He held out his hands wide, and grumbled, “I know.”
She pointed at him and pursed her lips as she leaned in the doorway. “It’s important.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Oh, ha, ha, ha. But you need it,” she said, and she was right. Jack hadn’t been the same since he’d lost his fiancée a year ago, and he needed to get his head screwed on right. Correction. His heart. He needed to get that annoying organ fixed.
If it were even possible.
That was the question.
But tonight, his mind was on business, plain and simple, so he headed off to The Pierson to finalize the deal.
* * *
Michelle Milo had sex on the brain.
Dirty, sweaty, slick sex. Limo sex. Office sex. Swanky-nightclub-bathroom sex.
Unfortunately, none of these were positive images, because they had nothing to do with her sex life, but instead her client’s philandering husband.
And she was dying to shout, leave him.
She wanted to scream it, to slash it on the wall in orange paint, to get down on her knees and beg. But Shayla needed time to come to the realization on her own, even though it seemed patently fucking obvious that she should not only leave that cad of a husband, but kick him several times in the balls too.
“I just keep thinking about The Owl. It has these low lights, almost kind of a blue light, and the bathroom is all tiled in black, and I had such great memories about our time there,” Shayla recounted, referring to a club in Los Angeles where her husband had been caught having sex with his assistant last month. “It was our place,” she said, wiping a tear that had already streaked the mascara from her eyelashes, sending a black jagged line down one porcelain cheek. “Well, back when I used to want to have sex with him.”
Michelle reached for a tissue from the box next to her, handed it to her twice-weekly client, and waited as she dabbed away the evidence of her sadness. Shayla sunk lower in the couch, framed behind her by abstract prints on the wall of the Lexington Avenue offices where Michelle ran her psychology practice. “What is it that bothers you most? Is it that he slept with another woman? Or that he slept with her someplace where you did in the past? Or is it something else?”
Shayla bit her lip and looked away, perhaps not wanting to deal with the something else possibility that had brought her here in the first place. Not that it was her fault that her husband had a dick that needed to be locked up and sent straight to jail for its one eye that wandered ALL. THE. TIME.
Shayla faced a different set of challenges, and that’s what Michelle needed to help her with. She gently prodded her client, who sat frozen like a statue, her jaw set hard, as if she needed to hold all her fears inside. “Or is it because you think it’s your fault that he isn’t faithful?” Michelle asked cautiously.
“It is my fault,” Shayla squeaked out, insistent. “I haven’t wanted to have sex ever since we had kids.”
“And you think that makes it your fault that he’s cheating on you?”
“Isn’t it?”
Michelle shook her head. “Of course it’s not. He’s responsible for his actions, and only you can decide if you want to hold him accountable for them. But we also need to keep getting at the root of the why for you. We spend a lot of time focusing on him and his actions, but we need to dive into why you don’t want to have sex with him. Because you lost interest well before he started cheating on you,” she said. That’s why Shayla was here, to focus on her own intimacy issues, since that was Michelle’s specialty—helping patients work through relationship challenges and fears of closeness. Shayla’s were compounded because her husband was an ass. But first things first. There would be time to deal with him later.
“Let’s talk about why . . .”
Forty-five minutes later, Michelle flashed a small smile at Shayla, pleased that her client was making a modicum of progress. Some days, progress was glacial, and sometimes it was cheetah fast. All that mattered was that Shayla seemed to be moving forward. Michelle said goodbye to her, then checked her schedule for tomorrow on her laptop. It would be another full day, with a new patient appointment, too. The evening ahead of her was packed as well—she had a presentation to give at a sexuality conference, sharing some of her findings with other psychotherapists on sex and love addiction. She had experience in that area, having helped guide several patients through the throes of addiction and into recovery, and the president of the New York Chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists had invited her. Carla Kimberly had been a mentor to her over the years, and had referred patients to Michelle, so it was a double honor to have been asked to speak tonight.
