It’s that time of year. Yep, Christmas. Meaning everything is three steps ahead of chaotic and I don’t have time to think and breathe, much less enjoy doing the things I’d rather be doing. So to get my relaxation time in, I have to get my reading done in route to all my other chores rather than snuggled under my comforter where I’d always rather be. Not so easy, when next on my list is Alison Tyler’s Nine-to-Five Fantasies. I read this entire anthology with my legs crossed at the ankles, fighting the urge to squeal with delight in public. The book cover, I hid in the pages of Time Magazine — wonder if I made any of my neighbors wonder what article put that grin on my face. Mark Zuckerberg is hot and all, but damn girl… Really?
I wonder how many people have ever had sex in the office, or at least, on the boss’s time. (I admit I have, but I’ll never tell which job or which boss. — Don’t look at me like that. You wouldn’t either.) Business in these pages was mixed with pleasure and everybody got a taste of play at work, from professors and chauffeurs to my personal favorites, the IT Guy (now that dude or dudette is always hot!) and a retired porn star.
by Sommer Marsden
My mouth went dry when I saw him: tall and broad, dusty jeans and dirty plain white tee. His hard hat was red, not yellow, and the back had a TARDIS sticker on it. A geek construction worker? Was it possible?
I shook off the thought because there was nothing to guarantee that he had put that sticker on the hardhat.
His biceps flexed as he picked up the two orange cones that had resided in the hallway of my apartment building for weeks. Something to do with the stairwell and restructuring. Residents had been instructed to use the elevator or the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway instead.
My eyes fixed on the way his grimy shirt drew taut across his back when he moved, and it took me a minute to realize that he was now staring back. My key was in the door, my hand on the knob, my heart beating faster than it usually did when I took the stairs.
“Hi,” he said.
I blinked and licked my lips. When he half-smiled I realized what I’d just done. My face heated with a blush, but I quickly sucked in a breath to get myself under control.
There was no way in hell this man could see into my head or know that I’d had a fixation on men like him my entire life. I’d never been to bed with a big, brawny construction worker because I’d never had the nerve — gumption my grandmother would have called it — to talk to one. Every time I was close enough to speak to one of these pillars of city life, I suddenly forgot how to talk.
This time was no different, so I nodded.
“Are you okay?”
My mouth felt like I’d swallowed a big spoonful of sand. Another nod from me, and he smiled.
“Okay then.” He winked. It wasn’t even smarmy or icky or anything. It was a wink that said we shared a secret. Or had a joke in common. Or just that he knew he was sort of pushing my buttons and liked it. But not in a cruel way, in an amused way.
He piled one cone on top of the other and hefted them up in one arm. That arm bore a tattoo of a crow caught in midflight.
Think of something clever to say. Ask about the sticker! Ask about the tattoo!
But I simply watched him walk away: nice ass in beat-up jeans with the bottoms of his pants legs sort of scrunched up around chunky, filthy work boots.
My pussy flexed just studying him.
Resigned to the fact that I was going to go into my apartment and get off with my vibrator to images of big, tall and studly going down on me, or even fucking me, I turned the key.
Then he called out, “Um, hello?”
And since I’m now in an Alison Tyler mood, guess what I told Santa to put under my tree this year —