Missionary Position Read Online Free PDF

fingers tightened slightly and released.
    His lot came up for bidding. This wasn’t his first auction. He waited until the frenzy at the front of the room slowed, and bid with a subtle flick of his paddle.
    The way his wrist controlled the paddle did things to my pulse and stomach, which would appall the dowager in front of me.
    The auctioneer tapped his gavel and called out Gerhard’s number as the winner.
    “Congratulations!” I said, loudly.
    “Shhhh!”
    Gerhard laughed and grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
    We stopped at the desk to arrange delivery of the sculpture. I listened to him speak Dutch to the employees, charming them with his charms.
    Bright sunshine greeted us when we walked outside.
    “Do you have plans for lunch?” he asked, stopping when he stood a step or two below me, making us the same height.
    “Aren’t we having dinner tonight?”
    “We are. Let’s do both.” He grinned at me.
    “Don’t you have to work? Auctions and lunches aren’t exactly bankers’ hours.”
    “Are you looking for excuses to say no? Am I overcrowding your schedule?” Worry darkened his happy expression.
    “Not at all. I have nothing for the next two days until my flight. I just—”
    He interrupted me. “Then say yes.”
    “Yes. But you didn’t answer about your work.”
    He walked down the street and clicked the alarm on a black BMW sedan. I fell in step slightly behind him; my traitor feet would follow him anywhere.
    And we hadn’t even had sex.
    The image of him holding his paddle popped into my mind.
    Yet.
    “… I’m not starting my next project for a few weeks.” While I was thinking about paddles, he’d been speaking.
    “What?”
    “What what?” He tilted his head to look down at me.
    “I missed what you were saying.”
    “Is it the accent again? It’s stronger when I’m home.” He gave me a small smile. “Sorry. I was saying as much as you cling to the notion I’m a banker, I’m really not.” He bumped his shoulder with mine. “And my schedule is loose for the next couple of weeks until I start a new project.”
    “Ah …”
    “Ah?”
    “Got it. Where are you taking me to lunch?” If Gerhard wanted to bump shoulders with me and take me to lunch, who was I to say no? My mother didn’t raise a fool.

    “IT LOOKS LIKE a propeller penis. Or a penis jet, which most planes look like anyway.”
    “You’re very articulate. And perhaps a little obsessed?” He smirked at me. The sun faded his eyes from blue to gray.
    “Stop. Look. Really look at it. Vertical, rounded top. Classic representation of the human phallus.” I flashed a grin at him. “Better?”
    “It’s a windmill, not some sort of Dutch inferiority complex made of wood.”
    “Who said anything about inferiority complexes? I certainly didn’t. Interesting you would mention size envy.” I pursed my lips together to maintain my serious expression.
    We sat at a picnic table in a beer garden flanking the only working windmill within Amsterdam city limits.
    Gerhard leaned back. “I guess from this angle, and with your perverted mind influencing me, I can see your point.” He nodded, and then rolled his eyes. “Also, I think you’ve had too much beer.”
    “And cheese!” I speared the last cube on the plate between us. With the cheese clamped between my teeth, I grinned at him.
    “Sexy. You American girls have all the tricks.”
    I chewed and swallowed. “We do. Songs have been written about our wiles.”
    He surprised me by singing lyrics from a Lenny Kravitz song. His singing voice resonated low and gravelly. Some might say it was pure sex. Some would definitely say that.
    The contrast between the sex falling from his lips and his uptight suited appearance confused me. After a few hours with Gerhard, I failed at my attempt to categorize him. American men were easier to label and decipher, almost simplistic in their “type”. And for most, food, ego stroking, and sex—not necessarily in that