THAT MAN: Holiday Box Set Books 1-5

by Nelle L’Amour

“From whom? I’d like to reward whoever it is with a free oral exam.”

  The words “oral exam” made me cringe. Is that what he did with Jennifer’s pussy?

  I breathed out her name. “Jennifer McCoy.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? How do you know her?”

  I knitted my brows. That was interesting. He had no clue who I was. Jennifer had obviously never mentioned my name to him. Cautiously I said, “We work together.” And soon, Dickwick, we’re going to fuck together.

  “Ah, so you work for Conquest Broadcasting too. In the children’s programming division?”

  Hmm. Is this what Jen had told him? Wondering why she would hide working for SIN-TV, I merely nodded.

  “Wonderful. Let’s get started.”

  Placing the clipboard on the sink counter, Dickwick prepped for my examination. I watched as he donned a paper mask along with a pair of latex gloves and telescopic glasses. He leaned into me.

  “Open wide.”

  Is that what he said when he wanted Jen to suck his little dick?

  Mentally slapping myself, I parted my lips and opened my mouth as wide as it would go.

  Holding a mouth mirror, he peered inside it. “Where exactly is the problem? I don’t see any inflammation.”

  A pool of saliva gathered in the base of my mouth as he continued to explore. I grabbed that little spittle vacuum and pressed my lips on the tip to suck up the excess spit. For some crazy reason, I imagined Jen wrapping her lips around my cock and making me come in her mouth.

  Poking my gums with the fingers of his free hand, he catapulted me out of my fantasy. I relaxed my jaw.

  “It hurts like hell in the back by my molars. Can you feel any swelling?” I asked before opening my mouth wide again. My evil plan was now officially in action.

  He reached two fingers—his index and middle ones—into my mouth. I let out a loud, faux moan of pain and then I did it. I chomped down on his fingers as hard as I could. So hard that my cuspids tore through his plastic gloves, and I could taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.

  “OWWW!” he screamed out at the top of his lungs. Music to my ears.

  Well done, Agent Burns, I mused as he yanked his hand out of my mouth and stared down at the blood-filled glove with disbelief. Well, at least I had spared him his two fingers. Well, barely.

  “Why the hell did you bite me?” Pain and terror filled his eyes as he struggled to pull off the bloody glove.

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident. You hit the sore spot. It was just an involuntary reflex.”

  “Fuck,” he moaned as he peeled off the glove. Bright red blood was dripping down both fingers, covering the back of his hand and making its way to the edge of his sterile white lab coat sleeve. Panicking, he reached for some gauze and held it tightly to his wounds.

  “Man, I mean Doctor, I’m really, really sorry,” I apologized. That you won’t be sticking those two pathetic fingers up Jennifer McCoy’s pussy anytime soon… or anywhere near it,” I silently added with a wide mental grin.

  The blood seeped through the gauze. He looked horrified. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You’re going to have to come back or see someone else. I think I need to go to an emergency room. I may need stitches.”

  “Want me to drive you? It’s the least I could do. I drive fast.” Like a maniac.

  Pressing the gauze to his fingers, he dashed out of the room before I could say another word.

  A cocky smile lit up my face. Did I ever mention I was a biter as a child? My biting skills had only gotten better with age. I couldn’t wait to use them on the warm, silky flesh of the delicious Jennifer McCoy. And make my mark.

  Mission accomplished.

  Chapter 14

  Jennifer

  I spent Saturday afternoon with Libby at Chaz’s downtown studio—a large, high-ceiling, exposed beam loft located in the heart of the Fashion District. Chaz had invited us to pick out dresses from his All That Chaz line for the exclusive art gallery gala he’d invited us to later in the evening. It was an opening for a painter who went by one name that rhymed with his—PAZ. He’d scored the invitation through the co-owner of the gallery, who was one of his major clients. After much leg-pulling, I’d convinced Bradley to come along. He hated these kinds of things, so I promised him we wouldn’t have to stay long. His idea of an exciting night out was a boring night in—ordering takeout from his favorite vegan restaurant, watching reruns of nineties shows on Netflix, and going to sleep early with a quick fuck thrown in. We were barely engaged but acted more like an old married couple.

  Sunlight beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As I plowed through the racks of dresses, each one more dazzling than the one before, my mind was distracted. I couldn’t stop thinking about my boss. I could barely eat my breakfast this morning. I was too roused up from his sensual massage that affected him as much as me, and when he told me my lips were kissable, I almost jumped out of my skin. The drive home was painful. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. The whole way, I had to keep my legs crossed to quell the throbbing between them, and my eyes anywhere else but on him. Oh, that heart-stopping, gorgeous face with that cocky dimpled smile and those piercing ocean-blue eyes that burnt holes through me. If it wasn’t for the seat belt, I might have jumped him and gotten us into a major accident.

