by Kendall Ryan
Junk Mail
Copyright © 2019 Kendall Ryan
Copy Editing by
Pam Berehulke
Content Editing by
Elaine York
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Junk Mail
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
The Two-Week Arrangement Exclusive Preview
Acknowledgements
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About the Book
It all started with a sexy selfie.
Texted to the wrong number.
Oops.
Not my finest moment—but I have nothing to be ashamed of.
She thought I was no better, and I quote, than the knuckle-dragging douchebags she was never dating again.
It was a stupid dare from a girl I’d met online, but since she’d given me a fake number, I didn’t feel bad that my interests were suddenly focused elsewhere—on the fiery and sharp-tongued Peyton that I found myself sparring with over text for the rest of the evening.
The following day, my case of mistaken identity came back to bite me in the banana.
When I strolled into the office and my business partner introduced me to Peyton as the new client I needed to win over to secure our expansion, I was ready for a challenge. I just had no idea that challenge was going to be learning how to work alongside her with an eight-hour erection.
She says she’ll never be with me, says the next few weeks will be strictly professional between us. But her body says different.
Chapter One
Josh
I smile down at my phone at the message ButterflyGirl6 has just sent me. We’ve been talking in that getting to know you to see if we’re compatible lingo for the past three nights, and tonight looks like we’ll graduate to dirty talk. Perfect.
Her profile says she’s looking for Mr. Right, and I honestly wouldn’t mind playing that part for the right woman. But so far tonight, her flirty tone suggests she’s looking for Mr. Right Now. And I’m completely down with that scenario too.
She’s asked me what I’m wearing.
She wants to know my favorite positions.
She’s curious if I can go all night long.
We moved on pretty quickly from the hobbies-and-interests portion of the chat, but hey, I’m not going to complain.
The last message she sent is her cell phone number, along with a note saying Let’s take this to text, if you know what I mean.
Oh yes I do, you sexy little butterfly. I know exactly what you mean.
After working my ass off to continue building my company for the past year, I’m a man on the edge. I have my limits, and the desire to pillage and plunder my way through the New York City singles scene is a sharp throb of need that can’t be contained any longer.
With one of the biggest opportunities of my life coming up, you might think I should focus on buckling down and stop chasing that wonderful warm spot between a woman’s thighs. And the thing is, you’d be right.
It’s just . . .
This dry spell can’t go on, and that’s why I’m scrolling through that dating app—you know the one. It’s not even really for dating. It’s for hookups. And while that’s not usually my style, Exhibit A is the monster in my pants demanding to be fed, so I’m willing to make some adjustments, both literally and figuratively.
But, hey, I’m also a big believer in giving a woman what she wants. And this woman, this sexy, flirty, naughty ButterflyGirl6—who I’ve been chatting with for the last three nights via a dating app—has asked for a dick pic.
Look, I’m going to be blunt here. I’ve never taken a dick pic before. It’s not that my second-favorite organ isn’t photo worthy. It absolutely is. It’s a goddamned work of art, if I do say so myself.
But I still haven’t captured its glory on candid camera.
It’s just that, well, dick pics are a little uncool. Right? Generally, I pride myself on being a gentleman when interacting with women. And maybe I’m a little old-fashioned.
Sure, I get that sexts and dirty pictures are part of the dating scene these days, but I’ve found that there are few true surprises left anymore, and undressing a woman you’ve never seen naked before and exploring every inch of her body is one of them. I’d presume the same applies to a lady. So, I do enjoy leaving that aspect of dating until, you know, the actual date.
From my spot on the leather couch in my spacious living room, I slide down my boxer briefs, my cock already conveniently in a semi state. And let me tell you, I look pretty damn good already.
Here we go. Time to lose my dick-pic virginity.
I hold the phone a foot or so above the goods and snap a couple of shots, hoping they do the trick. I suppose I could have googled how to take a dick pic, but then I’d have to turn in my man card. Some tasks you just need to dive right into and figure out as you go. Besides, how hard can it be—pun intended—to capture a great shot of a great cock?
But when I scroll through the camera roll, I cringe.
Getting the right angle, lighting, and vantage point to show off my favorite appendage is harder than it seems. Again, pun intended.
I delete the first few trial shots. And by delete, I mean I send them straight to the trash can on the phone, and make sure they are deleted for-fucking-ever.
I realize what my first few attempts were lacking.
I need to be fully hard.
Yup. That’s the trick.
I head to my bedroom and flick on the light to reveal a neatly made bed, dresser, and a pile of folded clothes still in the laundry basket beside my closet door.