She smoothed a hand over her pencil skirt, adjusted the collar on her crisp white blouse, and changed from flats to her black pumps. She grabbed her work phone from the clutter of papers on her desk, but the battery was almost drained.
Crap.
Having two phones, an iPad and a laptop turned into a juggling act when it came to keeping them all charged. She forwarded the work phone to her personal cell in case her service called. On the way out, she stopped in the office bathroom to brush her teeth and touch up her lipstick.
There. Now she was ready for a quickie meeting at The Pierson.
She laughed to herself. Quickie. Too bad she wasn’t having a quickie of another kind. It had been a while since she’d had one of those. She’d dated an actor for a few weeks in late spring, and she replayed some of her dates with Liam fondly. He’d been outgoing, gorgeous and quite capable with his hands, so they’d done plenty, but nothing close to a quickie.
The problem was even when she’d been pressed up against Liam, she’d been thinking of Clay. Her very good friend who also happened to be the man she’d been madly in love with for ten years. Clay, the gorgeous, sexy, smart entertainment lawyer, and best friend of her brother.
Oh, but there was one teeny, tiny little problem with that overflow of feelings she had for Clay. He didn’t love her, and hadn’t even known how she felt about him. To add insult to injury, he was happily in love with another woman. A month ago, he’d gone and married that woman in Vegas.
Yep, Michelle Milo, one of Manhattan’s most sought-after shrinks, a true specialist in intimacy and well known for helping to heal heartache, was the poster child for unrequited love. Might as well slap a big L on her forehead. God, she was an idiot, and the definition of an oxymoron—she spent her days advising others, and her nights longing for someone she couldn’t have.
She was doing her best to move on and push Clay far out of her heart. Like, ideally, into another galaxy. She’d been taking her medicine for the last few months, blasting loud anti-love songs in her apartment from her favorite musician Jane Black, trying out bowling with some of her colleagues, dabbling in Spanish lessons, and finally training for a 10K marathon she finished last month. She’d never been a fan of running, but it was growing on her solely because the relentless pound of her feet against concrete was starting to numb her feelings for her good friend.
The best method for moving on, though, was work, and she loved her job more than anything in the world. Burying herself in other people’s woes was her deepest passion; the chance to help someone else change and become healthier her greatest joy. She headed off to the conference, eager to dive into work for the rest of the night as she shared some of her findings at the meeting.
The Pierson was only a few blocks away so she arrived ten minutes later at the swank hotel, one of those upscale establishments that doubled as a den for both sin and business with its lobby bar boasting blue neon lighting, its drinks in toweringly tall and thin glasses, and hip music playing in the background.
As she waited for the elevator she couldn’t help but notice a smoking-hot man in the hotel bar, chatting animatedly with others at his table. She catalogued his features quickly—broad chest, dark hair with the slightest wave, crystal-blue eyes like the ocean, and a smile that was quite simply . . . beguiling.
Perhap
s she lingered too long, or perhaps she lingered just the right amount of time, because he glanced across the open lobby bar, past the other tables, and his gaze seemed to land on her.
At least, she wanted to believe it had as she stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed. She’d try to remember his face for later. It could never hurt to put a face to a fantasy when one was alone in bed with her toys.
CHAPTER TWO
Favorite Parts
They hadn’t asked to see The Wild One, but there’d been no need to see it.
Henry’s partner in business and love, Marquita, had proudly boasted about the windows that had nearly shattered in her apartment building when she’d used The Wild One last week. Jack simply smiled and said, “I’m pleased that you were pleased.”
