Delayed Satisfaction

by Blakely, Lauren

  Delayed Satisfaction

  Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Delayed Satisfaction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Delayed Satisfaction

  a prequel novella to Satisfaction Guaranteed

  I’m not looking for love. I’m definitely not even interested in dating. But when I first see the handsome stranger singing on stage and our eyes lock, it feels like kismet. For seven blissful days, we fall into an intoxicating romance. Until one night when I learn just how forbidden we are…

  1

  Sloane

  Networking is such a sexy word.

  Not.

  But that’s my goal for tonight. I arch a brow and consider my outfit in the mirror in my tiny apartment. It’s a simple black dress. The neckline isn’t too low, so I’d say this number qualifies as classy and sophisticated. It’ll do the job, which is—fingers crossed—to help me get a job.

  “You look marvelous,” my roomie, Piper, declares, looking up from one of her collections of folders.

  “Why, thank you. You look super hot too, poring over all your binders.”

  She winks. “I won’t become the best event planner in the city if I don’t know everything about it inside out and upside down.”

  Her binders contain photos of all the establishments in New York where anyone would ever want to get married or hold a party. Piper points at me. “And you won’t be a publicity superstar if you don’t get your cute butt in gear.”

  I waggle my butt. “Damn, that is one fine rear,” I say, admiring my tush in the mirror.

  Piper pumps a fist. “Body confidence. Own it.”

  “Amen.” We smack palms.

  “Also, take these.” Piper stands, scurries over to her purse that she left on the couch, and roots around in the Michael Kors knockoff. She tosses a sleeve of condoms at me.

  I catch them and shoot her a you can’t be serious look. “I’m not going to need these tonight. This isn’t a pickup event. I’m going to network for job prospects.”

  She shrugs. “You might go to the bone zone.”

  I roll my eyes. “I won’t go to the bone zone.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist. I have faith in you. I’m betting on you going there. It’s been six months, hasn’t it?”

  “Are you tracking my sex life in your planner? You’re such a pervert.”

  Piper taps her temple. “It’s all up here. I track how mean you are to me each month, and it increases exponentially the longer it’s been since you’ve been laid.”

  I lunge for her like I’m going to put her in a headlock. She darts away. “I am not mean. I am also not horny. I also don’t want to”—I stop and sketch air quotes—“go to bone town. Or the bone zone. Also, why have you started saying things like bone zone? We live in Hoboken, not a fraternity. Is this because of Axe? Or Jace? Or Dax?”

  She wiggles her brows. “It’s Jax. And yes. He’s such a dude. Everything that comes out of his mouth is bro and babe. It’s great.”

  I arch a brow. “Why is that great? I thought you loved precise language.”

  “I do. I love it the same way I love lists and the Oxford comma.” Piper returns to her binders and flips a page. “But see, I don’t have to worry that Mr. Rugby will ever want anything more. Jax is married to the game, and he has amazing stamina.”

  “Then, yo yo yo, I’m happy for you getting your brains banged out,” I say like a dude.

  She chuckles as I dart into the bedroom to grab a pair of chandelier earrings. They’re sparkly, and I’m temporarily mesmerized by the prism of light they catch. “But some of us are not as sex-obsessed as you.” I return to the living room. “Sure, it’s been a while. But I’m not climbing trees or humping walls.”

  Plus, when my last serious beau, Eddie, ended things unceremoniously because he suddenly decided to move to Los Angeles to hunt for work in the entertainment business, I was shocked. We’d had plans. We were an item.

  I’m over him now, thank you very much. I certainly don’t miss him anymore, or long for what might have been. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to get back in the saddle. What I want—not tonight and not tomorrow, but someday—is romance. The real deal. Love.

  I’m not on the hunt for it now, but I don’t need the bone zone either.

  I’ll know when I’ve found the genuine article. When I meet a man so romantic I melt from his words, from his touch, from the way he listens and cares. That’s what gets me going, rather than the prospect of amazing stamina.

  But honestly, I’d bet that’s what gets Piper going too. She’s so focused on work right now that she protects herself by dating guys who have zero interest in anything lasting.

  Gathering my clutch purse and tucking a pink lipstick into it, I blow her a kiss. “Will you be here when I get home later?”

  She looks up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Hmm. Will I be here all by my lonesome, or will I be riding a—”

  “Okay, then!” I blurt over the details. “Go sow your wild oats, crazy girl.”

  “You asked.”

  “I did indeed.”

  I head to the Luxe Hotel on Fifth Avenue, eager to make some work connections.

  Once inside the swank ballroom, that’s exactly what I do: mingle with the crowd, chat up several executives at animal rescues, make small talk, and let them know I’m a recent graduate eager to work my way up and willing to prove myself. By the end of two hours, I have quite a stash of business cards in my purse.

  My parents are both go-getters. They’re outgoing, confident types, and raised me, albeit separately, to be the same way, so I truly don’t mind this kind of networking. But after two solid hours of self-selling, I’m ready for a break, so I head to the bar to grab a drink.

