by Lana Hartley
How did an interview turn into the best sex of my life?
Hunter
The music is pulsing through my fucking body like water through a sieve. It’s not bad and I don’t mind it but what I fucking love is this tight young slut that’s totally just shaking her ass and grinding backwards on my cock.
That’s right. I’m at Marquee – it’s still the hottest fucking club in the Meatpacking District and I think as long as New York City is around it’s going to stay the hottest club to get some pussy between fights when I’m on the fucking prowl.
And don’t get me wrong, this girl that I peeled from her friends, she’s good, but I’m not sure it’s the flavor I want tonight. She’s thin, with a nice backside. My eyes pulled her to me as I walked onto the dance floor. She was in a group, dancing with some friends. But one look at my body and she couldn’t help herself. I don’t blame her. I absolutely understand the effect that I’m going to have on her.
It didn’t take her long to shuck her barely covered ass on my pole. God, I love it when the fucking sluts do the work for me, getting me all fucking hard as they try to get themselves off on me. I can feel my cock nestle into the curves of her ass cheeks. God, if I take her home to fuck her, I can tell she’ll be willing. It won’t fucking matter if she has to leave her friends. She’ll fucking do anything for me right now, her eyes are so fucking clouded by lust. Who the fuck knows. She may even have a boyfriend or husband in the outside world.
But right now, she belongs to me. I raise my hands up her side. Maybe I’ll just take her right here. Use my strong fucking arms to guide her down to her knees. Have her take my cock in her mouth right here on the dance floor. Then maybe take her over to the VIP section behind the velvet rope. Bend her over and stick my cock inside of her. Make her moan so loud as I fucking take her to paradise. Scoop her juices that run down her legs with my fingers and feed them to her.
All that is interrupted by one fucking phrase.
“Oh my God, did you see this thing on Logan Daniels?”
My head jerks automatically. The little slut is still writhing against me. She’s still going at it. But somehow, in that split second, my mind is now a million miles away.
I’ve left the dance floor and my fight mode comes back on. Logan fucking Daniels. That motherfucker.
I scan the crowd and see where the statement came from.
Don’t fucking shake your head. I know the music is playing in this club so loud that you can hear it from the streets. I know the bass is going to the point where it makes your bones shake. I don’t know how I heard just that one snippet of conversation from two scantily clad hussies drinking fucking cosmos at the bar, maybe two yards from where I’m standing.
The little slut I was teasing turns around toward me. Her eyes are pouty. She’s wondering why she’s not getting any more attention from the big strong boxer who was just a second ago thrusting his massive hard cock into her.
Sorry, babe. There’s one thing that gets my blood boiling more than wet pussy in front of me.
There’s one thing I can only imagine doing and enjoying more than fucking up that nasty little snatch that’s being rubbed on my cock.
And that’s fucking up Logan Daniels. Seriously, smashing his fucking face. Destroying his rib cage. Breaking his nose. Making him fucking bleed for what he fucking did to me. I fucking hate that motherfucker with every single breath that I fucking got.
I’ve forgotten the little slut. I don’t even register her in my brain anymore.
No, instead I’m walking toward the two women standing at the bar.
I approach them and they turn their heads toward me. Their eyes light up as they scan up and down and take in my warrior’s physique. Their bodies immediately lose the defensiveness that we get when approached by a stranger. Their brains are probably screaming at them to make themselves more appealing – fulfilling the evolutionary desire to mate with a superior representative of the race.
“Did you say Logan Daniels?” I ask, by way of fucking greeting.
It takes a moment for one of the women to register what I said, but without thinking twice, she nods.
“Show me,” I command and without fail the woman hands over her phone from her purse. They’re both enraptured by the sight of me before them. Both of their brains are struggling with the overload of fantasies playing out in their head. If I told them I wanted to take both of them home with me, they would agree. They’d both happily take turns sucking my cock like a popsicle. They’d coo with lust as I came in their mouths. They’d even swap my cum between them and show me all in an effort to get me hard again.
