by Lauren Rowe
“Perhaps you’re thinking this price seems a tad high for one night of mind-blowing pleasure with the most sought-after call girl in the entire world (even for a mill-i-on-aire many times over such as yourself), but please rest assured PGWH is well worth this fee. In fact, we guarantee that by the end of your night with this woman, you’ll declare, without the slightest reservation, ‘You’re worth every fucking penny, baby.’
“Considering your very specific requirements stated in your application, we’ve attached a photo of PGWH for your approval. We hope you’ll find her to be a genuine Gucci bag among counterfeits sold on the sidewalks of New York—the ‘divine original’ of your blonde-girl fantasies.
“Assuming PGWH meets your approval, she’s available to meet you in Los Angeles on Thursday the twenty-fifth for a long weekend. Please reply with details about your rendezvous, including the location of the hotel you’ve arranged, when and under what name she should pick up her room key, etc. (whatever types of details you supplied when arranging trysts during your month-long membership in the far inferior Mickey Mouse Roller Coaster Club).
“We cannot emphasize enough that PGWH wishes to experience what you’ve outlined in your application, exactly the way you’ve described it (because she’s a high-end call girl, you might recall, and not just a woman who works at a PR firm going on a date with the hottest guy ever).
“So let’s talk logistics. In your application, you requested fulfillment of two different fantasies. We are happy to inform you that, with just a few minor tweaks to your requests, PGWH is willing (and quite excited) to deliver both to you, on two separate nights of her stay in Los Angeles (which means, yes, this high-end call girl’s gonna cost you a grand total of two million bucks). So let’s talk about those minor tweaks:
“Regarding your first scenario, PGWH agrees to be part of the two-woman scenario you’ve requested, but she’s not game for both women to be naked when you first arrive to the hotel room. She might need a little coaxing to get the show on the road, so to speak, but she’s confident a little alcohol and the sight of your gorgeous, turned-on face will be all that’s necessary to give her a little nudge in the right direction. In the end, your fantasies are all that matter—she very much wants to deliver them to you.
“Also regarding your two-woman scenario, as previously agreed, you may touch yourself and PGWH, but you absolutely may not touch the ‘other’ woman. Breach of this rule will be deemed unforgivable by PGWH and will result in her leaving the rendezvous immediately. (If this amounts to ‘sexual extortion’ we’re very sorry-not-sorry. It’s just super-duper important to PGWH that you honor this request and never make PGWH feel like a third wheel. She wishes to be your window, not your window dressing. This is non-negotiable. Have we mentioned one of her code names is The Jealous Bitch?)
“If the foregoing revisions to the first scenario are agreeable to you, then our next step is to identify the ‘window dressing’ who’ll be joining you and PGWH. Since you’ve graciously offered that PGWH may select whomever she chooses, we’re happy to inform you of PGWH’s selection: supermodel Bridgette Schmidt.”
I take my hands off my keyboard and stare at the screen for a long moment.
Up ’til now, this email to Josh has poured out of me in a torrent of excitement—but now, my fingers have paused without my brain telling them to do it.
Am I really up for this? It’s pretty kinky. Am I really gonna like kinky as much as I think I will—or am I merely turned on by the idea of kinky? And, besides that, when Josh and I first started “negotiating” this particular adventure, I made a big ol’ stink that the woman we selected couldn’t be someone either of us knows. But now that I’ve had a chance to think this through, I think Bridgette the Supermodel is the ideal candidate for the job.
First off, she’s gorgeous. And since I’m the one who’s gonna be making out with her, that’s not a small point. Second, Bridgette is bisexual, at least according to Josh, which means the odds are good this won’t be her first time making out with a girl—and, hopefully, she’ll be more enthusiastic about fooling around with me than my straight friend in college (because that was kind of lame in retrospect). Third—and this is a biggie—Bridgette’s a huge celebrity, which means she’s not gonna take secret photos and sell them to TMZ.
All these reasons are pretty persuasive to me—and yet there’s an even bigger reason to select Bridgette as my co-star in this particular mini-porno: Josh said Bridgette’s got “battery acid in her heart.”
