Valentine Vote (13 page)

• • •

Eric reached for Courtney's belt and pulled her to him. “I won't hurt you, Courtney. I won't ever hurt you.” As he unbuckled her belt, unzipped her skirt, and slid it down her hips, he felt her relax under his touch.

“With every fiber of my being, I know that.” She smiled. “And I'm a quick study.”

He threw off his sweater. “Okay then, what're we waiting for?”

He worked on the little pearl buttons of her blouse while she pulled his shirt out of his pants. Slowly, they peeled each other's clothes off until Eric stood in boxers and Courtney faced him in a peach-colored lace bra and matching panties.

Eric traced his thumbs along the top of Courtney's push-up bra and then rubbed her nipples through the lace. She moaned, and that was the precise cue he needed. He swept the comforter off the bed, but before he could take her into his arms, she pulled down the top sheet and leaped in.

Sliding in beside her, he touched her cheek and then kissed her—a deep, wild kiss that intertwined their tongues in a dance he desperately wanted their bodies to do. While they kissed, he unhooked her bra and slipped off her panties.

He pulled her on top of him and stroked her back, pressing her breasts into his chest, heart-to-heart. He moved his hands down to her buttocks, spreading his fingers wide and cupping her there. Moving her hips in sensuous circles against his cock, he nibbled on her bottom lip. Then he flipped her over so he was on top … and he started moving down her luscious body.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“Where do you think I'm going?” He took her breast in his mouth.

She moaned. “Just don't stop.”

When he moved down to her womanhood, she arched her back. His fingers found her sensitive bud first, and then he closed his mouth on her. She bucked underneath him and moaned. He sensed her mounting pleasure and intended to finish her, but she had other ideas.

She put her hands on his temples. “I want to come with you inside me.”

He smiled up at her, and then moved alongside her on the bed, turning her back to his chest. Reaching back to the nightstand, he took the condom, tore open the package with his teeth, and smoothed it down his erect shaft.

He ran his hand down the smooth porcelain of her back, and then lifted her leg high in the air. He positioned himself slowly, and then penetrated her sheath from behind.

She gasped.

“Hurt?” He asked.

“No, don't stop.”

He grasped her knee so that she was splayed wide, and he cupped her mound, his fingers dancing across her wet bud, which he pleasured to the point of no return. He felt her climax begin to pulse before she gave into it, and when she did, her entire body jerked with the spasms of her delight, sending him over the edge. He exploded into her, riding the wave of his release until it finally subsided, and they collapsed together. Eric wrapped his arms tightly around her and breathed into her hair.

• • •

They stayed spooned, damp skin to hot damp skin … and speechless … until their breathing returned to normal.

“Oh, God, I almost forgot. It's Valentine's Day,” Eric said.

“I think I got my present.” Courtney snuggled her butt tighter against Eric's shaft, which answered with a nudge.

“And you might get it, again.”

“Might?” Another nudge pushed against her. “You're getting persistent, Senator.”

“Courtney, this is just the beginning of my persistence.”

“Yeah? How long can you keep it up?”

Eric laughed. “Are you talking about my hard-on?”

“I'm talking about your heart.” Courtney's own heart raced as she waited for Eric's response.

“How does forever sound?”

“Good. Very, very good.”

Susan Blexrud divides her time between Orlando, Florida and Asheville, North Carolina where she leads two book clubs, advocates for gay youth, writes a monthly column for All Souls Cathedral, quilts, watches birds, and maintains a public relations consultancy. She's the married mother of two grown children, and her constant writing companions are a Chihuahua named Baby and a cockatiel named Romeo.
Valentine Vote
is her third novel for Crimson Romance.

Amy

If I believed the adage, “you are what you do,” my self-concept would be in the toilet, so to speak. I clean houses in a bikini or French maid get-up, client's choice, which contributes little to making the world a better place. As a result, my adage is, “you are what you become,” because I'm becoming a doctor.

But today, I'm Amy Maitland, fantasy maid.

