by Knight, Jodi
Sure, about as funny as a lobotomy, Parker.
Renée’s eyes bore into me like a pneumatic drill. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under and pushing up daisies right now. I’m saved from an inevitable inquisition by the arrival of House of Aubrey’s dastardly duo, Isaac de Vries and Juliana Herrera.
I coolly adjust my collar.
It’s time to turn on the Slade charm.
As soon as Juliana waltzes into the room, she leaves us gasping for air. Not because she’s hot. Go on, take a deep breath and inhale the wonder that is ‘Fall’ by House of Aubrey. Smells like a crate of spoiled shrimp, doesn’t it?
“Juliana, you smell … delightful,” I take her by the hand and pretend to inhale the paint stripper adorning her wrist. “Is that what I think it is?”
She blows me a kiss. “How clever of you, dah-link!”
Imagine a cross between Cruella de Vil and Sharon Osborne. Now, add the permanent tan, Botox, and breast implants.
Scary, huh?
That’s Juliana Herrera you’re looking at.
She’s wearing a purple dress made of mohair with dozens of strings to pearls, and one of those crazy bird’s nests hats on the side of her head that women think makes them look elegant.
That aside, she’s filthy rich. Her husband is an investment banker, but rumor has it that she’s a real cougar. I can swing that to my advantage.
Our guests take their seats. I stand at the front of the room and flash Juliana one of my trademark dimpled smiles. The future happiness of my penis is in her hands.
Let’s do this.
Operation Cat Piss, here I come.
***
Well, we did it.
Not that there was any doubt, but Juliana loved my presentation, and Renée is preparing the contract as we speak.
Right now, I’ve got more important things on my mind; my dinner date with the delectable Miss Bryant. When it comes to preparing for first time sex with a new partner, market research shows that men spend considerably more money than women. If you think all a man does before a big date is take a shit, a shower, and a shave, you’d be wrong.
It’s imperative that a guy takes the time to look his best. Women say they don’t care about a guy’s looks and that it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
Can you say bullshit?
Women want to be screwed by a Vin Diesel look-alike, not Mr. Stay Puft.
Luckily I was at the front of the queue when Mother Nature was dishing out the sexy genes. As an added bonus, I have two features that truly set me ahead from the rest of the pack.
Can you guess what they are?
That’s right.
My dimples.
My smile could melt the panties off a blind feminist. Those little puck marks on either cheek have gotten me out of so many scrapes and into so many beds that Karl thinks they should be made illegal.
My dimples aren’t just my best friend; they’re my secret weapon. Have you ever been angry at a guy with dimples? Of course you haven’t.
Go on—try it.
It’s impossible.
I know you’re dying to know how Alexander Slade is preparing for tonight’s session of lust with Ella. First of all, and for the second day in succession, I made it chest day at the gym. I performed an extra five hundred sit-ups before booking myself in for an emergency chest wax.
I’m happy with my body, but even the most aesthetically gifted need the occasional tweaking. Yes—it hurt, but the indignity of a chest, sack, and crack is the price a guy has to pay for passion.
I look in the mirror. Shall I go for the clean shave or sport a little stubble? This is a tough choice. I’m going with my three-day old scruff. It’s rugged, it’s sexy, and it’s the perfect length to enable me to nestle my face into Ella’s honey pot with little chance of chafe.
Besides, it makes me look slightly devilish, don’t you think?
My hair is a shade of dark chocolate. I don’t do gel. I find that women don’t cream up over the Julio Iglesias look. A little wax always does the trick. I pull my hair up in spikes and then ruffle it into a rakish style.
Women love a rake. I’m told it’s that winning combination of disheveled charm and immorality that get their ovaries trembling. I rummage through the racks of my walk-in closet and decide on a crisp white shirt, dark grey slacks, and a pair of my most expensive brogues.
Do you see that cabinet over there? The one with the colorful bottles? That’s my cologne cupboard. I have a whole shelf dedicated solely to eau de seduction.