Well, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give that girl a salami. Because if I’m gonna voluntarily bring a beautiful, naked, blonde woman into the bedroom with a man I want for my very own—a man I’ve been fantasizing about taking home to meet my family—a man who makes my claws come out and jealousy rise up from my darkest bowels when I even think about him with another woman—then I’m sure as hell gonna make double-damn-sure that woman’s not gonna have a snowball’s chance in hell of stealing my man out from under me.
I take a long, deep breath and close my eyes.
Oh my, I seem to be feeling a tad bit psychotic right now.
I take a deep breath and shake it off.
And there’s another reason to select Bridgette too—a very, very good reason that might be a tad bit self-sabotaging (but, oh well, that simply can’t be helped): I want to see if Josh is full of shit or not. He says I’m more beautiful than Bridgette Effing Schmidt, one of the world’s most beautiful women? Well, let’s see if Josh is able to walk the walk of that particular smooth-talk. Will he be able to keep his hands off Bridgette when push comes to shove? Or will he find her jaw-dropping physical beauty too powerful to resist, no matter how much he feels for me?
Obviously, I might be making a huge mistake by doing this—setting myself up for epic heartbreak. Actually, come to think of it, this might be the stupidest idea I’ve ever had in my entire life, possibly even dumber than the idea of surprising Garrett at his apartment wearing nothing but a trench coat. But, hey, I’ve got to look at the big picture here: if Josh is ultimately gonna shatter my heart, I’d rather know it now than when my heart is totally on the line.
I place my hands on my keyboard again and continue typing:
“After explaining the firm no-touch rule to Bridgette, please invite her to join us during one of the nights of PGWH’s stay in Los Angeles (whichever night she can make it—we’ll work around her schedule).
“And now regarding the second scenario detailed in your application, which we’ll call ‘Saving the Girl.’ Do you think it’d be possible to combine this fantasy of yours with one of PGWH’s biggest fantasies, already detailed at length for you, in which she’s held captive by a dangerous man? Just let us know. During this trip, fulfillment of your fantasies is paramount, so if simultaneously fulfilling PGWH’s fantasy would somehow lessen your pleasure, we’ll be very happy to fulfill PGWH’s fantasy a different time.
“Well, that’s about it. We look forward to serving you, Mr. Faraday. Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do love a good sick fuck!”
My heart stops. Oh my God, I absolutely cannot phrase that last sentence that way. Jesus God, am I mad? Quickly, I delete the last sentence and rephrase it:
“Why? Because we here at The KUM Club sure do enjoy ourselves a good sick fuck!”
Damn. That was a close call. I’m careening out of control here. Jeez. I can’t drop the ‘L’ word like that, even as a snarky figure of speech.
“Exclusively yours,” I continue writing, “The KUM Club.
“P.S. PGWH wishes to thank you profusely for your latest extremely generous gift (in a long line of generous gifts)—even though it will surely prevent PGWH from ever leaving her house again (unless it’s to see you, of course). Whenever PGWH uses your gift, rest assured she’ll imagine she’s getting splendidly fucked by you. Certainly, with every orgasm (and there will surely be many), she’ll moan your name.”
My fingers leave my keyboard. I stare at the screen, my sk
in electrified, my crotch burning, my heart aching. Try as I might, I simply can’t keep myself from falling head-over-heels for this man. The only question now is whether he wants me the way I want him. I know Josh wants me sexually, but does he want the rest of me, too? I’m simultaneously excited and nervous to find out.
I read my email once through, take a deep breath, and press send.
Sixty-One
Josh
I slam my laptop shut.
Holy fuck.
Madame Terrorist strikes again.
I glance furtively at the guy seated next to me on the plane. He’s working on his laptop, completely oblivious to the naked photo of Kat that just melted my motherfucking screen. For a long moment, I look around at the other passengers in my immediate vicinity, my heart raging, my cheeks burning, my cock twitching in my pants.
