Chance Encounters Read online

  Chance Encounters

  A Collection of Erotic Short Stories

  By Mia Jae

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 992

  Edgewater, Florida, 32132

  Chance Encounters

  Copyright © 2010, Mia Jae

  Edited by Wendy Williams

  Cover art by Les Byerly

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-116-0

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: February 2010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Don’t Tempt Me

  Tom, Dick, and Harry

  Shouldn’t

  Pussy-Whipped

  Plumb Me

  Cyber-F*cked

  Naughty Rose

  On Bended Knee

  Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it.

  ~Anais Nin

  Don’t Tempt Me

  The bellman flagged the cab. I stepped forward as the vehicle drew closer to the curb. My latest issue of Cosmo was a poor excuse for an umbrella, but I thankfully held it over my hair anyway. Par for the course. The airline lost my luggage. I was running late for my dinner meeting. And it was raining and foggy.

  Shit.

  Only good thing to happen was that my hotel room was ready. Too bad I couldn’t afford the Hamilton where my dinner meeting was scheduled to take place. Avoiding the plastered hair look would have been nice.

  Snagging the cab was also a stroke of luck. The bellman nodded and opened the cab door, and I darted through the rain. Just as I tipped the kind man who was now dripping himself, the opposite door opened, and I watched as a man in a black suit slipped inside.

  The bellman slammed my door and the cabby took off.

  I stared hard at the intruder. “You have balls. This is my cab.”

  He shrugged. “I do have balls, and it looks like we’re sharing.”

  Wonderful.

  I leaned toward the cabby. “The Hamilton Hotel. Downtown. Take me there first. I don’t care where this asshole is going.”

  “This asshole has a name. It’s Mitch.”

  I sidled a glance to the man and childishly stuck out my tongue, then turned to look at the rain pelting the window. “I don’t care if your name is George Freakin’ Clooney. You’re an asshole.”

  He spoke to the cab driver. “The Hamilton, please.”

  I didn’t want to look at him, but I did. “That’s absurd, you couldn’t…”

  “I could.”

  I went back to examining the pattern of raindrops on the window.

  “Nice tongue.”

  I rolled my eyes. My reflection in the mirror confirmed it. Yet again, another childish moment. What was wrong with me? I glared beyond the pattern of raindrops and saw the man staring at me in the reflection. Sandy hair, businessman’s cut. About my age. Drop-dead gorgeous body and wearing a suit that probably cost more than my month’s paycheck.

  I looked at him. “Some people think so.”

  “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” He patted himself.

  I arched a penciled brow. At least I had managed to spruce up a bit, my makeup was in my carry-on, but I wasn’t about to ruin my face by administering a blowjob here in the backseat of an uptown cab. Particularly when my pending dinner meeting meant a potential new job and a transfer to the city.

  “Sorry. Just put on my lipstick.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like seeing your red lipstick on my…”

  I put up my hand. “Stop. No more. You are so out of line.” I rapped on the Plexiglas separating the cabby from the backseat and urged, “Can you hurry up?”

  Mr. Asshole scooted closer. “Seems you are a little uptight. Hot date?”

  I shook my head. “That is none of your business, but no, I’m meeting a…well, potential new employer and look!” I pushed away, “Back off. I’m stressed, okay? Let’s just share this cab and be done with it.”

  He nuzzled closer, and I could smell the musk of his aftershave. Dammit, but that smell was drawing me in. “I could fix that, you know,” he whispered, “the stress thing? I’m good.”

  He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I have great hands, or so I’ve been told, and long, caressing fingers…”

  I jerked back. “I don’t have time for this chitchat sexy banter. I don’t know you.”

  “You could.”

  “I don’t want to know you.”

  “Name’s Mitch.”

  “You already said that.”

  “And yours?”

  I smirked. “None of your business.”

  “Okay, so I’ll call you…Gina. No. No, that’s not it. Grace. I’ll call you Grace.”

  I about bit my tongue. Grace. What the hell? Was it stamped on my forehead or something? Time to look back at the rain. The city sped by. He kept talking.

  No way. Fluke. Lucky guess.

  After a moment, I felt pressure on my thigh and looked down to see his hand gently laid there. Unfortunately, my skirt had ridden up past mid-thigh. He slipped a finger under a garter.

  I whirled. “What are you doing?”

  Laughing, he said, “You haven’t pushed my hand away yet.”

  Glancing down, I realized that no, I hadn’t. Then slowly, he began a light massage toward my inner thigh.

  “We’ve got ten more minutes till the Hamilton, Grace,” he whispered, leaning closer. “I certainly don’t mind de-stressing you…”

  My heart raced. He was an attractive man, and I’d had one helluva day. I needed to be on my game in about twenty minutes, and right now, I wasn’t quite sure what my game was. My mind was always open to the possibilities when it came to sex, but at this moment? It had been a few weeks since I had been, um, de-stressed...

  It was only fingers, right? He just wanted to feel me up. And in ten minutes, I’d never see him again. Not to mention feel energized.

