Page 1 of Scoring Chance

1

DES

When I have sex with someone, I always put my phone on Do Not Disturb. It's a polite thing to do. I may be an animal in the sack, but I'm also a gentleman. However, there's one person in my life whose texts and calls I allow to come through.

I pick up my phone, and my eyes bulge at the text from Tanner:

Tanner: Crap, I just got fired.

“Oh shit.”

Maya, the woman currently on all fours on my California king bed getting rammed by yours truly, looks back over her shoulder.

"Oh my God, are you coming?" she asks.

"No, no. My friend just got fired,” I inform her while continuing to thrust inside her.

"That’s awful. I’m sorry. Fuck!” She drops her head and moans into my comforter.

My phone buzzes again from Tanner.

Tanner: I thought I was going into a weekly check-in with my manager. I was ambushed.

Des: Those fuckers. Screw them.

“He thought he was going into a regular meeting with his boss, and they canned him right then and there,” I tell Maya as I fist her hair.

“Yes!” she gasps out. “I mean, that’s horrible. Why are you answering your phone right now? I thought it was on Do Not Disturb."

"It is, but Tanner’s my best friend and emergency contact."

Tanner sends through another message: five crying emojis.

I know that Tanner isn't actually crying. It can take a lot to make him turn on the waterworks. Tanner was born with an even keel. He isn’t prone to emotional outbursts unless absolutely warranted. I remember holding him at his wife's funeral, feeling his sobs vibrate through his body. Seeing your friend cry unlocks a new level of friendship.

“He’d just gotten promoted six months ago.”

“That made him more expensive to keep,” Maya says over the sound of our most sensitive areas slapping against each other.

“Damn it. You’re right.” I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not even the gorgeous view from my condo can mask the anger I feel on his behalf.

While one hand rests on Maya’s back as I pound into her, I text him back.

Des: Hey buddy, that fucking sucks. You're allowed to say “fuck” in this instance.

As it hit send, the phone flips out of my hand and hits her in the back.

“Ow!” she yells.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I’m being really fucking rude. I should stop."

"No, don't stop," she yells louder. “We’re working professionals.”

In the corner of the bed sits Maya’s phone; her two dogs gawk at me from her lockscreen. Who says business and pleasure can’t mix?

She thrusts back against my dick. “Stop texting but don’t stop fucking me!”

God, she's so hot. Tight brown curls on creamy mocha skin. I don't want to stop. I can multitask. I am a highly paid professional. I have very strong executive function.