Page 28 of Due South

My hips sway more than they ought to as I walk toward where he’d disappeared to a few minutes ago. It takes me longer than I’d like because, with the tall shoes and the tight skirt, I have to mince my way there. I saw how he’d looked at me as I talked to Leo. And I’d noticed too the way Leo’s eyes kept wandering to my neckline. This dress—it’s not exactly subtle, and though I’m probably going to hell for it, I like the way most of the men look at me. It makes me feel desirable, sexy.

I nod at Janelle as I pass her, and when I turn the corner, I’m greeted by a single cut into the wall instead of the two doors I’m expecting.

Unisex bathrooms.

Oh.

And when I wind my way around the slab of marble blocking the room from the hallway, I kind of can’t believe what I’m seeing. A trough of a sink in the middle, but lining three of the walls are stalls. Not your typical, may-as-well-be-a-house-of-cards framework of barely-big-enough-to-leave-you-decent metal walls and doors that never quite close right. No, these stalls have floor to ceiling doors, and I swear to god there is mood lighting in here. Soft and low. The music from the party is piped in here too.

Holy crap. I am in a sex bathroom.

I don’t know if the architect snickered to herself while she was designing this or if the unisex nature was a necessity of space, but there’s no denying it. This bathroom was built for fucking.

While the quirks of the space make for better-than-I-could’ve-hoped-for banging opportunities, they also make it hard to determine which of the stalls Evans is in. I don’t want to start hissing his name, because…because yeah, I’d die if anyone figured out what we were up to, even though in theory, I like the idea of having witnesses, of being in public. So many messy thoughts in my head.

Then a door is nudged ajar and I’m relieved when Evans’s head pokes out. He breaks into a grin when he sees me and gestures me over, keeping an eye out while I scurry over. Once I reach him, he ushers me into the stall and closes the door behind me. Despite the fancy walls and floors, it’s still essentially a bathroom stall and I start to feel silly. It stops when he says, “Turn around.”

His tone of voice sets off a chain reaction. My nipples draw into hard points that rub against the satin of my bra, and my breasts seem to strain against the cups.Touch me please, they beg. My dress feels tighter in certain areas, like my chest has swelled and my hips. I’m much more conscious of what exactly the fabric is clinging to.Touch me.

I follow his instructions, spinning on the balls of my feet until I’m facing the door I came in.

“Hands on the wall.”

I lay my palms and fingertips against the cool marble at shoulder-height and wait for my next instructions in this game we’re playing. He’s silent, though, and I wonder what he’s doing. If he’s jerking off looking at my butt, I’m going to be annoyed.You called me in here for this?

I’m about to tell him to stop wasting my time, but then I hear voices. Voices I recognize. It’s Singh and Ellis. And as the voices get closer, Evans’s fingertips land on the backs of my thighs, skimming the hem of my dress, which is almost at my knees.

Singh is talking about the shrimp cocktail while Ellis favors the canapes. They carry on their inane hors d’oevres chatter while Evans slips his fingers under the fabric of my dress and starts to work it up my legs, inch by excruciating inch. Our coworkers even talk to each other while they’re in the stalls, practically shouting about the admittedly insane spread. It’s true that, even though India is a hardass, this is the best holiday party we’ve ever had. I guess Singh and Ellis are both bachelors too, probably don’t cook much, so this kind of food is a treat.

All the while, Evans is dragging the fabric slowly, slowly over my thighs, taking his damn time. My fingers are curling against the marble that’s been warmed by my touch, and I want to snap and tell him to get on with it.

His hot breath on my ear makes me turn, and the desire that’s been drawing me up tight, tight, is thrummed when his mouth finds my lobe. He sucks and nibbles while his hands keep up their excruciatingly snail-paced assault on my decency.

He’s only midway up my thighs when Singh and Ellis slam out of their stalls and thankfully wash their hands before departing back to the buffet. When they leave, though, Evans stops.

“What the—”

But before I can get the rest of the sentence out of my mouth, I hear whistling through the door. That’s… Yeah, someone is definitely whistling “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as they come to take a leak. Meanwhile, Evans has started again, edging my dress up until his fingers hit the tops of my stockings and the suck of air through his teeth thrills me.

“You’re a very naughty girl, Lucy,” he purrs in my ear. I push my butt toward him because apparently I’m the very filthiest kind of girl. The kind who likes to be told she’s dirty and wallow in it, but only with someone else who wants to wallow in it too. Evans likes this about me, that I like to play these games. A lot.

His fingers find the garters, and he snaps one against my skin before bracing his hands on my ass cheeks and pushing me back toward the door, but not far enough to touch.

I want to touch.

I want to rock against something, anything to relieve the ache. It started in my nipples and in my clit, but the feeling of sex has spread through my whole body. I think I might be able to come if he’d rub my hair between his fingertips or if he’d lay the lightest of kisses on a fingernail. As long as it was rhythmic, repetitive contact…

“Did you wear these for me? When you rolled them up your calves, over your knees and tugged them up your thighs, did you think of me touching you everywhere they touched? Because I’m going to.”

I stuff the squeak down because whoever was whistling is still whistling. I’m guessing it’s Leo because he’s forever humming and singing under his breath in the office. And the truth is, Ihadhad a fleeting thought of Evans while I’d rolled the stocking up my legs and clipped the silk between the garters. But it was an everyday act; nothing particularly sensual or sexual about it. Now I’ll think of him every time I put stockings on. And if I could rewind my vague memories of the task performed, I can imbue it with the weight of sex, the weight of his desire. So it’s only an eensie, weensie lie to say “yes.”

Evans is tracing the garters now, front and back, his fingers slipping along my flesh on the sides of the elastic. I thrust my ass back at him because the feather-light touch is doing nothing for me. What it’s doing is somethingtome. And again, his hands cup my ass cheeks and he steers my hips back to where he’d put them.

“You’ll keep still or I’ll stop. Don’t test me, Lucy, because I’m not kidding. I’m hard as hell for you, but I’ll walk away if you can’t behave. If you’re good, you’ll get a treat. And by treat, I mean a nice hard fuck against this door while the people we work with go about their business, not knowing I’ve got my cock buried inside your sweet, hot cunt.”

Lust. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s pushing against the containment of my body. Lust and want. I’m soaking wet, I know it. Who knew some dirty words in a semi-public place could turn my crank so freaking hard? And by the time his clever, time-taking fingers make it to my underwear, they’re going to be drenched. Maybe dripping. Do women actually get so wet and slick it coats the insides of their thighs? Because I might be. I shift slightly, and I can already feel how my lips slide against the slip of fabric between my thighs.

It takes two more visitors for Evans to finally work my skirt over my hips and up to my waist. When the fabric is bunched up, he grabs my cheeks and digs his fingers into me, pulling me apart, drawing all my filthy thoughts to between my legs with his lewd whispers.

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