  Maybe I needed a short distraction.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I whispered. I’m vulnerable, I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  “Giving in to temptation isn’t always a bad thing, Grace.”

  I peered into his eyes and placed my Cosmo over my lap.

  “That’s it sweetheart…” he crooned and moved his hand further up under my skirt. I leaned back and scooted forward on the seat. My skirt inched up. With his other hand, he cradled my head into the crook of his neck. I took a deep whiff of aftershave and knew I was a goner. I spread my legs and was lost.

  His fingers grazed my pussy, ever so lightly.

  “No panties,” he rasped.

  I shook my head, “Lost luggage, just decided…to go commando.”

  “Um.”

  He slipped a finger inside and slowly, methodically, eased it in…and out. Slowly, too slowly.

  “We only have ten minutes,” I breathed.

  “Eight.”

  “Hurry.”

  He did. For the briefest moment, he retracted his finger and licked it, then inserted it deep inside my pussy again, nearly lifting me up off the seat. I pushed into him and moaned. “Yes…”

  He found my clit and flicked and pinched it, then began circling and rubbing as I felt myself grow wetter by the se
cond; anticipation welled up in my pelvis and started to peak. He cupped me and stroked hard with his palm.

  “You are so hot, baby,” he crooned.

  “Umm.”

  “If I could, I’d bury my cock inside you right now.”

  Oh, damn.

  Sensation built inside me, and my pussy tingled, wanted more, filled his hand, wet and sloppy and…

  He pushed my chin up, and my lips met his. Hungry, possessive, slipping his tongue inside my mouth. At once, I was lost with his plundering; his tantalizing my lips, below and above, as a heady, almost out-of-body experience warped over me, and an incredibly powerful orgasm shook me.

  Shook me to the very core.

  “Oh, sweet mother…” he hissed, holding me against his mouth while I panted against his lips. His fingers massaged and swirled over my wet pussy lips, dipping in and out, until he slowed and then simply cupped me, holding me close. Squeezed.

  Then the unexpected happened.

  He took me to bliss and back again with a kiss almost as erotic as the touch of his fingers to my wet pussy. Gentle passion stirred within my chest as his heated lips played over mine. Pulling me closer, he lingered and so did I, lips mingling and playing, tongues touching and exploring in soft caress.

  Then we parted.

  I allowed myself only a moment to savor the sensation. The warmth, the wickedness, before reality set in, and I knew I needed to get ready to bolt as soon as possible.

  Am I insane?

  I pushed back, away, and he withdrew his hand. His gaze never left my face as I fiddled with my skirt, clasped an errant garter, tucked in my blouse. I smoothed my hair, glanced out the window and saw the Hamilton sign just yards away.

  I gathered my magazine and bag, straightened my jacket, then finally looked at him. He’d yet to take his eyes off me.

  The cab stopped.

  He nodded. “I’ll pay the fair.”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Go.”

  I sighed and took one more look, not knowing whether I wanted to savor or forget the past ten minutes. I lifted the door handle.

  * * * *

  Inside the Hamilton, I strode across the lobby. With a quick glance at my watch, I knew I had only a few minutes before the meeting started. I snagged the eye of the concierge and nodded his way. He rushed to my side as I dug in my purse.

  “I have a meeting with a Michael Carson. I believe in the Brown room. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Of course, ma’am. The Brown is our private dining area. This way.”

  I crossed his palm with a ten-dollar bill. He swept his hand to the right. “The elevator is just around this corner. On the second floor, turn left off the elevator.”

  “Is there a restroom?”

  “Of course. A ladies room is just down the hall.”

  Excellent.

  I smiled and hurried away. With luck, I’d step into that dining room loaded for bear. I just needed a quick spruce-up, and I would be set.

  I had to land this job. It was a risk, but I had to give it a shot. My current position was going nowhere fast, and I’d likely be laid off in a few weeks. Non-profits that relied on soft money were hurting with this economy. The one I worked for was no different. A half-dozen team members were let go already, and rumor was that one of the project managers was set to go next.

  I’m one of three project managers. Incredibly bad odds.

  Pushing through the hard wooden door to the ladies room, I stalked to the bathroom mirror.

  “Dammit!” One look confirmed my fears. Humidity does crazy things with my long hair. In Phoenix, it’s straight as a stick. Here in this Midwest river city, I’m sporting ringlets.

  “Shit.”

  Nothing to do but go with the look. Setting my things on the counter, I bent at the waist, combing my fingers through damp hair. Flipping my mane back as I righted, I continued to fluff. Okay, not too bad. At least I now had height and fullness.

  After correcting some mascara smudges around my eyes and applying a new coat of lip-gloss, I headed into the stall for a brief adjustment of garters and a quick clean up. I was still wet.

  God, I smell like fresh-fucked pussy.

  Leaning into the wall, I closed my eyes. Damn. Had I just done that? What was I thinking? What kind of a woman allows a total stranger to finger her up in a dirty cab…likely with the cabbie watching in his rearview mirror?

