Manhattan Man Hunt Pt 8 ~ A romance sex story from sex story sites.
OK, Anita, he's all yours.
Toni.
PPS. I'm backtracking a hundred bucks off my accumulated bill for every act of gross indecency you commit with my dog person. I've told Tristan to carve the notches on your bedhead so there'll be no accounting arguments. Chou!
After carefully reading and digesting the file Anita came to three conclusions.
The first was that Toni had gotten it real bad.
The second was that Toni had watched far too many episodes of 'Ally McBeal'.
The third conclusion was that Toni had put her lawyer between a rock and a hard place and all the lawyer seemed able to think about was what she needed to do to make that place hard.
Being a calm and rational person Anita mixed herself a fresh drink, drank it slowly and then retired peacefuly to her bed for some well earned rest which wouldn't be disturbed by any further stupid thoughts about Tristam Yorstan.
At one o'clock in the morning she got up and switched on her computer again. There seemed to be very little on the net about the Orkneys except advertisments for hand knitted sweaters guaranteed to keep out Atlantic gales. Anita turned her attention towards the web pages of various New York lingerie stores and spent a lot of time looking at items of clothing absolutely guaranteed not to keep out marauding Vikings.
The following day Anita was happy for once not to have to appear in a courtroom. The necessary concentration simply wasn't there. The only thing which her mind seemed determined to fasten on was whether to check out the item of virtual non-apparel which had caught her fancy in the small hours of the morning. Assuming, of course, that she was really going to do what Toni had suggested and turn on an act for a man - a boy - on her own doorstep.
Simple, really. A classic case of plea-bargaining. I'm wearing this piece of nonsense and behaving like a tramp because I'm lonely and unloved and my friends think it's time I was put out to stud for a while. So which would you rather do, walk the dog or lay the bitch? Either way, you get paid.
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That was one way of looking at it. The other way was that she hadn't had a man in her bed for months and it had been years since she'd since a man who'd made her go weak at the knees just by looking at him. If Toni thought she was so frightened of being human maybe she should show her how wrong she was - to hell with being an ice-maiden. Anita Ruger was a long way down the track from being a maiden, her blood ran as hotly as anybody else's and who cared who knew it?
In the end she locked her office remarkably early in the afternoon and went off in grimly determined mood to the nearest Stage Door shop. A mood of determination tempered by the legalistic determination that she still wasn't making any real commitment, only window shopping.
It was window shopping which ended in the production of a credit card though, and a subsequent ride home accompanied by a ribbon wrapped parcel and enough butterflies in her stomach to pollinate a country garden.
The first thing she did when she got home to Gramercy Park was to check the time. It was also the second, third and fourth thing she did. Anita decided she needed to take a grip on herself and bypassed her usual martini for a shot of Smirnoff, the best butterfly killing liquid ever invented. She sat and looked at the parcel whilst terminating a few million of her brain cells with extreme prejudice. Beech wandered over, feeling a vague sense of duty to welcome her home and willing to negotiate some kind of rapprochement with his temporary mistress.
It was a cautious approach though. Genetically fashioned to keep both ears on the ground he was well aware of the air of tension she'd brought with her. But she scratched his forehead and he responded dutifully, if not with the outright joy similar treatment from Tristan had evoked.
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