Page 9 of Plum

I cock a hip and twirl a finger in my hair. Sure. Why not. I can play sweet. “Sweet as peaches.”

“You beat my stepbrother with a shoe.”

Yeah, I did do that. I pout my lower lip. Try real damn hard to look sorry. “I lost my temper.”

“Before the—the transaction went south—you asked him to choke you with his fat cock.”

I did? Does sound like somethin’ I’d say to speed shit up. “So, you were snakin’ then, weren’t you, dirty boy?”

His face is a blank. He don’t know what I mean.

“Were you watchin’ me take his thick cock in my hot, wet mouth?”

He can’t tear his eyes from my lips. Oh, I’ve got him now. He’s on the hook. Now, all I have to do is reel him.

“Were you wonderin’ what it felt like? I can show you. Solve the mystery. Would you like that, baby?”

“Adam.”

Huh?

“My name’s Adam. Adam Wade.”

He’s stopped perving on my body, and he’s focusing on my face as if he’s lookin’ for something. Shit. This fucker’s a squirrelly one. Almost had him, I swear.

“Nice to meet you, Adam.”

“And you are?”

Not at all impressed by your fancy-ass manners, for one. But I’m also a professional.

I force as genuine a smile as I can manage. “Plum.”

I offer my hand. The suits love it when I shake hands. I think it plays into their fuckin’-the-hot-chick-at-the-office fantasies.

Adam takes it and then turns his grip until we’re holding hands. Right in the middle of the floor. I tug, but he doesn’t let go. I’d say this is getting weird, but I’ve been in this game too long. Dude’s not askin’ me to grind my stiletto heels into his nuts; it ain’t that weird.

“Plum. Where did you get that name?”

I got a line about how I’m named for my sweet, juicy ass. Got another about being ripe for the pickin’.

For some fool reason, I end up telling him the truth.

“I was callin’ myself Posh, but when I came here, that name was already taken.” I nod over to where Cheyenne’s workin’ the big bar. “My boss suggested Plum since I already had a few hoodies with aPdone on the chests.”

“I like Plum.” My gaze darts up. He’s not sayin’ it like he’s flirting. Not really. So help me, it sounds like a compliment. “It’s different.”

“Yeah. Can’t find it on a keychain nowhere.”

“I went to school with three other Adams, but no Plums.”

“Not ever. Not even in your lunch bag?”

“If I had had a plum, I wouldn’t have shoved it in a lunch bag.”

He’s smilin’ real coy, as if he needs to check with someone whether it’s okay that he flirts, and it dawns on me that I’m smilin’ back, all goofy. He’s still got my hand. He’s stroking the back of it with the pad of his rough thumb.

This is a stupid conversation. I should get him in the back or cut bait.

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