Too Hot to Sleep. Stephanie Bond

the past few hours, she’d thought about Toni’s advice and allowed herself to be carried along on the crest of the erogenous wave rolling through the strip club. She’d decided her friend was right—Rob was waiting for her to make a move. So, during a shared cab ride home, Toni had settled upon the least threatening, yet highly erotic option: phone sex.

      Despite that phone sex was a favored fantasy of hers, Georgia felt obligated to protest on behalf of the upstanding girl she was purported to be. Besides, she didn’t know how to do it.

      Toni had pshawed. “What’s to know? You talk, you moan, you hang up.”

      “But how do I ask him if he wants to?”

      “Don’t ask, just do.”

      And if Rob were totally offended, Georgia reasoned, she could always move to the Midwest and change her name.

      Moving slowly in the dark, she slipped out of her shoes. Could she pull it off? The fact that she’d never participated in phone sex before only heightened her anticipation. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly, her breasts tingled, her thighs grew moist.

      She turned on a lamp, then dimmed the illumination to bathe her Verdigris iron bed and the mustard-colored comforter. After stepping out of her jeans and folding them over the padded seat of her vanity table, Georgia sat on the edge of the bed and sank her crimson-tipped toes into a green hooked rug she’d made when she was fifteen—a lifetime ago. At that age she had fantasized of romance and physical bliss, never imagining one element without the other. She had thought by now she would’ve met a man who could provide a constant supply of both. Could Rob?

      She sighed. Well, soon enough she would know if her fantasies would get him off, or scare him off.

      Georgia glanced at the clock. One-thirty, Wednesday morning. Rob would be in deep REM sleep. Although if things went to plan, he’d be wide awake within a few seconds. Before she had time to reconsider, she slipped off her white cotton panties and left them lying on the rug. Her hands shook slightly as she held the phone and pushed the button to retrieve Rob’s preprogrammed number.

      When his phone began to ring, warmth flooded her abdomen. After the third ring, she panicked and started to hang up, but before she could locate the darned Talk button, she heard his sleep-fuzzy voice come over the line.

      “Hello?”

      Her heart thudded so loudly she could barely hear him. “Hi, Rob, this is Georgia.”

      “Hmm?”

      “D-don’t talk,” she said, then leaned back against a pile of pillows and lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sexy tone. “Just listen.”

      3

      AFTER SIX YEARS on the police force, Officer Ken Medlock should have been used to late-night calls, but he still had trouble focusing on the voice at the other end of the line. He reached for the lamp on the nightstand, but remembered a split second after the sound of the hollow click that he’d forgotten to replace the burned-out bulb.

      Did the woman say she was “Georgia”? His mind spun as he tried to place the name—a new dispatcher? Blinking seemed to help clear the cobwebs. One-thirty. Damn, the last time he’d looked at the clock had been less than an hour ago. His intermittent insomnia seemed to have grown worse as the temperature climbed—and now this interruption.

      “Rob, I know it’s late, but I’ve been thinking about…us…all evening and I was wondering…that is…” The woman with the sultry voice inhaled and Ken opened his mouth to tell her she had the wrong number.

      “I’m not wearing panties.”

      His mouth snapped shut and his manhood stirred, proving at least one part of his body was processing information.

      A small trembling laugh sounded. “I’ve always wondered if you were a boxer man or a brief man.”

      What was the mystery woman’s intention? Engage in a little late-night dirty talk to entice this Rob guy to come over? “Boxer,” Ken blurted, then swallowed and leaned back onto his requisite three-pillow stack. Had he lost his mind? Or more appropriately, had he lost his shame?

      “Mmm. Do you sleep in them?”

      When I sleep. He couldn’t remember such a welcome interruption though—few of his dreams were this good. He might have thought his partner was playing another practical joke on him, but even Klone wouldn’t go this far. And the woman sounded so sincere, she had to be the real thing. His job required him to make life-and-death split-second judgments, but suddenly he was gripped with indecision—’fess up, hang up, or play up.

      His body made the decision by sending a flood of desire to swell his deprived loins. What would be the harm in succumbing to one wild impulse? Before he had time to reconsider, he muttered, “Mmm-hmm.” Knowing she might realize her mistake any second, he held the mouthpiece a few inches away from his mouth. On the other hand, if she didn’t know what kind of underwear Robbie Boy wore, maybe she’d just met the man. Or maybe she was a prostitute. Ken had lived in the South for most of his adult life, but had never met a woman named Georgia.

      “I thought it was time to let you know how I feel.”

      Or maybe her boyfriend simply didn’t know how good he had it. “Okay,” he offered.

      “But not if this makes you uncomfortable.”

      He found the crack in her confidence endearing. Did she have any idea how sexy her voice sounded? And the only thing uncomfortable at the moment was his hardening erection. “I’m fine. Um…go on.” When silence followed, he was afraid she was onto him.

      “Can you shed those boxers?” she whispered.

      In for a penny, in for a pound. Ken reached beneath the warmish pilled sheet and slid off his shorts in three seconds flat, not an easy feat in a waterbed while juggling a phone. The TV remote he’d left on the bed crashed to the wood floor. “They’re gone. Are—” Ken wet his lips, “are you undressed?”

      “Not yet,” she said. “I’m wearing a white button-up blouse and a white bra.”

      Ken closed his eyes. “Take…take them off,” he urged.

      From the rustling sounds, he surmised she was stripping. His mind whirled, wondering what this woman who called herself Georgia looked like. Was she redheaded? A brunette? Blonde? Brown eyes? Blue? Hazel? Long hair? Short? Sections of his fantasy woman clicked into place like the tiles in a vertical slot machine. Long, dark hair, blue eyes, a great smile, curvy. And peeling off her clothes.

      “They’re off.”

      Ken bit his tongue to keep from asking more questions that might end the phone call. His hand slid beneath the sheet, and he imagined Georgia easing into the bed next to him.

      “It’s hot over here,” she continued, much to his relief. “And I just couldn’t sleep after leaving the club. All that nudity affected me.”

      She was a stripper? That explained the stage name. His conscience eased somewhat. At least she wasn’t some innocent lady shedding her modesty for the first time. And she must have an incredible body. Her shadow of an accent didn’t belong to a Southern belle, but in his mind, Georgia was as lush and sticky-sweet as her name implied.

      “I need to relax,” she said, sighing.

      Ken could almost feel her breath warming his neck. His answer was a low groan of encouragement.

      “Lately I’ve been hoping we could become more…intimate.”

      “I never knew,” he replied in a low tone. The truth.

      “We’ve both been a little shy, but somehow, it’s easier to talk about my fantasies on the phone like this.”

      A hot flush traveled over his skin. “Go on.”

      “My breasts,” she said, her voice suddenly tentative