by Knight, Jodi
Halle-fucking-lujah.
Boner incoming.
Call off the search; God has found his new Friday night playmate.
“Don’t leave. Take a seat, Miss …?”
“Bryant.”
“Right.”
I sidestep toward my desk and sit down. I don’t want to scare her away. I’m not bragging, but trust me, if you’re ever fortunate enough to find yourself in my presence while I’m sporting a hard on, you’ll sure as hell know about it.
Miss Bryant glides through my office with confidence and grace. Her billowy navy pantsuit hugs her body in all the right places. The front cuts into a low V-shape that wraps snugly across her breasts, offering a hint of delicious cleavage. Good God. I’d stick pins in my eyes to be able to stick my face between those beauties.
I look to the ceiling as I try to quash the hundreds of lurid thoughts that are rushing through my mind. I accept her offer to shake hands and inhale deeply.
Christ. She’s wearing Allure.
Raj better return with a handle of scotch and a defibrillator or I think I’m going to pass out.
“I’m Ella Bryant from NY Style. I spoke with Mr. Kapoor this morning. He said you would be available for an interview.”
I motion for her to sit down. “So you saw the advert and you’d like to apply, huh? I have to warn you, competition is tough. My schedule is jam-packed and I do have specific criteria … however I could make an exception for a woman as beautiful as you.”
She arches a quizzical eyebrow. “And if you didn’t consider me to be beautiful?”
Ouch. Most women would just take the compliment. Looks like I’ve caught a live one here.
“I’d still make an exception for you, Miss Bryant. You seem like the kind of girl who’d enjoy a game of chess. Do you play?”
She smiles and nods. “As a matter of fact, I do, but that’s not why I’m here.”
I grab my desk calendar and wink. “Riiiight. The advert. Let’s see when we can book you in. I have a date with a ballet dancer tonight, but I’m free tomorrow. I know a great place off Madison.”
Her eyes narrow. “Actually, I’m here because I write our ‘Bachelor of the Month’ feature. According to my boss, we had you penciled in for an interview in October. I was intrigued by the mail that my colleague received from a Mr. Harrison, and I had another bachelor cancel so I thought I’d bring it forward”
Parker Harrison, you’re a goddamn genius.
She’s silent for a few seconds and continues. “Mr. Kapoor said I should drop by. Are you sure this is a good time, Mr. Slade?”
“Absolutely,” I pull a business card from my drawer and push it across the desk. “Ella, there’s no need for formalities. Please—call me Alex. I’m Global Operations Director of Slade Group, though all the ladies round here just call me God.”
She traces a graceful finger over my initials and a warm smile spreads across her face. “Alexander Solomon Slade. I guess if we’re going with acronyms I could also call you ‘Ass’?”
Nice comeback.
I drum my fingers on my desk. “Ella would you like a coffee?” Without thinking, I thrust the latte from Puccio’s under her nose. Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Is that a penis?”
Way to go Slade, a cock-a-latte. My first Freudian faux pas of the week and it’s just shy of nine on a Monday morning.
I shift my eyes. “Penis? That thing? No, it’s a … umm … space rocket.”
Would you look at that? She’s blushing. She grabs her handbag from the floor and riffles through. It’s a move that affords me a glorious sight of her breasts. Staring is inappropriate, but to hell with propriety. After careful consideration of the delights in front of me, I am happy to confirm that those puppies are most definitely on the large side of a C-cup.
Don’t look at me like that. Those boobies are crying out for attention, and my full attention I shall give. To ignore them would be rude. I swear to God I just saw a nipple.
I clear my throat. “Ella, am I right in thinking that your magazine is the publication with the annual listing of the top one hundred bachelors in New York?”
She pulls a notepad and pen from her bag and nods. “That is correct.”
Her eyes make a quick sweep over my torso so I lean forward. “Where, exactly, am I placed on this list?”
Ella flicks through her notepad. See the way her lips curved upward in an amused smile? She’s trying to keep a straight face. “So far you’re in at thirty-nine, just behind Tanner Robson.”
I sink back into my chair. “Tanner Robson? The finance guy? I’m below Tanner Robson?”
She nods.
“I’m not one for salacious gossip, but I have it on good authority that Tanner exchanges money for sexual gratification. When one of his hedge funds went awry, he rented a whole whorehouse in the East Village. The Madame even named one of their suites after him.” I hold my hand, like I’m swearing an oath. “True story. And, while we’re on that subject, you should know that I would never pay for sex. I don’t have to. You can write that down if you like.”
Her pen is poised against her notebook, but it remains still. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the interview.”
“Sure. Fire away,” I encourage her. She looks thoughtful for a moment, and then asks, “Where’s your shirt?”
I laugh. “I never wear my shirt to the office on a Monday.” I pat my taut stomach and trail two fingers along the grooves of my six-pack. “I like to think of it as a little incentive for our female staff. We call it Muscle Monday here in the office.”
She narrows her eyes accusingly and jots something in her book. “Right. Muscle Monday? Really?”
I nod. “Sure. Hey, let’s reschedule this interview for tomorrow.”
“Why?”
I lean forward and whisper. “Tomorrow is Topless Tuesday.”
