RoamWild by Valerie Herme´ Read Free Book Online

the window munching a complimentary Godiva chocolate bar and sipping from a complimentary bottle of Evian water.
    I’ve made lots to tightly scheduled trips to Los Angeles for the law firm. This is the first time I’ve come not knowing what I want. All I have is a guy’s name on a piece of paper given to me by a Jamaican bawdy house manager in payment for a world class ass fuck. The name doesn’t sound real. Phil Still? Come on.
    Why am I holding the cool water bottle against my bare waxed crotch? Less than twenty-four hours ago, I went through enough fucking in two shifts at Seattle Young to drive a nymphomaniac to a nunnery. But my cunt never runs short of reasons.
    I pull the curtains together, walk through the shadows to the bed, stretch my legs under the fragrant sheets, hide my face in a pillow, and let my finger play hide and seek with my clit. My coming is soft. My head feels heavy. The room is deliciously silent.
    After the nap, a soak in a bathtub big enough for a foursome, and a glass of wine from the complimentary bottle of California Chablis, I feel ready for some kind of evening. I open the shades in time to watch the setting sun spread a golden carpet across the Pacific.
    I’m anxious to search for the guy who gained admission to Seattle Young twice in one week. Why? The mix of intensity and detachment in his eyes and way he touched me, both soft and bold, cut me in two. And though he handled me expertly, I failed to read a single sex thought in him.
    I’m on his mind, but why? I’ll find him, and he’ll be this ordinary shmuck, and the disturbance he stirred in me will go away.
    My password still works for the people-finder program my law firm—my former law firm—uses. The search shows one person in the LA area named Phil Still, which isn’t surprising. At least I know the name isn’t fake. I’m not familiar enough with the city to make a guess at what part of town his address might be in. I call the concierge and order a cab.
    The ride leaves me in front of a three-story office building with an outside staircase and red awnings. A dry cleaners and a Chinese restaurant occupy the ground floor. The address indicates a location on the top level.
    This neighborhood doesn’t look able to generate enough spare income for multiple visits to Seattle Young.
    I climb the stairs. Light comes through a glass door painted with the title CPS Placements . Inside, I see a reception area with no magazines on the rack and no computer on the desk. I call, “Hello?”
    Voices come from the back room, not conversation but the cadenced back and forth of announcers. Somebody is watching a ball game, or listening to one.
    I try another hello, hear no answer, and head toward the noise. I’m wearing low-heeled sandals, short shorts, a silk t-shirt, bikini-style bra and panties, and minimal makeup. I’m worried he’ll recognize me. Or am I worried he won’t?
    The inner door is open. I head for the noise.
    I know him at once by the top of his head. I’ve studied it from above before, when he went down on me. It’s all of him I can see with the back of his chair between us, except for his feet, which are clad in nice black leather shoes and black socks. They’re crossed on a scarred desktop, next to an old television showing black and white images of baseball players in a game played long ago.
    I ask, “Mr. Still?”
    The feet come down. The chair turns. Apparently the mix of hot and cold never leaves those eyes. His blue suit and open-collared light blue shirt make him look more downtown than his surroundings. His grin slides sideways. Oh, shit. He knows who I am.
    He did well, the time he went down on me. His tongue knew what to do.
    He asks, “Shall we go for a ride?”
    “Why should we?”
    “Have you eaten?”
    I know I should say Cut the crap and tell me who you are and what you want. Instead, I hear myself saying, “Good idea.”

Chapter Eleven Dinner Propositions
    His new-looking Lexus convertible is