Tell Me More

Tell Me More
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Jo Hutchinson is obsessed with a man she’s never seen—only heard.Her late-night calls from the office to the mysterious “Mr. D. ” grow increasingly intimate, until they finally become full-blown phone sex. Still, Jo doesn’t dare meet him. Instead, she embarks on a series of sizzling sexual escapades with other guys, sharing every sweaty moment with Mr. D. afterward, a passion-by-proxy arrangement they both get off on.But even as she’s charting brave new naughty worlds, Jo knows that it’s all really for Mr. D. Every pleasure she experiences—eagerly, athletically, vocally—is to please him. Immersed in fantasy, reality just slips away—even the chance at that elusive combination of love and lust.Her new tenant, Patrick, an Irish hunk in geek’s clothing, is totally into her. And in her lucid moments, Jo knows she feels the same. Can she tear herself away from her kinky dreamworld long enough to appreciate what’s right in front of her? Or has Mr. D. ruined her for real life?“Mullany pens an impressively compelling full of humor and poignant irony. ” —Publishers Weekly

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Tell Me More

Janet Mullany


www.spice-books.co.uk

In memory of Macheath who always fell over for me

1

“I’M HERE FOR MY SKIS.”

I looked at him lounging against the doorway. He’d rung the doorbell, an exercise in futility or good manners—I wasn’t sure which since both door and screen were open to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. Hugh was quite the lounger, particularly in others’ beds. Searching for a snappy comeback, I said, “And how’s the stick insect?”

“Flowyr’s fine.”

Flowyr. I’d been betrayed for a woman called Flowyr.

“My skis, Jo.”

I stepped back. “You know where they are.”

He straightened himself and ambled into the house, accompanied by a few yellow leaves. I tried not to watch. There was something about Hugh in motion, any sort of motion, that still did things to me, a sort of knee-jerk hot-wire to desire. My body was in no hurry to change its habits.

I heard him go into the basement. “Hugh, while you’re down there, would you look at the traps?”

“I thought that was what your fucking cat was for.” Banging and thumping noises accompanied his words.

“He can’t empty mousetraps.”

After a while Hugh came back up the stairs carrying his ski gear. “Nothing.”

“Was the peanut butter still on them?”

“Christ, Jo, I don’t know.” He dropped his skis, poles and boots on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. “I didn’t look that close, okay? It’s dark down there. Do you have my Ken Burns DVDs?”

I gestured toward the living room. “Feel free.”

I followed him in anyway, telling myself it wasn’t for the pleasure of seeing his ski-and-tennis-toned body drop to a squat, only to make sure he didn’t take the Firth-Ehle Pride and Prejudice. He liked Jennifer Ehle and her astonishing elevated breasts; I liked all the astonishingly unfettered penises waving around inside the men’s pants.

“So,” he said, catching me gazing at his thighs, “the thing is, Flowyr and I aren’t together anymore. I told you it was a onetime thing. An accident.”

“An accident? You rear-ended her?”

“Don’t yell, honey, you don’t want to go on the air sounding hoarse—”

“Don’t call me honey.”

He stood—without a tremor, quads in great shape—clutching a stack of DVDs. “Jo, I’m—”

“I bought Shaun of the Dead,” I said, seeing it in his hands.

“For my birthday, so it’s mine. Jo, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. The words you never expect to hear from a man. But was his apology for letting Flowyr run his red light or for depriving me of one of my favorite movies?

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

I dropped to the couch, putting myself at eye level with a relatively unfettered penis uncurling behind his khakis.

He had apologized.

If only a moment could be bronzed. Hugh dropped to his knees, laid the DVDs on the floor and shuffled forward. His hands landed on the couch on either side of me. “Sorry. I’ve been so unhappy. I know you have been, too. I was dumb. I …”

This was all too familiar; Hugh making himself available, those lovely toffee-colored eyes with the long lashes, his mouth and a slight dusting of late-day stubble, all within easy reach—all the above-the-neck parts I found sexy and irresistible. And he’d apologized, although I suspected it was pretty meaningless—Had the man no shame? Did he really want to keep Shaun of the Dead that badly? Wasn’t I intending to kick him out of my life (again) with no happy or unhappy returns?

Well, yes. But.

A quick calculation. When did I think I was next going to have the chance of brainless sex with someone who knew what he was doing and knew what I liked? Shouldn’t I be stocking up for the long famine ahead?

A whiff of eau de Hugh wafted into my brain, or crotch, or somewhere.

One of his hands moved to cup my hip.

Our heads swayed, angled.

His lips were slightly chapped. I hadn’t been around to remind him to carry his organic hemp lip salve, and however much mindless screwing he’d had with Flowyr (Flowyr!)—well, that slut wouldn’t be concerned about his lips. Or she might like it rough. Rough skin, that is, rasping on …

Oh, my God. We were kissing and for a moment it was poignant and lovely before it became something equally lovely, but hot and driven. Hands delved into clothes, pushing up, aside, unbuttoning; the press and trail of fingertips, palms, as we became reacquainted with each other’s skin. My T-shirt was up around my collarbone, my bra unsnapped and his tongue in my mouth, on my neck. I had to push him away so I could get rid of my clothes. As I struggled through the dark folds of T-shirt and disentangled my bra, his hands went to work on my jeans, and I lifted my hips to help him get them off me.

“Santa’s come early this year,” he commented at first sight of my panties.

Well, I did need to do laundry, it was true. I watched as his fingers splayed over the faded jolly old elf, and dipped under the elastic, where things were getting very wet.

I lunged at his shirt, unbuttoning, pushing it off him. “Get your pants off.”



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