And it wasn’t like I was averse to all sex. I was a big-time advocate for oral. Well, as long as there was a giving and receiving clause in the agreement. Call me crude, but if I’m going to suck it, you’re going to eat it. Period. End of story.
Despite the shocked reactions and stigma revolving around being a woman who had made it through college with her virginity still intact, I stuck to my guns, refusing to just give it up to whoever was hard and willing. It wasn’t a statement of abstinence or strong religious views. It was just me, being myself, and doing what I thought was right for me.
That’s the most important thing when it comes to a woman’s sexual prerogative. She should decide what she really wants without being influenced by social norms or penis peer pressure.
“You’re doing it again,” Cassie interrupted my thoughts.
I tilted my head, confused. “What am I doing?”
“You’re doing that ‘this is why I’m still a virgin’ inner monologue thing. Do I need to turn on the fireplace for a bra-burning ritual? Or should we throw out the razors and let our pit hair run rampant?”
“You’re a pain in my ass.” I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.
“I love you too, my beautiful, virginal best friend.”
I ignored Cassie’s shit-eating grin and strode for the fridge. Lord knew there was a giant glass of wine with my name on it.
“Let’s hear it,” she demanded, plopping down at the kitchen table. “Why are you a stupid hussy?”
Grabbing a bottle of moscato from the fridge, I filled a coffee mug to the brim. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too embarrassing.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you don’t. That explains why you were just talking to yourself about it.” She eyed me with a pointed look. “Spit it out, Georgia Rose.”
I shook my head, taking a giant swig of sugary wine.
Cassie stared.
I shook my head again.
Her eyes did that scary death glare thing where I started to be concerned for my well-being.
“Okay,” I relented, holding both hands in the air like I was being held at gunpoint. “Okay. But you have to cool it on the creepy eyes first. You’re wigging me out.”
She smiled. “Works like a charm. Every. Single. Time.”
I groaned.
“So,” she encouraged, gesturing with her hand. “What has your panties in such a twist?”
“Kline asked me out.”
“Kline? Who’s Kline?”
“Kline Brooks…Mr. Brooks…” I offered, jogging her memory.
“Holy fucking goat scrotums! Kline Big-dicked Billionaire Brooks? Your crazy-hot, super-rich boss?” she continued before I could utter a response. “Say whaaaaaaat? How in the hell did this happen?”
“First of all, what do you mean by ‘how in the hell did this happen?’ I might be a virgin, but I’m not a two-bagger. I can look pretty when I actually take the time to brush my hair.”
“Oh, cool your jets. You’re gorgeous and you know it. Kline Brooks would be one lucky son of a bitch to score a date with you.”
“And how do you know he has a big dick? You’ve seen him once. And it was a five-second ‘Oh, that’s my boss, Kline’ conversation while we were walking across the parking lot. You haven’t even met him in person.”
“Five seconds is all I need.” She tapped the side of her head. “You know my cockdar is off the chain. I can sense a giant swinging penis pendulum from at least ten miles away. It’s a God-given talent, Georgie.”
I choked on my wine. “Let’s not bring God into this.”
She raised an eyebrow. “God knows the G-spot needs a more than adequate-sized wiener to get the job done.”
“I’m pretty sure that comment just got you wait-listed for heaven.”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “Tell me you said yes to Big-dicked Brooks.”
“Stop calling him that!” I shouted, unable to hold back laughter.
“Oh, c’mon, Virgin Mary, you know your boss has that ‘Hello, ladies, I’m packing’ swagger.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Tell me you said yes to him. For the love of God, tell me you’re going on a date with him.”
“He’s not my type.”
“Georgie,” she groaned. “He’s handsome. He’s successful. He’s not propositioning you for a five-dollar blow job. What’s not to like? I don’t get it.”
“Five-dollar blow job? What are you even talking about?”
“Obviously, bad propositions.” She held out both hands, irritated. “Even the worst blow job—with teeth and chapped lips and poor suction—is worth more than five bucks.”
I sighed. “Look, he has like eleventy bajillion dollars in his bank account. His suits cost more than our apartment. We are not on the same level. Not even close.”
“First off, that’s not a number. Secondly, who the fuck cares? Why are you judging him by his money?”
“I’m not judging.”
She nodded, eyes wide. “Oh, yes you are. You’re totally judging.”
“But…he’s…”
“Stop it.” A stern finger was pointed in my direction. “Stop being judgy.”
Was I really judging Kline by his money?
And more importantly, did he really have a big d-i-c-k?
“You’re going on a date with him, aren’t you?”
I feigned confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You little hussy! You’re freaking out because you said yes, didn’t you?!”
Her evil, victorious laugh pushed me over the edge. “Fine!” I shouted. “He called me ‘fucking beautiful’ and I folded like a deck of cards. I might as well have lifted my skirt and spread my legs for him. I was pathetic. Like some swooning, teenage girl. I said yes because he tossed a goddamn compliment in my direction!”
“God, I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely terrible for you. Having to go on a date with a rich, successful, gorgeous man who also happens to give you compliments.” She feigned shock. “Oh, the humanity!”