“So pleased,” she’d reiterated, then planted a kiss on Henry’s cheek, one that suggested there’d be much more than kissing going on between them later tonight. That was one of the perks, so to speak, about working in this line of business. Not watching business associates lock lips, but rather, that the people he dealt with didn’t have too many sexual hang-ups. Of course, he ran into plenty of over-sharers too. Some folks assumed if you peddled sex toys, it meant you wanted to hear about every single thing someone did with one, and Jack most decidedly did not want to be told about every escapade. But hey, it came with the territory. Besides, he was used to it with these two—they’d been business partners and friends since Jack and Casey had started Joy Delivered. They were like family.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Marquita,” Jack said, because she’d battled a serious illness most of last year.
“And The Wild One helps,” Marquita said with a bright smile.
“And now there’s something else we need to talk about,” Henry began, steepling his fingers together, his tone shifting to serious as he motioned for someone to join them at the bar—a suited man with black hair, and a blue-and-red striped tie. Only politicians wore such ties. Jack tensed; politics was not his favorite playground.
“Jack, I want to introduce you to Marquita’s brother, Paul Denkler. He’s running for city councilman in our neck of the woods and he’s been focused on safe streets, schools and a balanced budget. But somehow that message has been subverted by his opponent, who’s decided to fight below the belt and attack our business. If Paul doesn’t win, it could be very bad for business,” Henry said, and Jack’s ears pricked at the words bad for business. He didn’t like those words. Not one bit. He preferred good for business, so if this fellow played on the good side, then he’d hear him out.
“Lay it on me,” Jack said, and a meeting about selling The Wild One quickly became something else entirely.
* * *
The deal had been signed. The new product would have both prominent in-store and online placement, and Jack had promised an extra shipment for Marquita and Henry’s personal stash. The undecided part? How he felt about Denkler. How he felt about getting involved in politics. He didn’t have a thorny past with a politician; he didn’t have a senator dad he detested. He simply followed the news, and knew that politics was a slimy, dirty battlefield. Jack had served his country for six years and that was about the extent of his interest in matters of state. This thing with Denkler, though—it wasn’t a matter of state, so much as a matter of business, and a matter of personal business. Jack cared deeply about Henry; the man was a business partner, and had been through hell and back during the past year as his wife battled and beat breast cancer.
What pissed him off was the opponent’s tactics, and how the other guy was going after Paul Denkler through his brother-in-law’s business, which had nothing to do with the race. That was underhanded, and that didn’t sit well with Jack.
But whatever he decided to do, he’d do it with Casey on board. The two were a team, and always had been, so he’d have to table Henry’s request until he spoke with his sister and laid it all out for her. For now, he shoved thoughts of politics and campaigns and consequences aside. Henry and Marquita were off to a dinner meeting, and Jack was alone, so he settled in at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic, scrolling through his phone as he waited for his drink.
He’d been planning on having a drink with his good buddy Nate tonight, but Nate had to work late on a last-minute deal. They’d agreed to still meet tomorrow morning for a round of hoops before work. That meant Jack’s agenda for the rest of the evening was simple—a quick drink, then he’d watch some of the Yankees game from the comfort of his living room. Those twin activities would help him crash later, because he sure could use a decent night’s sleep before the appointment that Casey had arranged tomorrow at two. Just the thought of dealing then with the shit that was in his head gave him an ulcer, but he knew Casey would kick his ass if he didn’t give it a shot.
She wanted him to start dating again. She’d told him the upcoming charity event they were sponsoring next month for breast cancer research would be the perfect time to get back on the market, or at the very least, to slough off all his regret from the past. As if that were possible. But Casey had her mind set. She seemed ready and eager to get him back on the scene, judging from the story link she’d just emailed him. The note was titled, New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.
Look! You’re on the list! Sex-toy mogul Jack Sullivan tops this year’s list of the city’s most eligible bachelors in business. Don’t you think he needs a new woman to mend his broken heart? Makes you just want to nab that man even more.
He rolled his eyes, and replied, The depth of their insight never fails to astound me.