I’ve seen my share of naked-blonde-woman-photos before now, of course, but my body’s never reacted quite like this to any of them. Holy fuck, I feel like I just mainlined a cocktail of Ecstasy and Viagra. You’d think I was thirteen and sneaking my dad’s stash of porno-mags the way my body’s reacting to this photo of Kat.
But it’s not just Kat’s tits and ass making my dick so hard—it’s how much of Kat’s personality comes through in the shot. There’s a devilish smile on her lips that tells me she was as turned on snapping this photo as I am looking at it, and, shit, there’s a glint in her eye that says, “I got you right where I want you, chump,” too. The woman slays me.
I can’t believe Kat gave this photo to me, no coaxing required. I had to beg Emma to let me snap one measly naked shot of her for my birthday last year, and now Kat’s sending me this for no other reason than she likes getting me hard? She’s incredible.
What did Kat say after Sarah sent that naked photo of herself to Max and Oksana? “No matter how smart or powerful a guy might be, he’s got the same Kryptonite as every other man throughout history—naked boobs.” I close my eyes for a long beat, shaking my head. God, I hate proving Kat right, I really do, just on principle—but there’s no way around it: Kat’s naked boobs just flat-out stripped me of whatever superpowers I might have had.
And yet her naked boobs didn’t come close to slaying me the way her naked words did. I already knew she was a terrorist, but now I know she’s a fucking ninja with words, too.
I made fun of Jonas pretty relentlessly for the way he went ballistic over Sarah’s anonymous email, sight unseen, but now I get it. Shit, I might even owe Jonas an apology for the way I gave him shit about that. If Sarah’s note was even half as clever and sexy and hot as Kat’s, then it’s no wonder Jonas fell so hard for—
I jerk my head up from my screen, my heart suddenly rising into my throat. Did I just compare Kat and me to Jonas and Sarah? My chest tightens. I hear my pulse in my ears.
Yeah, I did.
I close my laptop, unlatch my seatbelt, and walk quickly into the bathroom, my head reeling. Once there, I latch the door with shaking hands, splash cold water on my face and rock-hard dick (because the idea of wacking off in an airplane bathroom is too gross even for me) and then I stare at myself in the mirror.
“Just breathe,” I say to myself out loud. Shit, I look like Jonas right now. “Don’t overthink it, bro. Just stay in the moment. Chill the fuck out.”
But the blue eyes staring back at me won’t be soothed.
How do you know? I asked Jonas.
I just know, he said.
I look at myself in the mirror for another long beat, water dripping down my cheeks and off the tip of my nose.
“She’s your Kryptonite, man,” I finally say to my reflection. “You’re totally fucked, Superman.”
Sixty-Two
Josh
“Checking in, sir?” the valet attendant asks as he opens my car door.
“Yeah.”
“Need assistance with any bags?”
“Nope.” I hold up my car keys and a one-hundred-dollar bill. “No cars parked on either side of it.”
“Yes, sir.” The attendant grabs my keys and the C-note out of my hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Bring it back with no dings in the doors and I’ve got another hundred for you.”
“Thank you, sir. You got it.”
I grab the small duffel bag on my passenger seat, straighten my tie, and stride toward the front of the hotel. Holy fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this eager to see a woman. Okay, fine, I’m full of shit—I’ve never been this eager to see a woman, ever, and I know it.
This whole past week, even though I’ve been absolutely swamped with work hammering out the transition strategy for Jonas and me from Faraday & Sons, I’ve nonetheless managed to continuously count the minutes to seeing Kat again. When I haven’t been working, the only way I’ve been able to prevent my mind from spiraling into some sort of Jonas-style obsession, has been to keep myself constantly busy. I’ve gone to the gym and worked out like a motherfucker every night this week, followed by going home to my empty house and distracting myself with one of four go-to activities (all of which I performed while lying naked in my bed): 1) strategizing about how I’m gonna deliver on Kat’s crazy-ass (but awesome) fantasies; 2) reading one of the sex-books Jonas sent me (fantastic reading, I must say—I owe my brother a huge ‘thank you’); 3) chatting with Kat on the phone (or on FaceTime); and 4) jerking off, an activity which, quite frequently, overlapped with activities one, two and three (but mostly activity three).