  Visions of him naked danced in my head. Those long muscled legs and chiseled arms. His broad shoulders. I hadn’t actually seen his chest or ass, but in my mind’s eye, they were sculpted male perfection just like the rest of him. And then there was his cock. That magnificent tower of sexual power. Fuck. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. My pulse was in overdrive, and the lingering ache between my legs wouldn’t go away.

  When he’d texted me earlier to thank me for the referral to Bradley, my whole body lit up. Not just my eyes. I’d longed to hear his voice, that sultry, manly voice. How badly I’d wanted to call him back. I’d fought back the urge by convincing myself he might still be in a pain and not be able to talk. Despite his cockiness, I’d found myself caring about him as much as I wanted him in forbidden places. There was something seriously wrong with me. Here I was engaged to be married to the man I’d been with for over five years, and I was melting over another I’d known for less than a week. A deep pang of guilt knotted my stomach and sent a shiver down my back. Was fantasizing a form of cheating? I couldn’t focus on picking out a dress.

  “Darling, let me help you find something,” offered Chaz, coming to my rescue. “You seem distracted.”

  That was a fact.

  I continued to listlessly scour through the dozens of dresses. “They’re all so short, Chaz.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “That’s the point, Jenny-Poo. They’re fuck-me dresses. You know, you seriously need to change your look. Sometimes you dress like someone’s mother.”

  I cringed. He was right. I was not very adventurous when it came to fashion. And I definitely didn’t dress with sex appeal in mind. I lifted a sparkly pink number off the rack. My size—four. “What about this one?”

  “One of my faves, but not right for tonight. An art gallery opening requires an LBD.”

  My brows shot up. “An LBD?”

  He shook his head with amused disbelief. “A little black dress, honey.”

  I watched as he shuffled through the dresses until he landed on one to his liking; he yanked it off the rack. A smile lit up his face. “Perfection. This one is calling your name.”

  He held it up in front of me. It was itsy bitsy and strapless. Folding it over his arm, he pivoted on his heel and told me he’d be right back. In a flash, he returned with a pair of sparkly black stilettos with spiky six-inch heels that looked like they could stab someone. “They’re your size. Try these on with the dress.”

  “Where’s the try-on room?”

  Chaz grinned sheepishly. “Darling, this is not a department store; it’s a friggin’ studio. The try-on room is right here. Off with your clothes.” A sweeping hand gesture acc
ompanied his command.

  Hesitantly, I stripped off my sneakers, jeans, and crew neck sweater. Clad in just my cotton bra and panties, I was practically naked. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, but then I reminded myself Chaz was gay and more like a brother. And he probably saw a lot more flesh with his daily slew of fitting models.

  I slipped on the dress and the shoes.

  “Oh my God. That’s so amazeballs on you!” It was Libby, with a handful of little black dresses strewn over her arm.

  “Really?”

  “Girlfriend, take a look at the new you.”

  Libby led me to a nearby full-length mirror. Unsteady in the killer heels, I held on to her shoulder. Chaz pranced behind us, belting out “I’m Too Sexy.”

  Removing my glasses, I gawked when I saw my reflection. Wow! The LBD accentuated every little curve in my body and made my long legs look impossibly longer with the six-inch heels on my feet. I did look unbelievably sexy.

  “Bradley better have you on a tight leash tonight,” teased Libby.

  “Nah, sis. This girl needs to get unleashed.”

  Chaz’s words whirled around in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t my reflection that filled my head. It was the image of Blake Burns.

  The art gallery was located not far from our house on chic Melrose Avenue. While we could have easily walked there, I was glad Chaz was picking us up in his Jeep. The thought of walking in my six-inch heels scared me. Given how accident-prone I was, the possibility of tripping and breaking my ankle was a reality.

  While the event began at six o’clock, we showed up at seven—fashionably late as Chaz put it. We were not the only ones. We stood in a long line of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and Ranger Rovers, not to mention a few Bentleys, Rollses, and limos—waiting our turn for a valet to take our vehicle. Paparazzi were lined up outside the gallery.

  “Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by someone who looked like a bodyguard.

  “Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.

  Oh my God! Brandon Taylor!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.

  Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood action star in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on Entertainment Tonight. My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.

  We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”

  I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this über-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.

  “We just got here,” I muttered.

  “Well, I want to leave soon.”

  My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?