Impressive, isn’t it?
There’s a secret to selecting the right scent for a date; you have to match the top notes to the lady in question. I have two options in mind for Ella, but I always let Petie make the final choice. My cock has yet to let me down. Holding a bottle in either hand, I stroll over to his cage. “Okay buddy, which one will it be? The brown bottle with the boozy rum opening and the soft white musk dry down with swirls of sweetness, or the green? This one’s all about the leather and wood.”
Petie nods to the green bottle.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure, buddy?” He bops his head up and down, but I’m not convinced. “You know Petie, I’m going to override you. I’m going with Kilian. I have a feeling Ella is a bit sweeter than that.”
I hope to God I’m wrong.
Bring on the leather, whips and chains.
Petie is still hopping from one foot to the other. He hates it when I overrule him. “Jesus, don’t flap at me like this. You’re just biased—we both know the cause of your aversion to rum.”
I spray cologne along the nook of my neck, over my wrists, and around my crotch. It’s essential to prep the area for the obligatory pre-intercourse blow job. Forget flowers and chocolates—one squirt of this baby is a guaranteed one-way ticket into Ella’s panties. I can almost taste the panty candy from here, and let me tell you, it’s goddamn delicious.
And I’m ready.
“How do I look Petie?” I twist from side to side and await his appraisal. He bops his head in approval.
This cock knows style when he sees it.
It’s show time.
Chapter Six
A women’s choice of clothing for a first date carries a complex series of sexual meanings. Let me explain. If Ella Bryant rocks up to our date tonight in a cashmere sweater, she’s playing hard to get. A low-cut top means ‘let’s skip dessert.’
I arrive at the restaurant. Can you guess what she is wearing?
I’ll give you a clue; it’s not a turtleneck. She’s dressed to kill. Kill me. Christ, hemlines that short should be made illegal. Her strapless purple skater dress displays those glorious legs like a mannequin in a store window.
And you don't really believe that she ‘forgot' her jacket, do you? Look at the way she's showing off her collarbone. I’ve feasted on enough necks to know that it’s a subtle, age-old way of attracting male attention. Ella Bryant is luring my devious mind toward sex without trying to being too obvious.
Do you remember that scene in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? The one where Eddie meets Jessica Rabbit for the first time? I have that same glazed look in my eyes right now. Ella must really want the scoop on yours truly. She’s exploiting my biggest weakness. There’s not a devil-in-hells chance that I’m going to get through dinner without blowing my load.
I adjust my collar and cross the avenue with the confidence of a lion. I’m the hunter and Ella Bryant is my prey.
“You’re late,” she scolds.
I check my watch. She’s right.
“Two minutes late. That’s positively early for a Manhattanite.” I point to her dress. “And you forgot your turtle neck.”
Her eyes fall to her dress. “Oops, so I did. My bad. Let’s see if we can get through this ordeal without my fist making contact with your face.”
Ella reconfirms our reservation with a waiter. He leads us through the restaurant and I watch those beautiful legs stride back and forth until we reach a dimly-
lit patio at the rear. We settle into a booth in the far corner and the waiter hands us menus. We’re already five minutes into our date and she hasn’t thrown a drink over me yet. This is going well, don’t you think?
Just wait for it …
“Nice venue. You have good taste, Miss Bryant.” She isn’t listening. She’s too busy digging around in her bag.
She hands me a black scrap of material. “Here, put this one.” I unfurl the object and stare at it in wonder like a redneck at an opera recital.
She smiles. “Don’t look surprised. It’s easier this way. Besides, I heard that eating while blindfolded heightens the taste sensation.”
Is she for real? If she’s already blindfolding me in the restaurant, just imagine what she’s got planned for later.
Kinky—I like it.
I clear my throat and twist the blindfold through my fingers. “Let me get this straight. You’re dressed for our date in clothes that would give a gay priest wood and you expect me to sit through dinner wearing this?”