My best friend and fellow medical resident, Ellen, knows about my undercover life working for Fantasy Maids, but she's the only one. If word got out at the College of Medicine, I'd be the laughingstock of the University of Central Florida. My five brothers know I work as a housemaid, which they respect as good, honest labor, but they don't know the fantasy aspect. Protective (and controlling) men that they are, they'd lock me up.

That said, it's not the worst job in the world. I've been a fantasy maid for almost two years; so far, none of my clients has tried to assault me. But it's always a possibility, considering Florida's propensity for perverts. The company (i.e. Rex, the owner and a part-time secretary) arms us with pepper spray and an emergency hotline number (Rex's cell phone), and they screen the customers to make sure no one's a registered sex offender. They also arrange our appointments and Rex is good about following up — within four or five days — to make sure we survived the gig.

Still, being alone with a strange guy in his apartment is enough to get anyone's adrenalin pumping and I never go into a new situation without first sending up a prayer. I always let Ellen know where I'm going and I carry a rosary, even though I'm not Catholic. A childhood friend gave me a strand of the rose-colored beads for Christmas one year, and they've been my protector ever since.

Today, I'm heading to a condominium in stylish Winter Park, just north of Orlando. The address alone is comforting. It's just off Park Avenue in a nice neighborhood next door to a church. But I remind myself Ted Bundy lived in a nice neighborhood. Let's face it: serial killers
can
look like the boy next door.

My old, white Honda sputters into the church parking lot adjacent to the condominium complex without any signs of cardiac arrest (this I take as a good omen). The Rambling Waters sign on the wrought iron gate looks welcoming.

I turn off the ignition and my ancient car heaves a sigh. Grabbing my backpack with my stash of costumes, I hop out of my car and punch in the security code at the entrance gate. It creaks open like the sound at the beginning of Michael Jackson's Thriller, which my brother Matt plays ad nauseam around Halloween.

As I enter the property, I notice a network of ponds meandering around the buildings. I'm sure the landscape architect intended them to be beautiful, but all I see is a maintenance nightmare — all that algae to eradicate. I shake my head. I've been cleaning too long.

I nod to an elderly couple walking their white miniature poodle. The dog is decked out in a purple vest and ear bows and looks slightly embarrassed. Good to know I'm not the only one who wears ridiculous outfits.

“Can we help you find something, dear?” the woman inquires. Could it be because I'm standing here with the address in one hand and a blank stare on my face?

We're supposed to look inconspicuous when we arrive at a job so the casual witness doesn't get wigged out by a neighbor's proclivities. To that end, I'm dressed in my usual jeans and t-shirt. Would she call me dear if she saw me in uniform?

My appointment is for six
P.M.
and I'm already a few minutes late. I count seven buildings on the property, with no visible numbers. Gratefully, I say, “Thank you. I'm looking for unit Five B.”

The woman elbows her companion. “Oh, that's where that nice young lawyer lives. What's his name, Harold?”

Harold shrugs and the woman pulls her poodle away from the geranium it's been nibbling on. She cups one hand around her mouth and points to Harold with the other. “He's not very observant.” She rolls her eyes. “Building Five is just to the right of the pool, which is straight ahead.”

“Thanks.” I head in the direction she indicates. My sandals crunch as pavement gives way to gravel. I look down to find strategically-placed stepping stones in the shape of turtles. Strategically placed for Big Foot, that is. The stones are way too far apart for my five-foot-three leg span. I essentially hurtle from turtle to turtle, using my backpack for ballast. I'm working up a sweat in the May humidity.

Behind me the woman calls out, “Spending the night?”

It's none of her business either way, but when you reach a certain age, you don't mince words. I find that endearing. It's one of the reasons I'm leaning toward a specialty in geriatrics. I stifle a smile and leap on like I don't hear her.

I count twenty turtles by the time I find Five B, which is on the second floor. I squint into the partly cloudy sky and cross myself before I start up the steps to indulge the imagination of my latest employer. My sandals slap the stairs; the flat surface is comforting after the series of round turtle backs.