  “Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.

  “Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”

  Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”

  He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.

  Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.

  I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundreds of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled Portrait of Delilah at Noon. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.

  A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”

  Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped.

  “The artist’s son, Jaime Zander, is my best friend. I want to introduce you to him. He’s the head of the advertising agency that’s doing our upfront presentation.”

  “I’d love to meet him,” I stammered, soaking him in.

  God, he looked delicious! In head-to-toe black: tight-ass jeans that hung low on his hips, an unzipped leather battle jacket that broadened his already broad shoulders, and a T-shirt that clung to his defined pecs. Sexy black leather boots finished off his ensemble. I quickly shifted my vision back to his face, staying away from anything below his waist. His eyes burnt into mine.

  “So answer my question about the painting.”

  I swiveled around to take another look. My eyes absorbed the subtleties and innuendos. “It moves me. I can tell the artist was extremely in love with his former wife. There’s so much passion in his strokes.”

  “Very impressive and perceptive. You must have taken quite a few art history courses in college.”

  “I only took one.” My voice was shaky. “So, what does the painting do for you?”

  “It makes me hot.”

  A sudden chill ran down my spine and that familiar tingling sensation gathered between my thighs. I was heating up. Stay cool. I turned around to face him.

  “Do all naked women make you hot, Mr. Burns?”

  “Only beautiful ones.” He eyed me from head to toe. “And I must say, Ms. McCoy, you happen to look extremely beautiful tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I stammered, all hot and bothered. I moved on to the next painting with Blake hot on my trail.

  This painting was an early portrait of the artist with his wife. Her bare, contoured back faced me; the artist’s hand was tugging on her waist-length ebony ponytail, pulling her head back. It was called The Kiss. I stared at it wordlessly, mesmerized. A rush of emotion poured through my veins. My eyes teared up. I’d never been so profoundly affected by a piece of art. It was not what I saw that moved me, but what I didn’t see. His lips consuming hers. The fire. A flame of passion and desire. I could feel what Delilah was feeling all the way to my toes. My chest rose, my heart thudded, and my breath caught in my throat. All time stood still.

  “Do you like this painting?” Blake’s soft voice brought me out of my trance-like state and back to the moment.

  “I love it.” My voice was thin and watery. I knew what this kiss felt like. I’d experienced it. Only once. Blindfolded. With a beautiful stranger.

  Blake’s warm hands splayed across my bare shoulders. His breath heated my neck. I was paralyzed. And then he whispered in my ear.

  “It’s special, isn’t it, Jen—”

  “Blake, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  A s
hrill, unfamiliar voice cut him short. Blake’s hands jumped off my shoulders. We pivoted on our heels at once. Facing us was a drop-dead gorgeous blond goddess, dressed in a low-cut, body-hugging black mini dress that revealed her melon-sized boobs, clearly fake, and mile-high shapely legs that were anchored in stilt-like shoes. She looked familiar to me—maybe a supermodel or actress.

  Blake’s face flushed slightly as he gulped. “Kitty—”

  “It’s Kat,” she hissed.

  Blake harrumphed. I held back laughter. My urge to laugh was short-lived.

  Kitty-Kat narrowed her predatory cat-green eyes at me. Her long, lacquered nails morphed into claws. I shuddered. I could mentally feel them dragging down my flesh. She hissed again. “Blake’s with me.”

  She intimidated me. But worse, a bolt of jealousy shot through me. This was Blake’s type. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. Even in my sexy LBD and heels, I paled next to her.

  “Well, I should be going.”

  A triumphant smile snaked across Kitty-Kat’s full crimson lips. Blake looked flustered.

  “Tiger, wait. Don’t go!”

  Just as I was about to flee, Bradley returned with an iced tea in his hand. His eyes darted from me to Kitty-Kat to Blake.

  “Why it’s you again,” he sneered.

  “This is my boss, Blake—”

  Bradley cut me off. “Oh, your boss? The one who practically bit off my fingers.”

  I chewed my bottom lip, on the verge of laughter. What was wrong with me? I should be feeling sorry for my poor fiancé. Blake shot me a wry look and shrugged.

  “It was an accident.”

  Steam was coming out of Bradley’s nostrils. I could practically see it. His lips snarled, his shoulders hunched, and his hands fisted. He had a major anger management issue and could easily be roused.

  He grabbed my hand and jerked me away. “I’ve had enough. We’re out of here.”

  Wordlessly, I let Bradley drag me through the crowd, the tumbler of champagne still in my hand. I felt like hurling it at him. Only steps away from the entrance to the gallery, I turned my head to look back.