She nods.
It’s cruel. It’s like taking Stevie Wonder to a strip club for his birthday and expecting him to foot the bill.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “And if I don’t wear this? What will you do?”
She crosses her arms. “I’ll leave.”
Pffft. She won’t leave. She’s bluffing. It’s her goddamn interview. But if wearing this brings me one step closer to her panties, I’ll willingly submit to her request. I’m not one to back down from a challenge.
I lower the blindfold over my eyes, and savor the last glimpse of Ella’s beautiful face before darkness descends.
“Fine. Have it your way, though you should know that this whole blind dining experience could backfire and prove to be a real turn-on. If that should be the case, please know that you’re in imminent danger. I hope you have adequate health insurance.”
I hear her laugh … I think. And now there’s a sound of pouring liquid. Christ, I hope it’s alcohol and not some socially inept drunk peeing on our table.
“Miss Bryant, do you insist that every bachelor you take to dinner wears a blindfold?”
“Only bachelors that need to learn restraint. Here.” I feel something cold attack my knuckles. I fumble around in front of me, and then relax. It’s only a glass. I bring it up to my nose and inhale. Merlot. Excellent. I bring it to my mouth and try to avoid spillage, but the wet sensation spreading across my crotch tells me that I’ve failed.
Slipping two fingers under the elastic of my blindfold, I try to hook it over my ears.
“Don’t you dare!”
Christ, she can’t seriously expect me to eat under these conditions. “I’ll start with a few quick-fire questions,” she announces in a measured tone. “What’s your zodiac sign?”
“My birthday is tenth of August. What does that make me?”
“Egoistic. Sexual orientation?”
Like she even has to ask. “Ella, let’s just say that if I ever found myself buck naked and frolicking in the Garden of Eden, I’d choose Eve over Steve.”
There’s silence. And then. “What do you do to unwind?”
“I play the guitar. Work out. Dine out with beautiful women …” I growl the last three words.
She sighs. “Right. So, no chess?”
“Sure, though I’ve yet to find anyone smart enough to stand up to my Sicilian defense,” I tell her in a hushed tone. “We should test that out some time.”
I can’t vouch for a heightened taste sensation yet, but I gotta admit that this temporary loss of vision is great fantasy spank fuel. Right now I’m picturing a nude Ella wearing nothing but a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She’s taking notes and sucking seductively on the end of a pen.
Hot damn. And I’m hard.
“What do you look for in a woman?”
I smirk. “I’m a leg man. I prefer golden locks, and reserve a particular fetish for women dressed in purple. I’ve heard it’s a sign of sexual frustration, and women who wear it are subconsciously begging to be satiated by handsome bachelors with expertise in oral sex.”
How could she not like that answer?
I hear a dull thud followed by the clattering of crockery. Sounds like our food arrived. This is without doubt the least fun I’ve had on a date since Yasmine from our HR department snagged a tooth on my ball sack.
Frigging bumper cars; they should be made illegal.
“Do you have any food allergies?”
I shake my head. Who writes these crazy ass questions? The clanging of plates signals the arrival of our food. There’s more than a hint of a challenge in her voice when she tells me. “Taste this.” I fumble around in my seat, and trace my finger over the offering in front of me. It’s warm, solid, and smooth. I bring it to my mouth and bite down.
It’s soft, yet crunchy.
And then I realize the truth. I’m chewing on the exoskeleton of a king shrimp. I rip away my blindfold and covertly spit into a napkin.
“You win, Miss Bryant, but the blindfold stays off. I’ll be on my best behavior. I must say that I find your methods of interrogation very edgy. Have you considered a career with the FBI?”
She shakes her head and I continue. “In all seriousness, if you need to tie me up and continue with the questioning, I’d be completely down with that.”
Ella forces a smile. “It says on your advert that you’re a qualified pastry chef. Is that true?”