  Along the way, I survey the scene in the ballroom, taking in the classy guys and gals in suits and tuxes, in lovely frocks and gorgeous shift dresses, chatting and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres. Some are settling in to play table games like poker and blackjack. A karaoke contest has begun. News flash: someone already sang “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

  As I tap my unpolished nails on the counter, considering the bar offerings, a voice floats over the chatter to capture me with a stunning pure tenor that croons, “Isn’t it romantic?”

  Chills.

  I have chills. His voice is straight from a black-and-white movie. He sings like an old-time crooner, and when I turn around, my breath catches, and yes, I nearly melt.

  2

  Sloane

  When I was getting ready, I thought these earrings were mesmerizing.

  Mesmerizing?

  Puh-leaze.

  They’re a Kit Kat next to a French artisanal morsel of chocolate.

  As I listen to this man sing, I understand the word mesmerize in a whole new way, as if his voice is rewriting the dictionary definition at this very moment.

  This is the Museum of Modern Art and gazing upon Starry Night. This is opening night at a Broadway show when the lead brings down the house.

  This man has that kind of voice.

  I feel like Hugh Grant’s character in Love Actually when he goes searching for Natalie and is asked to sing carols at the houses and his bodyguard or driver—which was he?—turns out to be operatic.

  The whole audience here tonight knows they’re witnessing a Love Actually moment. They’re enrapt, stopping their conversations to focus on that voice.

  The bartender hands me my champagne, and I thank him a
bsently, never taking my eyes off the man onstage, singing kara-freaking-oke like he’s Sinatra.

  The dark-haired man with the mic wears a crisp blue suit, a charcoal shirt, and a purple tie I want to tug off.

  Whoa.

  Bone zone much?

  But I’m not really thinking about the bone zone. I’m thinking I want to hear him. I want to experience all of this song, up close and personal.

  I weave through the crowd and make my way toward the stage like a groupie. My God, I am a freaking groupie, and I don’t care. I push past women in cranberry and purple evening dresses, past men in sharp duds, until I reach the front.

  When I’m there, something happens. A cosmic shift, as if the world slows down. As if the room disappears. Everything else is a blur, and I swear there’s a spotlight on him, and his spotlight is on me. His dark-blue eyes find me immediately, and when they do, I ignite. This is some kind of dream. I pinch my arm to make sure I’m still real.

  Ouch. Yep, I am.

  He slides into another verse in the crooner tune made famous by Ella Fitzgerald, Harry Connick Jr., and countless others, singing about music of the night. He pulls the mic closer to his lush, full lips, and—I shudder as awareness strikes me—he sings to me.

  Only to me.

  Absolutely to me.

  I’m not imagining this. He’s singing about being young on a night like this to me.

  Goose bumps sweep over my skin as the song rises to its crescendo. It’s as if I’m glowing, as if he’s turned on a golden light inside me that spreads throughout my body with each delicious verse.

  When he finishes, claps and cheers resound and fill the ballroom.

  No one expected this kind of serenade during karaoke. Who could have expected Old Blue Eyes to get onstage?

  The man receives another round of cheers, and a woman in the front shouts, “Encore, encore.”

  He bows his head humbly and says, “Thanks for listening.”

  That’s all he says. He doesn’t bask in the glory or the moment. He walks offstage, and then he’s gone. My heart crashes. My shoulders sag. I wanted him to jump off the stage and take me in his arms.

  As soon as the thought materializes fully, I’m struck with its utter ridiculousness. I leave a mental note to myself.

  Girl, get your act together. He’s just a guy singing onstage. Don’t think this is going to become some sort of moment. It’s ridiculous to even think he was singing to you. He probably picks a woman in the crowd every time he gets behind a mic. That’s probably how he makes it through the song.

  I take a deep breath, nod, and spin around. That’s all it could have been. I was simply swept up and let myself believe it was real. No big deal. It was three minutes in my life and hardly a waste when I enjoyed the hell out of them.

  I take the last sip of my champagne and try to clear my head of all these warm, yummy thoughts of a blue-eyed, five-o’clock-shadowed, golden-voiced man with matinee idol looks.

  I make my way to the exit, searching for a waiter with a tray so I can deposit my champagne glass. As I hunt, a hand brushes my arm. I startle, turn, and look into midnight-blue eyes that pierce me.

  Like in a movie, or a book.

  Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a certified romantic. I grew up on a steady diet of romantic-comedy flicks, historical romances, and all sorts of delicious poetry. That’s what happens when you’re raised by a hippy.

  But this is fantasy made real. It’s happening. His eyes are piercing me.

  “Thank you for coming,” he says, emphasizing you. A rush of heat sweeps down my chest. I tell myself to be smart, to be witty, to be clever. But I also need to keep it simple.

  “And thank you for singing like that.”

  His lips curve up in a smile. Oh my, he has great lips. They look soft and full, and I bet they taste delicious. “Did you like it?”

  I rein in a smirk, playing with him. “No.”

  He appears taken aback. “No?”

  Emboldened by the night, by the moment, by those piercing freaking eyes, I lean forward and tug on his tie. “No. I was blown away.”