A doorman holds open the heavy glass doors of the hotel and tips his hat to me as I enter the building. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”
“Thanks,” I say, gliding into the expansive lobby.
Yeah, Kat and I had some pretty fucking amazing phone- and video-chat-sex this past week, that’s for sure, including two separate times when she let me watch her turn herself inside-out with pleasure while riding her new toy. But we also just talked a whole lot, too, about anything and everything, for hours and hours every single night—and it was awesome.
In one conversation, Kat told me a thousand hilarious stories about her family, and I laughed ’til my stomach hurt. Damn, she’s got a fierce and funny family—and, man, do they look out for each other. When I found out Kat gave her craps winnings to her little brother so he could record an album with his band, I instantly felt this weird sense of relief more than anything else—relief that I’ll never have to explain or defend my bond with Jonas. Clearly, the girl already completely understands what it means to put someone else’s needs above your own.
I reach the check-in counter in the lobby and stand in line behind an old white guy accompanied by a much younger (and absolutely beautiful) Asian woman.
“I’ll be right with you,” the clerk says to the couple standing in front of me in line, looking up from assisting a family of five with their check-in. I nod curtly, just in case she was directing her comment to me, too, and then let my thoughts quickly drift to Kat again.
“Michelangelo was the coolest one,” Kat insisted during one of our many conversations this past week.
“How can you use the word ‘cool’ in reference to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” I asked.
“Oh, come on. You know you watched them,” she chided me.
“Yeah, I watched them,” I said, laughing. “But I never thought they were cool.”
“Honesty-game,” she said.
I exhaled. “Damn, that fucking game. Okay, yes. I thought Raphael was dope.”
I smile to myself at the memory and look at my watch. The woman working behind the check-in counter is still helping that goddamned family of five and the couple’s three young children are bouncing off the walls.
“Jeremy?” the clerk yells over her shoulder toward an open door behind the front desk. “Are you available to assist, please? Jeremy?”
But Jeremy must be off smoking a bowl because no one walks through that open door. It’s just the one poor clerk behind the counter, and the line
is growing behind me.
As I wait, my mind drifts to Kat again, the way it has all week long. Kat. She’s upstairs right now, soaking her panties at the thought of being treated like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Kat. What the fuck? Kat, Kat, Kat. That’s all my brain is capable of thinking about anymore. I smile to myself. Kat.
I broke down and told Kat every little thing about our plans for Climb & Conquer this week, even though I’d planned to tell her about it in person. I was naked in my bed, listening to her sexy voice and feeling particularly relaxed after some pretty damned good phone sex, and everything just spilled out of me. Well, not everything. I didn’t tell her about the fact that, since Climb & Conquer will be headquartered in Seattle, I’ll finally be moving back home in a couple months. I was tempted to mention it several times, but I stopped myself. I mean, shit, God only knows where things will stand between Kat and me in a couple days, let alone a couple months. Why set her up for some kind of disappointment if things don’t work out? All I can do is take it a day at a time and see where things lead, right?
The family of five bounces away from the front desk and the old-guy-Asian-woman-couple in front of me steps up to the desk.
“I’m so sorry for the wait, sir,” the hotel clerk says to the old guy, and then her eyes drift apologetically to me. “I’ll be with you shortly, sir.”
I put my hand up to signal it’s all good and the clerk smiles gratefully. The minute she looks away, though, I look at my watch impatiently. Kat’s in this building right now, wetting herself at the thought of me treating her like my whore tonight, and I’m standing here, growing gray hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I seriously can’t wait to see Kat.
Kat.
During another conversation this week—and God only knows how we got on the topic—Kat and I talked about what we believe happens to a person’s soul after death—which led to a discussion about spirituality versus religion—a topic I’d normally avoid like the plague with anyone but Jonas (that’s what years of Catholic school will do to a guy). But with Kat, the whole conversation flowed easily and naturally.