I shrug and take a swig of wine. “It’s true. I took evening classes, and I’m qualified enough to know that you’d look fantastic in a whipped-cream bikini.”
She shoots me a don’t-mess-with-me stare, and my cock stiffens. It’s sexy as hell. I’m just about to pour another glass of wine when my cell buzzes. It’s Raj.
“I have to get this,” I tell her, apologetically.
“Petie’s new cage arrived,” he tells me. “Where should I put it?”
“The cock cage? How big is it?”
“Thirty-six inches.”
“Thirty-six inches? That’s pretty wide. Put it in my bedroom. I’ll sort it later.”
I hang up and look over to Ella. Her eyes are wide and she’s frantically tapping away on her phone.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize.
Her eyes meet mine. “No problem. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than be here interviewing you, anyway.”
Yeah, right. Look at the twinkle in her eyes; that’s the green light I needed to make my move. I put my glass on the table. Drawing small circles on the back of her hand, I tell her. “You’re right. Let’s forget this whole charade, grab the bill, and head back to my place. There are much easier ways to get to know each other. I have a Dom Pérignon chilling in the refrigerator.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t go all shy on me.”
Ella stands up, her body rigid with rage. Was it something I said?
“You’re unbelievable!”
I smile. “Believe it or not, you are not the first woman to tell me that.”
Yep, now she’s breathing through her teeth like a bison in mating season. And it’s sexy as hell. And I’m hard, again. Nothing gives me wood like a beautiful woman filled with angst and rage.
My father was right: I am a masochist.
Most men tuck tail and run at the first sight of an angry woman. Not me. It’s a huge turn on. I like them volcanic, and if we don’t head to my apartment soon, there’s going to be one hell of an explosion.
There are only three reasons as to why a woman could be this angry on a first date. Firstly, she feels like she doesn’t stand a chance with the guy. I think that I’ve made it pretty clear I’d love to do the horizontal hoopla with her.
Secondly, she feels as though the man doesn’t care. Wrong again. I care enough to sit here looking like the fucking Hamburglar while chewing on the brain matter of a goddamn shrimp.
Lastly, she’s horny.
This is it. This is the reason.
Women hate to say it out loud on a first date. They think it makes them seem promiscuous or easy. She’s playing the ‘Little Miss Reluctant’ act. I’ve seen it a thousand times over. Let’s get real here, under that flimsy dress, Ella Bryant is creaming up like the topping on a cherry sundae.
“You’re very combative this evening, Miss Bryant. I have just the remedy for aggression …”
“And what would that be?” Her eyes fall to my crotch. “Thirty-six inches?”
Looking straight into those hazel eyes, I reply. “Better. A Slade special.”
She throws a few bills on the table and I follow her outside onto the busy street. As Ella attempts to flag down a cab, I can’t resist one last dig. “You get all dressed up for me and now you high-tail it out of here. What gives?”
She spins around in full-out combat mode. “You think I dressed up for you? If you must know, I’m going on a real date with a real man.”
I take a step back and yell through gritted teeth. “Well good luck to him!”
He’s going to damn well need it.
I stand on the sidewalk, mulling over plan B.
I’m done with crazies. I’ll head home, speed dial one of my Sladies, and give her the ride of her life. Perhaps Sabrina can cover the Friday shift until I find a replacement; that girl has the stamina of a herd of oxen.
Ella has one delicious leg inside the cab when her cell phone rings. The scowl on her face tells me that she doesn’t like what she just heard. She slams the door shut and the cab pulls away.
This is not over yet.
Have I told you all about plan B?
Plan B is blackmail.
I have a second wind in my sails; I just need to change tack. Hell will freeze over before I let this hottie slip through my net.
Just you watch.
With both hands in my pockets, I casually stroll over toward Ella. “Something the matter, Miss Bryant? Date cancel?”
Ella bites her lip and eyeballs me. She’s trying to maintain a steely composure, but I can tell she wants to kick my ass from here to Seattle.