But you know what? I wouldn’t really fucking care. Because as I’m looking at the phone with the headline from the Gazette, “Logan Daniels – the Boxer Who Can’t Go Wrong” my fucking heart is sinking.
Here I am, seen as this massive douchebag and fuckup of a person who just boxes well. The bad boy of the boxing world. The black sheep of the fight club.
And what about Logan?
Motherfucker is a fucking pillar of the fucking community apparently according to this piece of shit news story.
How the fuck and in what fucking universe does this happen where I’m the fucking loser and he’s the hero?
But that’s the fucking truth, isn’t it?
I can beat as many poor Russians to a fucking pulp in the ring as I want, but until I get some good PR from the press, I’m still a fucking chump compared to a whining little bitch like Logan Daniels.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the phone back to the girl whose name I didn’t even get.
But it doesn’t even matter because I’ve already turned around and I'm walking to the exit. I can hear the girls call out to me briefly but I don’t have time to listen to them.
See, I gotta get home. Get a good night's sleep.
Then tomorrow, I gotta figure out how to make the appropriately needed level of splash at the Gazette.
Logan Daniels, your days are fucking numbered.
Natalie
“Two more!” Michelle cries out, brandishing her empty gin glass. She’s already slurring her speech, but I guess that’s only normal; it’s hard to get the words right when you’ve been working your way through a bottle of gin.
“I don’t think I can drink anymore, Michelle,” I tell her, steadying myself with one hand on the counter. I don’t know how she does it; I’ve been trying to keep up with her for the last two hours, but it’s an impossible task.
“Oh, shut up. This is your party, and we won’t leave this place until we’re both completely drunk,” she says, still waving her empty glass around.
“This isn’t a party,” I try to tell her, but I doubt she’s even listening. I guess she just wanted an excuse to go out for drinks, and she latched on to the success my article on Logan had. Yup, I’ve already published it, and I’m pretty proud of the way it turned out. Even Fat Ed seemed pleased with it, and that isn’t an easy accomplishment. I’m not sure if my article was the reason behind it, but the fact remains: this week we sold a lot more copies of our newspaper.
“Of course this is a party! Why else would we be this drunk?” She laughs, winking at the bartender as he pushes two glasses of gin across the counter. I sigh as she hands me mine, but I set it aside; I need to pause for a few minutes, or else I’ll be leaving the bar on my hands and knees.
“Tell me, Natalie…” Michelle slurs, throwing one arm over my shoulders and pulling me into her. She lowers her voice, or at least tries to, and adopts a more secretive tone. “That was a really personal article… How did you get to know him so well over dinner?”
I knew this was coming. The moment I stepped into our office this morning, Michelle eyed me suspiciously, and I knew right away that I was wearing an unusual smile on my lips. I’ve never been that good at hiding things from Michelle, and now here’s the proof.
“Journalistic skills,” I chuckle nervously, trying to feign my way out of the conversation. Of course, Mi
chelle’s having none of that.
“Journalistic skills my ass,” she continues, using her free hand to take the gin to her lips. “You got to know him… intimately… didn’t you?”
“Michelle, I --”
“I knew it!” she proclaims, taking her arm out from over her shoulders and clapping her hands together. “My God, I want to know every single detail, Natalie.”
“Nothing happened!” I try one last time, but I can’t help but smile as I say it. The I’ve-just-had-the-best-sex-of-my-life kind of smile.
“Yeah, right…! He must be a complete animal in the sack. He is, isn’t he?” she asks me, grabbing my arm and looking me straight in the eyes.
“Well,” I start, shrugging my shoulders as I grin. “Yeah, he is.”
“Oh my God, you’re the luckiest woman in the world… He’s so freaking hot, and rich, and --”
“C’mon, he’s just a normal person,” I laugh, but in the back of my mind I know that’s not true. The way he handled me… No, a normal person wouldn’t be that good. More than just a regular human being, Logan is a God, and every single inch of his naked body spells the word sex.