I stared at Cassie for a good three seconds before her words sank in. And then, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing after muttering, “You’re such a bitch.”
Maybe I was being a tad bit ridiculous over this whole scenario. It was just one compliment. And I only agreed to one date. How bad could it be?
Darth Vader’s dark side ringtone filled the room, vibrating my phone across the counter.
Incoming Call Dr. Crazypants
“Ugh,” I sighed. “It’s my mom. Lord help me, I’m not in the mood for her randomness.” I sent her call to voicemail, too tired to keep up with her rambling.
My mom, otherwise known as Dr. Savannah Cummings, was a force to be reckoned with. She spent her days counseling couples and her nights doing God only knows what with my father. Sex therapy was her game and bringing sexy back into the bedroom was her claim to fame.
And yes, I was well aware of the “sex therapist named Cummings” irony. My mother was too. Several years ago, she had made a point to use that satire to her advantage—on a billboard, hovering over a main interstate that led straight into New York City.
Her slogan: “Dr. Cummings wants you to come…visit her brand new office.”
Needless to say, eighth grade was a pretty hard year for me.
Conversations with Savannah mostly consisted of small talk about my dating and sex life and her usual spiel about the importance of masturbation. “Make sure you’re masturbating at least once a day, Georgia Rose. It’s imperative for your sexual health.”
My mother, the sex therapist, was a bit of a weirdo. But she was my weirdo and I loved her dearly. I just couldn’t handle her open-ended questions and virginity interrogation at the moment.
I downed the rest of my wine and slammed it on the counter. “I’m calling it a night. I’ll see you on the flipside, Casshead.”
“Night, Wheorgiebag.”
Without wasting time, I did the usual bedtime routine—face washed, teeth b
rushed, and comfy sleep clothes applied—and happily plopped my tired ass into bed.
But sleep refused to come.
My brain had reached the hamster-on-a-wheel stage of insomnia. Thoughts raced and unanswered questions refused to leave. I kept replaying Kline asking me out, over and over again. And all I could think was, why me? What made him all of a sudden show interest in me?
“And you’re fucking beautiful.”
I wasn’t dealing with a shortage of self-esteem by any means. I considered myself an intelligent, attractive, confident chick. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I knew how to highlight my strengths and downplay my weaknesses. Heavy makeup, spandex, and the color yellow were always a hell no. Long hair, red lips, and a pair of well-fitting jeans that accentuated my ass were always a hell yes.
My confusion over Kline asking me out wasn’t about my attractiveness.
I’d never had a man like him on my radar.
We were total opposites.
He had a chauffeur. I took the subway. He wore Armani. I shopped at vintage, secondhand shops. He had enough money to invest in things like hedge funds and annuities. I had a fifty-dollar bond from 1996 that my grandmother had gifted me on my birthday. Fingers crossed that baby would gain another two dollars and twenty-five cents this year.
My life and his life were pretty much worlds apart.
Or was Cassie right? Was I judging Kline Brooks by the fact that he had more money than God? Or was I just freaked out over the fact that my boss, the CEO of Brooks Media, had asked me out?
My dating experiences hadn’t been the best. They generally ended on epically bad notes. So, what would happen if Kline and I dated a few times and the shitstorm that was my overall luck with men took over?
Fuck.
I had to do something to take my mind off things. It was time to take things into my own hands. Literally. There was no sleep aid better than a climax-induced coma. Just one shot from the orgasm bottle and I’d be out like a light, racing thoughts and restless nights be gone.
Grabbing my vibrator, I lay back, spread wide, and pictured Chris Hemsworth in all of his Thor glory. I’d been on a recent Avengers kick—Captain America, Thor…hell, even Black Widow when I was feeling frisky. Scarlett Johansson in that black leather suit could make a lot of women switch-hit.
A few minutes into my fingerbating session, Thor’s hammer was hard and ready. Things were feeling good. Real fucking good. Muscles were tight, fingers were moving at the perfect pace, and Amen for my vibrator, the glorious little clit tickler that he was. I was on the brink, white spots dotting my vision, and then, Thor and his hammer cock slowly morphed into someone else. Someone I had never fantasized about before.
Kline.
He was hovering over me, his hot, naked body mere inches from mine. That body—good God, that body. Lean, tight, toned muscles. So many fucking muscles. Washboard abs and that perfect V pointing right down to his…um…yeah…Big-dicked Brooks.
Hot damn, Cassie was right.
He had the kind of cock you could make a five-second GIF out of and never get tired of watching it on loop. I was convinced, somewhere down the line, Kline’s dick had a great-great-great-great grandfather dick, and it was that exact shaft that had inspired some woman to pull down a guy’s pants and say, “Oh yes, I need to suck on that.” This was a history-making, Nobel Prize award-winning cock. The sole reason the blow job was an actual thing.
“I can’t wait to taste you,” he whispered, sliding my panties down my legs.
Yes. Hell. Yes. Taste me.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful.” He licked across my stomach.
“Your cock is beautiful,” I said.
He kneeled between my legs. “Tell me how bad you want my cock, Georgia.” Blue eyes scorched my skin as he stroked that perfect dick.
“Bad. So bad,” I begged.
