Sexy Bad Daddy (Sexy Bad Series Book 2)
Page 20
“Oh my God, I had a similar experience with my ex-husband. I lost my job over it. Such a jackass.”
“Yeah, what is it with guys and golf outings? They always do the stupidest things, even if we prep them first. Who doesn’t know you’re supposed to let the boss win? That’s business etiquette 101.”
“Business etiquette 102 is don’t get so sloppy drunk you end up puking on the boss’s $400 dollar Italian leather loafers.”
“And 103 is...” Finally, this conversation is exactly where I want it to be. Like any gathering of women, they begin to feed off one another and soon are commiserating over lost business opportunities as a result of poor choices in partner material. And they’ve all turned up their collective noses at Paynter, whereas twenty minutes prior, I swore I heard Christine suggest he meet her in the coatroom.
My mission here is complete.
Before I can gloat, Paynter leans toward me and I get a whiff of something that makes me think of the woods and lumberjacks and ... sex. What the hell is it with this guy?
“Chloe, one, Paynter, zero,” he says, low and close to my ear. I can feel his breath. It’s hot and it makes my hair flutter. I said hair, not heart. There is no heart fluttering here. My heart is cold and dead and locked away and I threw the key into a deep ravine the day I figured out Marcus was using me so he could steal my promotion.
“And now I’m out of here, before these piranhas decide to lynch me for all the past crimes you’ve reminded them other men have done to them. Watch your back, Chloe. I don’t lose well.” He touches his bottle to his forehead and struts away, not looking at all like he lost anything. In fact, he looks as though he owns the entire damn world, and it infuriates me that I can’t stop imagining what he’d be like lying on his back in my four-poster canopy bed, with me astride him, encouraging him to hold out just a few minutes longer because I’m so close, oh, so close...
Shaking my head, I turn away from the sight and the fantasy. I will never see that guy again. He is some random loser I ran into in a bar. And I put him in his place.
A song I recognize from the seven million times I’ve secretly watched Magic Mike starts up and gradually becomes louder and louder. This is strange because aren’t most sound systems stationary? Not to mention, the music should be coming from that party on the other side of the bar. It should not be moving toward the Taco Tuesday gathering where the attendees have finally attacked the taco bar. Strippers are not on tonight’s agenda, I’m sure of it.
And then the music is so close, it’s practically in my ear, vibrating through my body and making me remember what it was like to have sex with another person in the room. It’s been a long time. Since that one guy I forced myself to pick up after Marcus screwed me over. It had been sloppy and quick, in a hotel room. To be honest, I’m not even sure if it was good or bad. I don’t remember the details. And while my partner lay on his back and snored, I quickly dressed and rushed from the room, crying before I reached my car, and when I got home, I stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and I vowed to never, ever do that again.
While I’m reliving this particular bad decision, I feel a hardness rubbing against my ass. All the women in the meeting are staring at something directly behind me, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed, salsa and guacamole dripping from taco shells held inches from their faces. A few are panting.
I am afraid to do it, but I whip around anyway, and come face to face with ... a stripper?
“Hey, birthday girl,” he croons while gyrating against my leg.
I push at his shoulder and my hand slides down his arm. He’s covered in some sort of sickly sweet smelling oil. And that’s pretty much it, save a pair of chaps slung low around his hips.
“Wrong party,” I say, trying to step out of his grip. But he’s got an arm around my waist and waves the other in the air as he shouts, “Yee-haw” and grinds against me. The music, I now see, is coming from a phone that is strapped to his bicep.
“That’s what the guy at the door told me you’d say,” the stripper says as he flips me around so he can rub himself against my ass. “He said you’d insist you’re the wrong girl, but that’s because you like to play hard to get. He gave me an extra fifty and told me to finish out the song, no matter how much you protest.”
“This skirt is silk.” I am envisioning my dry cleaning bill. “Wait, what guy?”
Realization dawns. Paynter. That bastard. I twist my head back and forth, trying to see if he’s still here. Cowboy stripper decides to accommodate me and turns so that the party where he was undoubtedly supposed to be the main attraction can watch us.
And there’s Paynter, laughing so hard I can actually see the tears in his eyes from across the room. All I can do is stand here and be humiliated by this oiled up, fake tanned body that is gyrating behind me, encouraged by the whistles and catcalls from the powerful women who a short time ago I might have considered as friends.
If I ever see Tall, Dark, and Blue Eyes again, I am so getting revenge.
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ALSO BY MISTI MURPHY
TANGLED DESIRES
Prick Tease
Lady Killer
Cocky F@#ker
Maximum Rush
This Radio Love
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ALSO BY TAMI LUND
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Delicious Deception
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