She bites her lip. “You really do have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
I wink. “Never underestimate the seductive power of an extensive vocabulary, Miss Bryant.”
She’s blushes again, but she doesn’t smile. Her pupils are dilated. Yep, I think that it’s safe to assume that my Goddess is creaming up at the sight of my naked flesh. Her words may be few and far between, but that’s okay. Her body language is telling me all I need to know: Ella Bryant is begging to be satiated by yours truly.
And my boner is begging to be satiated by Ella Bryant. Either way, it’s a match made in heaven.
I can’t hold myself back any longer. I have to bed this woman—there’s no time to waste. “Ella, let’s talk tonight. You. Me. Dinner. I know a great restaurant off Seventh. You’d love it; the scallops in cava sauce are to die for.”
Ella sucks on the top of her pen. She’s thinking about it for sure. “I have a deadline to work to and my boss is riding my ass. Seeing as though I’m already here, can’t we just get this over with now?”
Hot damn. Her will is stronger than a mule’s hind leg. I’m not used to this kind of resistance, but the challenge is making me hot. Some women just need an extra push.
Watch.
“From the little I’ve seen of your ass, Ella, I can’t say I blame your boss. Someone should be riding it. If I was your co-worker, I’d sexually harass you, too. I’d offer to ride it, but we’ve only just met. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to get to know a lady first.”
She puts her pen down and gives me a blank stare.
Nearly there.
I lean forward and smirk. “Ella, forgive me. I couldn’t help but notice. Is that a Cherlier lace bra you’re wearing? We ran their winter campaign. The balconette style you’re wearing happens to be a particular favorite of mine. It provides excellent support and the uplift needed by females with … fuller cups.”
Yep, that did it.
She throws her notepad back into her handbag. “You’re incorrigible! I’m done here. Thanks for nothing, you jerk.”
A look of mock surprise appears o
n my face. “You’re leaving so soon? But we’ve only just met!”
Ella pulls herself up from her chair, and she’s stiff with rage. Then her mouth falls open.
Why? She just caught a glimpse of the half-pitched tent in my pants. I told you he was a monster, didn’t I?
Visibly shocked, she turns on her heels and marches those glorious pins right out of my office.
Damn. If I don’t move fast I won’t get to check out her ass. I jog out onto the balcony of the atrium and yell. “Are you sure you aren’t free this evening? Like I said, I already have a date with a ballet dancer, but if her plié isn’t up to scratch I’d gladly welcome the opportunity to witness your attempt at an arabesque penché.”
She exits past reception without as much as a backward glance.
“Call me maybe?”
I walk back to my office and smile to myself.
She’ll call.
They always do.
Chapter Five
So, my date with Nina ballerina did not go well. Scratch that—it was a fucking disaster and I was grateful to escape with my balls still attached. I took her to one of the finest Italian restaurants in the city. She ordered a steak, but that wasn’t her crime. I love it when a lady orders anything more substantial than a few well-presented lettuce leaves.
A woman who enjoys her food enjoys life.
I get that.
Have you ever seen a swan devour an elephant carcass? Neither had I until last night. Watching my date tuck into her steak was like witnessing a lion on safari. I spent most of dinner picking stray flecks of bone from my pasta.
I considered making a swift exit, but my swollen balls wouldn’t allow it. After sinking three bottles of Pinot Grigio, we wound up back at her hotel.
Don’t roll your eyes—I gave in. I needed a release, alright?
We wound up back at her hotel and it was then that the night took a turn for the worse. In the dim light of the restaurant, she looked fabulous.
Until we began to make out.
Then she began to disintegrate, piece by piece, before my very eyes.
I felt something course on my lips. It was one of her spiky eyelashes. Okay, make that a whole goddamn row of them.
Undeterred, I made a play for her breasts. Let me tell you, they looked spectacular in her tight red dress. I gave them a playful bite, and almost broke my tooth. It was like chewing on a soccer ball.
A quick word of advice for any ladies considering breast augmentation; don’t fucking bother.
There’s a term for it in our industry.
False advertising.
Anyway, I slid two fingers inside her, and she screamed in ecstasy
Or agony.
One of her gel nails got lodged between my butt cheeks and ripped clean away.
Trying to escape, I rolled off the bed. My fingers got tangled in her hair, leaving me with large chunks of what looked like road kill between my fingers.
Fucking horrifying.
It was like screwing the Bride of Frankenstein.
Fake tan. Fake smile. Fake nails. Fake hair. And then women have the nerve to say they want a real man?
Go figure.
Sit down, because I’m not done yet. It gets worse.
As soon as Nina discovered that I wasn’t really looking for a wife, I was treated to my own private show of The Nutcracker. The sight of her rouge-stained teeth as she wielded a Chesterfield table over her head like a demented Barbie doll will haunt my dreams forever.
I had two options. The first? Call 911. Even crazies understand the pain inflicted by Tasers. But I went with option two—I got the hell out of there.
Half-dressed, I wound up in the hotel lobby wearing nothing but a giant fern leaf I’d stolen from a nearby plant to cover my modesty.
Worst of all? I didn’t even get to blow off.