“Be patient, sweetheart.” He smirked. “I can’t wait to fuck you, but right now, I need your taste on my tongue.”
Kline gripped my thighs, spreading me wide, while his head was between my legs doing everything a guy should know how to do with his tongue.
“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, gripping his hair and following the movements of his mouth with my hips.
“Come for me, Georgia,” he demanded.
And like a goddamn romance novel cliché, I came on command…on my boss’s face.
I was panting. Drained. Sated. My muscles were lax, skin peppered with a sheen of sweat. I had thoroughly worked myself over. When I opened my eyes, I realized I had just gone to a place I could never come back from.
Kline Brooks had just been inaugurated into my spank bank rotation.
And he’d given me the best orgasm I’d had in a long fucking time.
Chapter Eight
Kline
“So the Sure Romance contract went through as expected. Martin folded like a fitted sheet at the threat of…” Georgia recited as if rehearsed, her attention drifting from the lights overhead to the paperweight on my desk, out the window, and back again.
She’d been trying her damnedest not to look at me since she’d knocked on the door of my office two minutes ago.
“Wait,” I interrupted, startling her enough that her eyes found my face. “Aren’t fitted sheets hard to fold?” I kicked one corner of my mouth up in a grin, adding, “Mine sure as hell are. Is there some secret I’m missing out on?”
Bewilderment forced her eyebrows together and her plump bottom lip out.
I could see the thoughts race through her eyes one after the other, wondering what we were talking about and why we were talking about it at the same time she questioned the likelihood that I was the one who actually folded my sheets, rather than a maid, a butler, or several servants, perhaps.
Once she realized I was teasing her, the lines of her face transformed from confused to punishing.
“Sorry,” I apologized, easing from a grin into a full-blown smile. “Continue.”
“Right.” She huffed adorably. “As I was saying, Martin…”
Her words muffled into a simple rhythm of soothing sounds as my concentration transferred to my thoughts.
Two years of listening to Georgia Cummings talk about product placement and commercial budgets didn’t hold a candle to one fucking day of actually talking to her. The flustered, less professional, overtly female version one simple encounter had turned her into, that is.
She was still poised, as always, knowledgeable, and completely on top of her tasks and obligations. But her looks lingered longer—when she forgot to think about being awkward—and her humor lived at the surface, just at the tip of her quick-witted tongue, instead of buried under layers of propriety and boss-employee relations.
Put simply, I looked different to her, and, with her hair swept up off of the smooth, slim column of her neck and her eyes bright with mischief, she sure as fuck looked different to me.
“Mr. Brooks!” she called, fiery and peeved that I wasn’t listening to her with full attention.
“Kline,” I corrected, thinking about the way she’d sounded singing about her pussy and the faces I thought she’d make while I finger-fucked it, and then waited for her to agree with popped brows.
“Fine,” she consented. “Kline.”
God, I needed to hear her say that while she came.
I smiled again and fought the urge to adjust my tightening pants under my desk.
“Good.”
She didn’t seem nearly as amused. I forced my mind to the mildly professional side of its coin when she crossed her arms over her chest and tapped a toe on the tile. After years of keeping every exchange with employees above board, I’d never felt such a blatant need for betrayal by my eyes. They wanted to be bad. They wanted to be really bad. And my stupid cockblock of a brain wouldn’t let them.
“Look, I trust you.” Her feathers unruffled slightly. “Do I want to know that the deal went through? Absolutely. Do I need to kno
w the details and question your every move? Not so much.”
She unwound her arms from her chest.
“In fact, I’m headed to L.A. tonight, and I need someone to hold down the fort. Can you handle it if I tell everyone to report to you?”
Her spine straightened involuntarily, outrage at having to be asked tensing all of the muscles around it. “Of course I can.”
I studiously ignored her irritation.
“I’m not expecting you to solve every issue that comes your way. Just keep the ship afloat and the piratelike crew members from setting her ablaze.”
“Done.”
She traced a circle on the front edge of my desk, and I could practically see her effort to be casual. “So you’re, uh—”
She tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. Not a single one had been out of place.
“You’re headed to L.A., huh?”
I bit my lip in victory. She was asking because she wanted to know. She wanted to go out with me, she just hadn’t accepted it yet.
“Yep.”
“Oh…okay. So, um—”
“Quick trip,” I said, letting her off the hook. “Just a couple of investor meetings and then right back to the East Coast. I’ll be back in plenty of time for Friday night.”
“That’s cool,” she muttered, clasping her hands together like she didn’t know what to do with them.
I had a few ideas, but most of them came from the brain downstairs. And I didn’t think she’d be extremely welcoming of them at this stage of the game.
“Georgia?”
Her attention jumped from the floor straight to my gaze. The vivid depths of her eyes’ blue, swirling with a heady mix of excitement and uncertainty, nearly knocked the wind out of me.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Friday night, with you.” Her clasped hands turned white with pressure, and a blush colored the apples of her cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Her face softened briefly, overwhelmed by a powerful look of longing. Fifteen seconds later, when determination replaced it, her sweet jaw flexing under the pressure, I wasn’t sure it had ever existed.
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