Settling myself on the bed against the headboard, I smile. My white duvet will make the perfect backdrop for the photo. There’s nothing to compete for attention with my junk. Impressive as it is, I don’t need anything distracting from the mood I’m trying to set for ButterflyGirl6. And that mood is—at your service, come and ride me all night long.
Chuckling to myself, I shove off my boxer briefs and stare down at the prize.
I would have assumed I’d need a few stiff tugs to prep the package, but yet here is my dick, ready to impress our new lady friend.
Note to self—never go four months again without some action. It turns you into a horny teenage boy. Forget the fact I’m a grown-ass man at thirty-four. I have needs. And what I need in this moment? To impress the lovely ButterflyGirl6 so she says yes to my request for a date.
Do I f
ind it a little strange that this woman wants to see my goods before taking a look at my face? Sure I do. But whatever, I’m flexible.
A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser reveals tanned skin, a five o’clock shadow, and a mess of dark hair that I keep a little longer than I should.
Making sure the angle is perfect, I snap a shot. When I check out my camera roll, I have to say I’m pretty impressed with my work.
I hit SEND and toss my phone on my nightstand. I can’t wait for her reply. I’m sure it’ll come any minute.
Any minute now.
Maybe just one more minute.
I check my phone once more. Sadly, it’s still silent.
I set it down and head for the shower. When I wander out a few minutes later, toweling off my hair, my phone is buzzing with a reply.
I may or may not have run over to the phone to see what she had to say about the goods.
When I slide open the message, though, her response isn’t what I expected at all.
Chapter Two
Peyton
One by one, all my friends are tying the knot.
No, not right this second, not literally. At the moment, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, waiting for a mug of soup to reheat in the microwave. But it still feels that way because over the last eighteen months, one by one, all my friends have either gotten engaged or married. I have four bridesmaid dresses hanging in my closet, and another two on order for this season’s weddings.
Meanwhile, I live with my grandmother, or rather she lives with me, but I’m as single as a serial killer on death row. Actually, that may not be entirely true. Serial killers probably get more action than I do.
It doesn’t matter. I’m pursuing my dreams, building an enviable career and nursing my entrepreneurial spirit one sale at a time. But all of that is about to change because tomorrow morning is my big chance. A meeting that can lead to my amazing subscription boxes being taken to the big leagues.
“Soup again?” Gram asks.
Gram is not only my roommate, she’s also my best friend and my maternal grandmother. Despite being eighty-two, in a lot of ways she’s hipper than I am. She wears those printed leggings that people fight over online and covet—today’s selection are a monkey-and-banana print. She gets her nails painted once a week at the salon down the street, and she knows the lyrics to all the songs on the radio. Gram is pretty much a silver-haired badass.
“Leftover split pea,” I say.
“One of us needs to learn to cook,” Gram mutters under her breath.
And by one of us, she means me. I’ve heard her say more than once to herself that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I also know Gram knows how to cook; she just chooses not to. Not that I can blame her. She raised four kids, was married and widowed twice, and was the epitome of a 1950s housewife. I think it’s cute that she’s having a late-stage feminist streak. So, soup it is. Or takeout. Building my business, I certainly don’t have the time or inclination to slave over a hot stove.
I grab my mug of soup from the microwave and set Gram’s inside, punching the buttons for two minutes.
“Thanks, sugar,” Gram says, picking up her latest knitting project from the counter.
Thankful to be done with work for the evening, I grab a spoon and set myself a spot at the table. While Gram fills me in on the latest gossip at the senior center, I get to work on my soup. Apparently, judging by the gossip that Gram is dishing out, even the elderly are getting more action than me.
“And when Duncan mixes his penis pills with heart pills—look out.” Gram chuckles to herself like this is the most amusing and endearing quality a man can have. And at her age, maybe it is.
And there we have it, folks. My life is officially boring.
As I rinse my mug at the sink and place it inside the dishwasher, my phone chimes from the dining table.
Gram steps outside to check the mail while her soup cools, and I grab my phone to check it. There’s a text.
Unknown User: Hey.
Peyton: Um, can I help you?
A few seconds later, a photo appears on my screen.
It takes a moment for my mind to comprehend what I’m seeing. But the realization of what I’m actually seeing, and the number of days since I’ve seen this particular piece of anatomy, has me slow on the uptake.
So many words flash through my brain at once.
Flesh.
Male.
Rigid.
Engorged.
Large.
I squeeze my eyes closed and take a deep breath. What in the world? Who in their right mind sends a dick pic to a complete stranger? And why did this very well-endowed stranger pick my number out of all the possible numeric combinations that exist?
Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat, I peek open one eye. Its size is . . . enviable. There’s no denying that. A freaking baseball bat would have Freudian-level jealousy issues.
Unknown User: That what you wanted, baby?
Peyton: And goodbyeeee.