My nerves always wait until the last possible moment to go bonkers and, as I'm standing at the door poised to rap, my heart begins to pound so loudly I'm not sure I even need to knock. Rex promotes his fantasy maids as being “doe-eyed and dewy” when he talks with potential clients — “doe-eyed and dewy” being the equivalent of virginally innocent. Today, though, between rushing to get here, the turtle stepping stones, and the flight of stairs, I'm more drenched than dewy, which is not exactly the sexy image I'm supposed to project. Still, for better or worse, this is Florida where heat and humidity go hand in hand, meaning that if you exert yourself at all, “drenched” is to be expected. It must be ninety degrees. I dab at my face with my t-shirt then fan my hands under my arms to get a breeze going. I hope my deodorant holds up.

Okay, show time.

As my fingers reach for the claddagh knocker on the front door, I spot the doorbell and opt for that instead. The chime rings the theme from
Doctor Zhivago
. As it happens, my mom's favorite movie, God rest her soul. I'm caught off-guard and tears well up. I'm swiping at my eyes when the door opens.

The guy across the threshold presses a finger to his lips and pulls me into the condominium. He sort of props me next to the wall. “You don't have a cold, do you? If you do, I want a discount.” He backs away and eyes me up and down then he grins. “Good old Claudia would shit a brick if she saw you.”

“I take it I won't be meeting good old Claudia?” I shiver from the blast of air conditioning, though it's welcome relief.

“Hell, no, she's the fiancée … and my sister. Stay right here. Don't move.” He takes off down a hall.

“Uh, okay.” Wherever this is going, all I can think is how grateful I am for the cool air. I rub my arms and glance around the uncluttered, tasteful living room. It's immaculately decorated in beige and chocolate brown, strong masculine colors. I can't imagine what I'm going to clean.

As I'm sizing up the job, another guy emerges from the hallway. One towel wraps around his tight-as-a-drum middle as he dries his hair with another. My jaw drops. I almost have to push it closed. Six feet, wavy dark brown hair, and broad shoulders … my dream formula. My belly tightens and I get a little twinge … below my umbilicus.

“Whoa, pardon me,” he says as he tosses his hair towel to his friend and tightens the one around his waist. “I didn't know we were expecting company.”

“Surprise!” his friend bellows, clapping Mr. Gorgeous on the back. “She's an early bachelor party gift. Your groomsmen, yours truly included, decided to loosen you up a bit before we head to the strip club. May I introduce your fantasy maid?”

Oh, no, my least favorite client (aside from a rapist, of course) is the fellow who gets a fantasy maid as a gift. There's inevitably time wasted while everyone has a good laugh. Well, not everyone laughs. The tricksters do. The trickee typically hems and haws and turns ten shades of red. But the tricksters always prevail. They've paid for the service and by God they're going to ensure that some cleaning gets done.

This is where I ask, “Do you have a room where I can change and would you like the bikini or the French maid outfit?” Today I'm kind of wishing I'd brought another outfit to suggest, as in one that might fulfill my own fantasies where this particular client is concerned. Although, the towel he's wearing with nothing under it is working pretty well — if I let it, which … I really shouldn't. Besides, after working up a sweat outside, I've got goose bumps from the air conditioning that make me wish guys fantasized about fur-clad Eskimos cleaning their apartments.

Of course, maybe my goose pimples are a sign of something else, like the sight of this yummy man.

“Look, Miss … what's your name?” This from Mr. Gorgeous, who looks my age or a few years older. He extends one hand for a handshake, holding fast to his towel with the other. I wonder if he's ticklish.

I place my hand in his. Warm fingers wrap around mine. Very nice. “I'm Amy, your fantasy maid.” My voice is at least an octave higher than usual. His eyes grow wide. I guess he wasn't expecting me to squeak. Clearing my throat, I launch into my shtick. “I'm here for two hours to provide anything you need in the way of cleaning. I even do windows.” I display a toothy grin. What is wrong with me?

“Well, I'm Jake. And while I appreciate the generosity of my groomsmen,” he looks at his friend and mock-growls, “you don't need to stick around to do my cleaning.” He smiles and I swear his eyes twinkle.