He turned the damn thing to silent. He could do without the reminders tonight. Reminders of anything. Of the woman he’d lost, of the fascination the gossip rags seemed to have with his dating or non-dating status—as the case had been for the last year—and of the claws some women wanted to sink into him, thanks to the growth trajectory Joy Delivered had been on. While at dinner with Casey last week, he’d been propositioned by a young woman who’d said she was on the hunt for an eligible bachelor businessman.
Call him old-fashioned, but the next time he got involved, he’d like it to be with someone who actually gave a shit about him, rather than what he did for a living, the company he ran, or his prior love life.
Or with the absolutely stunning brunette who was walking past him and—hello, lucky stars—was now sitting at the other end of the bar. The same one who’d caught his eye when she’d stepped into the elevator earlier in the evening. Her hair was in a twist that showed off her neck. She had a fantastic pair of legs, strong and muscular, a nice trim waist, and she was rocking some kind of buttoned-up-on-the outside vibe with her blouse and pencil skirt that made him wonder if she was buttoned up on the inside too.
* * *
Michelle hadn’t been expecting the barrage of questions, but what an eager bunch of counselors she’d encountered after her talk. She’d never felt so popular ‘til tonight, when she was nearly mobbed by fellow psychotherapists as she attempted to walk away from the lectern. They fired off questions for her on treatment and guidance for love and sex addicts, and she happily answered all of them to the best of her ability. Then she gathered up her notes, and made her way down to the lobby. She adjusted her purse strap, and sighed deeply, pleased with her work for the evening. Sharing insights and learning was a true passion of hers, and she’d had the opportunity to do so tonight with colleagues.
Tonight. The word reverberated through her, and she felt the slightest pang when she stepped off the elevator and remembered it was a Thursday. She and Clay had often had drinks on a Thursday night. While they still did from time to time, along with her brother, Davis, the get-togethers had been curtailed since Julia moved in with him. Understandable; the man was committed, and now he was married. Julia hadn’t cut them off; in fact, the redhead was lovely, and Michelle had visited Julia’s bar a few times. But it was simply too hard for Michelle to see them together that often, so she’d kept them in her life, but put herself on a restr
icted Clay-and-Julia diet.
Keeping a distance was a necessity, but she missed those Thursday nights. And she missed the drinks, truth be told. She could certainly go for a little nightcap to finish off the day. She’d always been comfortable in her own skin and with her own company, so a quick solo stop at the bar was no big deal.
She followed the music and sat down at the tall, sleek metal bar, ordering a vodka tonic that arrived quickly, and taking out her iPad. There was a new Tumblr feed she wanted to peruse, but that would only happen from the privacy of home and bed since it was a terribly naughty one. She had an article she wanted to finish, and then a novel to dive into about a con artist, and she’d even downloaded a new app for practicing Spanish phrases, partly because the male voice on the app was so deliciously sexy. Perhaps better to listen to that in her apartment, she reasoned, as she lifted the cool glass to her lips and took the first sip. Raising her eyes, she noticed that same man she’d seen earlier. He was seated at the end of the bar, drinking what looked to be a vodka tonic too. The glass hit his lips at the exact same moment, his moves mirroring hers. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle, a hint of wicked delight in them.
Same drink, same time, same absolutely smoking-hot guy she’d spotted an hour before. One barstool away. When she set the glass down, she said, “Jinx.”
“Jinx,” he repeated.
“Does that mean you owe me a drink?” she asked, and then nearly clasped her hand over her mouth. But instead, she went with it. “Sorry, that’s pretty much close to the cheesiest pick-up line ever.”
His lips curved slightly into a grin. “Does that mean you’re trying to pick me up?”
She laughed, and shook her head. The silvery metal surface of the bar revealed a rush of red racing to her cheeks as she answered. “No.”
She wasn’t, right? Those words had just tumbled out accidentally, not because she’d seen him earlier and memorized his face, and not because one quick glance at Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected had her adding him to an arsenal of possible late-night ammunition to feed her active fantasy life.
The Seductive Nights Novellas Page 5