What kind of freak is this guy? That’s just creepy. Ew. No matter how attractive said penis actually is, and mind you, as penises go, his is actually a handsome one, that’s beside the point. Unwarranted photos of this nature are exactly why I don’t date. Men are just gross.
Unknown User: What? Seriously? It’s not that bad.
Something inside me seethes. The unwanted-peen-shot-sending population of men need to be put in their place.
Peyton: No, it’s not bad at all. But what the hell? Why would you send ANYONE this shot unsolicited?
Unknown User: You asked me to send it!
Peyton: Ha. Try again, buddy. I definitely did not in any way, shape, or form ask for this pic.
Unknown User: Wait. Fuck. You’re not ButterflyGirl6, are you?
Peyton: Who? No. I’m definitely not.
He doesn’t reply right away, and a dry chuckle escapes my lips. Serves him right that someone gave him the wrong number.
But she’s kind of missing out on quite a nice schlong, to be honest.
I should be offended. Unsolicited dick pics are aggressive, inappropriate, and downright rude. But strangely enough, I’m not offended. I’m kind of . . . intrigued.
My interest gets the better of me and I dare another glance at the offending member. My cheeks redden in a way that has nothing to do with the warm soup in my belly and everything to do with my lack of a sex life.
Confronted by that . . . thing staring back at me, I have so many questions.
Namely, how does he haul it around all day? Isn’t it uncomfortable? Loads of other inappropriate questions like Do you only date sword-swallowers? flit through my brain. But I refrain from actually typing them out in a text to Mr. Dick Pic.
Thank God.
My kitchen table is hardly the place to be musing over such things. I move to get up, but before I can, Gram enters the kitchen and glances over my shoulder.
“What’s that, a ham hock?” she asks.
I slam the phone screen-down on the table. “What? No.”
I shake my head firmly, hoping to end this conversation before it starts. But given that I’m the only thing of importance in Gram’s life, she’s bound to be on this like a dog with a bone.
“Leg of lamb?” She gives me a curious look as she heads to the counter to make herself a cup of tea.
“No, Gram. Don’t worry about it.”
She shrugs, setting a teacup into a matching saucer. “Whatever it was, it looked delicious. So juicy and tender, I bet it melts in your mouth. I thought you were looking up recipes to cook for me.”
Letting out a groan, I shove the phone inside my pocket and rise to my feet.
Gram eyes me curiously. “You’re flushed, dear. Are you feeling well?”
Nodding, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and place my hand protectively over it, eager to get out of the kitchen. “I’m fine. It’s sort of warm in here, is all. I think I’m just a little anxious about tomorrow.”
T
omorrow. The biggest day of my life, and here I am sexting with some stranger.
“Get some rest. Maybe a nice warm bath. I’ll bring you some tea once you’re settled,” she says, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “While you’re in the tub, you should really look up some more meat recipes like what was in that picture. I think I’m going to dream about that side of beef, or whatever it was, instead of that vegetarian stuff you keep feeding me.”
I squeak out a nonsensical reply and scurry toward the stairs, taking them two at a time because I seriously need to get out of this room. And according to my own grandmother, I seriously need to get laid.
Safely inside my bedroom, I shut the door behind me and tug my phone from my jeans pocket. Sinking onto the edge of my mattress, I read the new message.
Unknown User: Shit, I’m so sorry. Despite the aforementioned erection, I promise I’m harmless. Please accept this photo of me from the third grade as proof. My apologies.
Staring down at the most adorable photo of an awkward eight-year-old with gapped teeth and a bowtie, I let out a snort laugh. Who the hell is this guy? Someone extremely bad at flirting, that’s who. Some poor girl clearly gave him a fake number, wanting him to fuck off, and now I’m the object of his attention. Lucky me.
Peyton: OMG. That just made this entire exchange ten times more awkward.
Unknown User: Yeah, I guess it did. Shit. Clearly, I’m not very good at this whole thing.
Peyton: What? Being human?
Unknown User: The name’s Josh. Seriously, I’m really sorry.
Peyton: My name’s Peyton. Apology accepted—as long as you don’t whip out that flesh wagon again and assault me with it.
Unknown User: Only if you ask nicely.
I laugh. How sad that this is the most flirting I’ve done in over a year.
Peyton: Well, good night then, Josh.
Unknown User: Good night, Peyton.
I decide against asking him how exactly he plans to sleep while World War III rages between his legs—because, holy hell, that erection looked painfully swollen, but I do no such thing.
Instead, I busy myself with having a mug of sleepy tea with Gram, brush my teeth, and then review my notes for tomorrow’s presentation before I climb into bed and dream of being devoured by a giant one-eyed python.
