.
That would all be fine and good except that Adrian Morgan has discovered my secret. And he’s going to want to talk about it.