“Ed never gives me assignment like yours,” she grumbles then, throwing her head back and downing the rest of her gin in one single gulp. Jesus, when it comes to drinking, she’s a viking.
“And that’s not all. I still have the Hunter profile to write, which means I have one more handsome guy to meet,” I tease her, discretely nodding at the bartender for him to take my still half-filled glass of gin.
“You’re the luckiest person I’ve ever met, did you know that?”
“Not so fast. I still have to set up an appointment with Hunter. I got lucky with Logan, yeah, but I don’t know how things will go with Hunter. He seems… wild.”
“Oh, he’s definitely wild,” she agrees with me, nodding gravely. “If there’s something that guy likes more than punching people, it’s fucking hot women. So, you know… You’re in luck.”
“It’s not like that,” I protest. “What happened with Logan… I don’t know, it just happened, okay? And I’m not planning to sleep with Hunter!”
“Yeah, right…”
“I’m serious! I need to keep my focus, Michelle. I know that there’s a story there. I can feel it,” I tell her, thinking back to the way Logan reacted whenever I said Hunter’s name.
“What kind of story? Are we in for a scandal?”
“I don’t know… But I have a feeling that it might be a game changer. At least for me. If I uncover whatever skeletons these guys have in their closets, Ed will see what I’m worth, and he’ll start giving me better assignments.”
“Ed, pfft. He’s just interested in selling newspapers, you know that, don’t you? He doesn’t really care about journalism… If turning the Gazette into a tabloid helped his bottom line, he’d do it in a blink of an eye.” She shrugs as she says this, completely accepting the way her corporate overlords see the newspaper we work for. I have no illusions about Ed, but having Michelle put it like this… well, it’s a sobering thought.
Still, if I manage to uncover something interesting, I can launch my career into the stratosphere fast. Be it at the Gazette or somewhere else.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I tell her, feeling a surge of renewed confidence. “One step at a time, right?”
“Right,” she grins, “and one cock at a time.”
“C’mon,” I protest, but I can’t help but laugh at what she just said. She really doesn’t have any kind of filter between her mouth and brain.
“Seriously, though… How are you going to approach Hunter? That guy is always up to something crazy, I doubt he’ll even pick up his phone.”
“I have no idea,” I admit, tapping my fingertips against the counter. It sure as hell isn’t going to be easy but—hang on, my cell is vibrating. “It’s Ed,” I say, raising my eyes from the screen and looking up at Michelle. “What the hell does he want this late at night?”
Without waiting for Michelle’s reply, I put the phone up against my ear.
“I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but it’s working,” Ed grumbles in that ruined voice of his. “Hunter’s agent just gave me a call… He wants to set up a meeting with you.”
Oh, Michelle’s right—I gotta be the luckiest woman in the world.
Natalie
“I don’t know how you can eat with these fucking things,” Hunter complains, giving up on trying to grab the sashimi. Instead, he turns the chopsticks around in his hand and uses them to stab one of the thin slices of raw fish on his plate.
“It takes a bit of time,” I admit, deftly maneuvering my chopsticks as I pick a slice from my own plate and take it to my mouth.
“I've never been a fan of sushi,” he continues, stabbing another piece of sashimi. “But this is good!”
“Oh, yeah, this is probably the best sushi restaurant in New York. I just found out about it a few days ago too.”
Truth be told, bringing Hunter to Asakura’s wasn’t my first thought. But then I started thinking about it, and I realized Asakura’s had to be our meeting place. It doesn’t seem to make any sense, right? Well, just think about it; Logan owns this place, he’s friends with the chef, and he comes here a lot… Which, if I’m lucky, means that he’ll show up while I’m having dinner with Hunter. And once these two are face-to-face, then I’ll know if there’s a story to be told or not.