  Laughing, he runs his hand down my arm. “Blown away is even better than liking it.” He nods towards the door. “Do you have to go?”

  I tilt my head in a question. “Are you asking me to stay?”

  He reaches for the glass in my hand, takes it, and sets it on a tray behind him. It’s such a James Bond move. I don’t even think I realized there was a waiter next to him. But he did.

  “Considering I just caught your eye in the audience, sang the rest of the song to you, and rushed offstage to find you then catch up with you before you got out the door, yes, I am absolutely asking you to stay.”

  Backflips. Somersaults. Handsprings. My stomach executes an entire floor routine.

  The judges give me a ten for Desire to Stay.

  I keep up the coy routine. “True. You did make quite an effort. I suppose, though, if you’d actually run over to me, I’d have said yes.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Darn. I guess I didn’t try hard enough. I guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry.”

  I’m a sparkler inside, lit up and bursting. Like a contestant on Jeopardy! I hit the buzzer. “Who is Linda Ronstadt?” I blurt out. “I love her version of that song.”

  He gazes heavenward, mouths thank you as if to his lucky stars, then sets his hand on my back. “You, me, a drink. That sounds like the perfect nightcap.”

  I don’t bother to flirt or play coy this time. “It sounds like a dream.”

  He leans in closer and brushes a few strands of my blonde hair from my shoulder, making me shiver. Making me heat up.

  His eyes find mine once more. “Let’s make it come true, then.”

  3

  Sloane

  He orders a Scotch.

  This seems fitting.

  A boy drinks Coors. A man drinks Scotch.

  Men who hold their own. Men who sing love songs. Men who don’t say bone town. God, I hope he’s not a bone-towner.

  “And what would you like?”

  I shrug happily. “I’m a woman of simple taste. A champagne-or-bust kind of gal.”

  He turns back to the bartender, orders, and then returns to me. “You do look like a champagne woman.”

  Woman. Not gal. Not girl. I love that he upgraded gal to woman.

  “Why is that?”

  “A good glass of champagne delights all your senses. It tickles your nose, and it goes to your head, and it makes you just the right kind of buzzed.”

  The way he says buzzed, as if he’s telling me it turns him on, sends a thrill through me. A dart of lust. “Is that so?”

  “It says you know how to celebrate, and you know how to make every day a celebration.”

  I laugh. “Wow. Are you a sommelier or a bartender with your drink insight?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m just a vet.”

  I gesture to the setting. “What a surprise to bump into a vet at an event to raise money for animal rescues.”

  He lifts his brow. “Exactly. Such a small world.” He casts a quick look around. “We could probably throw a bone out here and hit ten or twenty vets.”

  “Do you want to try?”

  “Do you have any bones in your pocket?”

  I pat the sides of my dress where pockets would be. “Alas, I’m fresh out of Milk-Bones.”

  “Next time, then.”

  The bartender hands us our drinks, and he thanks the man then lifts his glass. “To Milk-Bones next time.”

  I laugh. “Yes, let’s drink to Milk-Bone tossing.”

  He clinks his glass to mine. “Actually, I’d much rather drink to unexpected encounters.”

  Hope takes flight inside me, as I delight at that toast, those words. “So far, they’re the best kind.”

  A smile spreads, nice and slow on his gorgeous face, and he nods as if to say well said, well-played.

  I take a drink, enjoying the fizzy taste and the way the drink does indee
d go to my head. “So, I’d have thought you were a ringer. Are you really a vet, or were you hired for those pipes?”

  He holds up a hand like he’s taking an oath. “I swear. I just sing for fun. Besides,” he says, gesturing to the stage where a group of five have corralled together to take their turn belting out “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “if I were a hired gun, I’d do more than one number. As you can see, I got in line, I took my turn, and now the next group is onstage.”

  I poke his shoulder. “I don’t know if you know this, but you sure can sing.”

  He offers a smile that says he appreciates the compliment. “It’s my party trick.”

  I run my fingers down his arm. “That’s quite a party trick. And I thought peeling a banana with my toes was good.”

  He makes a sound like a cartoon character whacked by a frying pan. “Wait.” He goes ramrod straight then slams his hand against his forehead. “You can do that?”

  I’m wearing black open-toed heels, so I lift one and wiggle a toe. “Oh, yes, I can. I learned how to do it on YouTube.”

  He raises a hand and pretends to call a waiter. “One dozen bananas, stat.”

  I lean forward, whispering, “Someday I’ll show you.”

  He strokes my arm. “Someday soon.”

  We can’t seem to stop touching each other. We can’t stop flirting. The air between us crackles and hums as we chat and drink.

  I finish my champagne and decide to go bolder, to tell him what I see in him. I wet my lips, meet his gaze. “By the way, you look like a Scotch man.”

  Intrigued, he lifts a brow and sets down his glass. “And what does a Scotch man look like?”

  Softly, I run my finger down the silk of his tie. He lets out a slight rumble as I touch the material, and it is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. Like even this small touch from me does him in. “A Scotch man is confident. He’s a man’s man, but he’s a gentleman too. He holds your coat and he holds the door. And he always makes sure a lady is happy.”