  “Desperate?” Yeah, I’d been pretty desperate in many ways lately. Just stressed about the job and so on. Still...

  “All right.” I stood straight, shoulders back, and pushed any feelings of embarrassment away. I headed out of the stall and back to the mirror. Looking straight into my eyes, I said to my reflection, “It’s a new day. Forget it. He’s long gone, and you’ll never see him again. Priority now is to ace this interview and get the damn job. So buck up and go do it.”

  My chest lifted and fell with a long exhale as I watched. Then I reached for my bag and left.

  * * * *

  The Brown dining room was set off in a little niche all by itself. A brass placard to the right of the door told of its dedication, named for a Louise Brown who had provided funds for a soup kitchen downtown for a couple of decades starting back in the thirties. She’d trained a cook who went on to be chef at the hotel, so the Hamilton set aside this fancy-schmancy private dining area in her honor. I had read all about it on the hotel Web site.

  Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin and pushed open the door. After stepping inside the small low-lit room, I noticed a single table placed in the center. The tablecloth was gold, the china ivory, as were the flickering tapers, and the stemware sparkling.

  Nice digs.

  There were three place settings.

  My heels clicked on the parquet floor as I entered. A man stepped away from the window where he had been looking out over the busy street. He glanced my way.

  “Grace Wisdom, I presume?”

  Walking forward, I smiled and put out my hand. “Yes. I’m Grace. Are you Mr. Carson?”

  We shook. His handshake was firm and quick.

  “Grant Harper. We spoke on the phone. Happy to meet you.” Ah yes. The second in command. He swept his hand toward a chair and pulled it out for me. “Please, let’s sit.”

  I did.

  “Carson will be joining us momentarily. Let’s get settled. Wine?”

  He lifted a bottle and tipped it toward my glass, pausing for permission to pour. “Of course. Thank you.”

  Wine made me sleepy and flushed. Probably not a good move. I’d just sip, I decided.

  He poured a half glass for me and one for him.

  “I read over your résumé again this afternoon,” he offered. “Impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We are very interested, you know. This dinner? Just a technicality…to see if the chemistry we all experienced during the phone interviews plays out in real life. Carson is big on chemistry.”

  My gut did a little shimmy. Technicality. Don’t screw this up now, Grace. It’s practically in the bag.

  I smiled. “I’m confident I am the right project manager for your team.” Might as well put myself right out there. “My track record is excellent, and I produce results.” Leaning forward, I continued, “I’ve been thinking about the project you presented during the last conference call. If we follow an instructional design process, gather a group of subject matter experts for a focus group, I think we can get a handle on the content. From there, we can dig into the meat and potatoes of the product and…”

  “We’re not wasting our time on focus groups and SMEs, Ms. Wisdom.” The voice came from the doorway, not from Grant Harper. It continued, “If we hire you, we need to move fast, create the product and get it to market.”

  I gasped, sort of, as he stepped out of the shadows. Black suit. Without thought, I took a gulp of the wine. Immediately, heat hit my cheeks.

  Mr. Asshole.

  Maybe it wasn�
��t the wine.

  “You are a fast mover, aren’t you…Grace?”

  The innuendo more than hung in the air. It was palpable. I squirmed in my seat, then lifted my chin and squared my gaze straight into his. Damn, blue eyes. How had I missed that in the cab? “I have my moments, Mr. Carson.”

  He nodded to that. “Mitch.”

  “Of course.” I cocked my head to the side. “I thought your name was Michael.”

  “I go by Mitch.”

  “Ah.”

  He sat directly across from me and perused my body as if I was the entrée. Was I? What the hell was he thinking?

  Shit. What the hell was I thinking?

  “So you need to move fast on this project.” Let’s keep it to business. “I can do that. I’m your woman.”

  Shit. Shit! Why the fuck did that come out of my mouth?

  One corner of Mitch’s mouth jerked up, then back down and straight-lined. “My company, Ms. Wisdom, is looking for a team player…a team leader, in fact, who can move our agenda forward without delay. We need someone who is sharp, intelligent, a quick thinker, and fast learner. We don’t have time to pussy-foot around.”

  About that time, something brushed the inside of my leg. A sock-clad foot? I shifted in my seat.

  “And we want dedicated, serious professionals only.”

  “I’m about as serious as a heart attack about my job. I go after what I want.”

  An eyebrow arched. “No doubt.”

  “As do you, I presume.”

  There was a pause and I contemplated whether the frozen expression on Mitch Carson’s face would break. Grant Harper cleared this throat somewhere off to the side. He was so not in this conversation.

  “I usually do get what I want, Grace. And I don’t fuck around.” Leaning into the table now, he said, “I need a product. We need action. How soon can you start?”

  Whoa. What?

  I narrowed my gaze. “Are you offering me the position?”

  “If you play your cards right.” The foot again. It inched up the inside of my knee.

  Panic dropped with a thud deep in my gut. What cards would I play?