Illegal Use of Hands

Chapter 5

Stacy frowned at the disheveled pile of clothes on her bed. She had already chosen and discarded four different outfits. What did one wear to lunch, anyway, with a very sexy guy who pretended to be your guy to raise your hot babe quotient? All the outfits were somehow wrong: too fussy, too plain, too businesslike—What the hell? I am in business—or too casual.

Why couldn't she simply pull some kind of ensemble together today without all the dithering?

Because Max, the devil, had said, "Wear something sexy."

Max. The man whose goodnight kiss had left her wanting to get naked with him and leap onto his c**k. The thought startled her so she nearly dropped the clothes she held. Then another thought hit her.

And wouldn't that just shock the hell out of him?

Why on earth have erotic thoughts about Max, anyway? Good old Max. Doing her a favor.

Staring at herself standing in her bra and thong before her mirror, she wondered what Max would think of her body. She pinched one of her n*****s through the satin covering, trying to imagine Max's touch there instead of hers. Sliding her hand down across her tummy and inside the silk of her thong, she paused at her mound. As if they had a mind of their own, her fingers stole into the wet slit and found her c******s.

Ohhh!

Closing her eyes, she pretended the touch belonged to Max. That he rubbed the bundle of hot flesh in a steady rhythm. Plunging two fingers into her soaked cunt. Lifting her hand to lick her juices from the skin.

Her eyes flew open.

What the hell?

I'm losing my mind. It's that crazy plan I agreed to. And my bruised ego.

But was it? Really?

It was the damn kiss. It had to be. Who knew good old familiar Max Sullivan could kiss like a devil? Or that the mere touch of his mouth would set her entire body on fire?

Shaking herself out of the sensual fog, she turned back to the problem at hand. They'd planned a Valentine's Day campaign, so she should probably choose an outfit accordingly. Start out right. She found a flirty red skirt she had forgotten about in the back of her closet and matched it with a white cami and a red and white jacket. She took extra pains with her makeup, even pulling out a red lipstick she hadn't used in forever. On a whim, she decided to wear her hair loose instead of pulled back in a clip, and dug out a large pair of gold hoop earrings.

Stacy considered her reflection again. Was she making a mistake?

Hope I don't look like I'm going to a costume party. Or trolling for tricks.

Well, never up never in, as they say in golf. Or at least as one boring date used to quote all the time.

In the elevator riding up to the magazine offices, she noticed some of the men slanting glances at her. Usually she ignored them—not that any of them had shown blatant interest. Today, however, her lips curved in a tiny smile as she stared straight ahead.

"Wow!" Deedee, the receptionist, stared at her. "New hairdo? You look—amazing."

"Thanks." She passed out another smile as she picked up her messages and breezed down the hall to her cubicle.

"Hey, Stacy." Janelle, one of the other writers, entered from the break room. "Did you get—?" She stopped so suddenly, coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug. "Wow, Stacy." She raked her gaze from top to bottom. "Just wow! What did you do to yourself?"

Stacy didn't know whether to laugh or punch the woman out. Instead, she gave a nonchalant shrug as she put her purse away. "Nothing special. I thought I'd wear a little brighter getup than usual."

"Brighter? You're a whole new person." Janelle's face reddened. "I mean, not that you don't always look fab—"

Stacy waved a hand at her. "It's okay. I know my fashion sense sometimes leaves a lot to be desired." A sin for a woman's mag writer. Why hadn't she thought about that before? "No problem. Anything going on I should know about?"

"New assignments at the staff meeting later this morning." Janelle lifted a shoulder. "That's about it."

"Okay, then. Good. Well, I guess I'll get to work."

Concentrating became harder as each hour passed. Would Max actually show up as he promised? Take her to lunch? What would everyone say when quarterback Max Sullivan came to pick her up? She tried not to fidget during the staff meeting, dutifully taking assignments notes on her iPad, but she rose with relief when it was over.

Everyone was leaving the conference room when Deedee charged in, carrying a huge padded envelope.

"Stacy," she squealed. "A delivery guy brought this for you."

"What's that?" Stacy stared at what the receptionist was holding as if it might bite her.

"Whatever it is, what's inside sure is huge." Janelle kept her eyes glued to the package.

"Open it," someone urged.

The outside had only her name and office number on it. No return address. She set it on the table, pulled back the sealed flap, and eased out the biggest heart-shaped box she had ever seen. She lifted the lid, her eyes widening at the enormous array of chocolates displayed inside.

"Holy crap!" Janelle said. "That's some box of sweets. Who sent it? Are you keeping secrets from us, Stacy?"

Max came to mind immediately. He'd said candy and flowers. What an outrageous gesture to kick off their campaign. She swallowed her smile.

"I don't think I've ever seen such an elaborate box of chocolates," one of the other writers said. "Except in a magazine. Or a store in New York."

"There's no return address or anything," Stacy addressed Deedee. "Did the messenger give you a clue who ordered the delivery?"

The receptionist shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me a thing. Just said he got a call from the candy store for a pickup and delivery." She slipped her hand inside the envelope. "Oh, look. There's a card." She flipped it open. "From your secret admirer. Will you be my Valentine? Holy s**t, Stacy. When did you get a secret admirer?"

If only it were an admirer, unless Max…but no, despite the practice kiss, we're just friends.