Anyway, now it’s Tuesday morning and I’m already at my desk, putting the final touches to the House of Aubrey presentation. Pitching is hands down my favorite part of the job. I thrive on the pressure, and love presenting our creative concepts to clients.
When the client wins, we win. And when we win, I win, and I sure as hell need to win today. I’m no rookie. I know how to close a deal, and boy, this one’s going to be sweet.
I’m busy printing out a document when I hear a … Ping.
Well, look what we have here. It’s an e-mail from Ella Bryant.
See, I told you she’d be back, didn’t I?
From: Ella Bryant
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 24 2013 08:23
Subject: Article
Mr. Slade,
My boss took one look at your advert and for some God-awful reason she finds you fascinating. She would like me to finish the interview. I think a phone call would be the safest way to proceed, for both of us.
Please let me know the most convenient time for me to call you.
Yours sincerely,
Ella Bryant.
Features Correspondent, NYC Style
I smirk. Very formal. But a phone interview? No freaking chance. I fire off a quick reply.
From: Alexander Slade
To: Ella Bryant
Date: June 24 2013 08:26
Subject: RE: Article
Miss Bryant,
I don’t do phone interviews. Given my expertise in the communications sector, I think you’ve probably realized that I’m more of a face-to-face kind of guy.
Let’s do dinner – I’ll let you choose the place.
God.
From: Ella Bryant
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 24 2013 08:35
Subject: RE: Article
I refuse to cuss over e-mail, so let’s keep this brief.
Salinas at 7 tonight?
Ella.
From: Alexander Slade
To: Ella Bryant
Date: June 24 2013 08:37
Subject: RE: Article
Excellent. I look forward to it Miss Bryant.
Until this evening…
A.
P.S. Wear that red bra again. I know from experience that that particular model has a clasp like Fort Knox.
Lucky for you, I’m the kind of guy who loves a challenge.
From: Ella Bryant
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 24 2013 08:38
Subject: Do you ever give up?
It’s not a date, it’s an INTERVIEW.
I’ll be wearing a turtleneck.
Ella.
She’s wrong—she won’t be wearing a turtleneck. By the time I’ve finished with her, the only thing Ella Bryant will be wearing is a smile and a jelly necklace.
Bring it on.
I sit back in my chair and visualize the evening ahead. Picture this: in a little over ten hours, we’re on the way to my apartment. She’s ripping off my shirt, begging me to sate her, and sate her I will. I’ll bury my face deep inside the apex of those thighs, delivering the biggest orgasm ever known to womankind.
Call me competitive, but if that doesn’t blast me straight to the top on the NY Style list of the hottest one hundred bachelors, I fail to see what will.
Ping.
Another e-mail.
From: Jack Slade
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 24 2013 08.40
Subject: FW: Filthy seeks Gorgeous
Son, what the hell is this about???
Call me.
JS.
***
A few hours later …
Psyched up and ready to pitch, I head to the conference room to find my team is already there. “Greetings and salutations. Are we ready for the big game?”
Raj nods enthusiastically. “Sure. And now we’re going through your dating applications.” He flushes with excitement. Fuck me. I haven’t seen Raj this happy since he won the ‘Best Dressed’ award at Comic Con last year. Yep, really. And to think that I almost talked him out of wearing the Wonder Woman costume.
�
�How was your date with the ballet dancer?” Karl asks.
I throw my hands in the air. “It was a fucking disaster.” I change the subject. I don’t want to think about it. “Raj, I thought I told you to remove that ad?”
Parker gives me an indignant look. “Why? You’ve had over three hundred applications in twenty-four hours. The ad stays. Besides, at this rate even Raj will get laid.”
Raj’s nods excitedly. “We assembled the applicants into three categories based on your known preferences. You have thirty-five ‘must-dates’, one hundred and twenty-eight ‘definitely maybes’. The others are definitely not for you.”
I laugh. “Guys, I am not dating these women. This whole campaign is frigging ridiculous. But, go ahead. Have fun. Fill your boots.”
Parker spins the laptop around. The image of a raven-haired beauty in a tight, white tennis dress flashes up on the screen. “Meet Tammie. She’s a tennis coach at Queens. As you have little interest in your own dating campaign, I thought I’d take her out tonight and show her a good time.”
I sigh. “Help yourself. Christ, Parker, you go on so many blind dates you should almost be eligible for a free dog, right?”
He flips me the bird and then there’s a knock on the door.
Shit.
It’s Renée.
You know, I never did return her call.
Her hair is pulled back into a chignon. She’s wearing a tight, green dress, and her make-up is heavier than usual. It looks like our head of accounts is trying to win her way back in my bed and onto my cock, doesn’t it?
“Jack asked me to sit in on the Aubrey meeting,” she announces sharply and takes the chair directly opposite mine. Look at the way her lips are twitching. She only does that when she’s angry. She’s dying to have it out with me, I can tell. She leans into Parker’s shoulder.
“Online dating? Really, Parker?”
Parker shakes his head. “This isn’t for me. This is for Slade. The big G.F. gave him an ultimatum—if he doesn’t settle down by his thirtieth birthday, he’s disinherited. Hilarious.”