“So, how do you wanna do this?” Hunter asks me then, turning on his seat to face me while he drinks from his sake cup.
“We can talk. Just a normal conversation, and we’ll go from there… I’d like to know more about your upbringing, your background; you know, the usual.”
“Uh, yeah, right,” he whispers distractedly, running one hand through his hair as he looks away from me. For a guy that seems to thrive on attention, it doesn’t look like he enjoys talking about himself.
To be honest, I wasn’t expecting his hesitancy. The moment he strolled inside the restaurant, I was already sitting by the counter; he came in loud and confident (to the point of arrogance), and greeted me from the other side of the room, taking his sunglasses off and looking at me with a devilish grin. Just like Logan, he’s wearing a suit that wouldn’t look out of place in a James Bond movie set, and everything about him oozes confidence and raw power.
Still, so far he’s proving to be different than what I expected. From what I read about him, I expected a complete asshole, but he’s actually very gentlemanly. Sure, he’s very different from Logan, while one is calm and collected, the other is a brash fast-talker with a penchant for cursing. He’s very cocky and, unlike Logan, he grew up in the United States. Maybe that explains why they’re so different.
“I had no idea you'd be this good looking,” he tells me suddenly, the grin on his face letting me know that he sized me up the moment he stepped inside the restaurant. I noticed the way his eyes lingered on my cleavage then (this time I made sure I had one that was sexy enough), and I gotta say… I don't mind the attention, not at all. After all, not only is he one of the most fit people on Earth, he's also one of the most good looking.
“Thank you?” I laugh, tucking a lock of hair over my ear as I smile at him. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not acting like a well-behaved journalist; no, I’m leading him on. I know that Hunter can’t help himself whenever he’s around a woman, and maybe I can use that to my advantage. Besides, it isn’t particularly difficult to act as if I’m being charmed when, in fact, that’s really happening.
“Just saying the truth,” he laughs, once again using his chopstick as a spear. As I laugh with him, I notice Asakura frowning behind the counter. He probably knows who Hunter is (who doesn’t), and he isn’t particularly impressed with the way the heavyweight champion is stabbing the food he prepared. Yeah, finesse isn’t a word you’d use to describe Hunter, but I’d counter that’s just part of his charm. A very rugged, American charm.
I spend the next thirty minutes p
estering him with words about his upbringing and, despite his reluctance to talk about himself, I still manage to wrangle some answers out of him. Unlike Logan, for instance, he wasn’t born to a family with means; he was part of the lower class, another troubled inner city with a passion for punching every kid taller than he was, and he fought long and hard to reach the top. He’s the embodiment of the American dream, it seems, and I like that; it gives me a nice angle to work with.
Still, it isn’t as juicy as I need it to be.
I keep on making all kinds of questions, hoping to bring Hunter into the conversation, but he sidesteps and disarms me each and everytime. Instead of answering me, he deflects my questions and turns them on their head, always coating his words with some kind of innuendo.
“It’s hard to focus, you know?” he eventually tells me, cleaning up what’s left on his plate and washing it down with a cup of sake. I arch one eyebrow questioningly, and he opens up into a wide grin. “I have a hard time focusing whenever I’m around beautiful women.”
“You really don’t know the meaning of the word subtle, do you?” I laugh, feeling my cheeks burn.
“I do. I just don’t like to risk being subtle.”
“And since when is being subtle a risk?” I ask him, not entirely sure where the conversation is headed.
“Subtlety means you’re using tactics. It means that you don’t want to face whatever it is head-on. Whenever I want something,” he says, lowering his voice and looking straight into my eyes, “I just go and get it.”
With that, he reaches for me and lays his hand on top of mine. I look back into his eyes, my gaze drawn to his lips, and --
I turn my head around as I hear the restaurant’s door swing open, and my heart almost stops as I notice the man standing there.
Just like I planned, Logan’s here.
Logan
I walk into my favorite sushi restaurant and freeze as soon as I enter.
