“Nooooooo!” Chloe moans dramatically. “I told you we should have gotten a restraining order!”
“And you were probably right,” I admit. “The little shit used the auction to buy time with me. Not that it worked out for him.”
“Ooh,” Chloe coos. “Did you kick him in the nuts when he showed up?”
“I didn't have to. He showed up sneering and sliming around, talking about how he had rented me like a car at the airport. So my other dates—Oliver, Elijah, and Lucas—had him thrown out.”
“Fuck. Even their names are sexy. So that was the end of it?”
“Well…”
“Babe. DETAILS!”
I hand Chloe her mug and the towel. Begrudgingly, she starts to dry it.
“Lucas has connections in the restaurant industry here, I guess. Greg's going to have a hard time getting a reservation in Manhattan after that.”
“That's too fucking good,” Chloe laughs. “With all of his 'Cooking is for poor people, Sofie,' bullshit? His foodie ass is going to starve.”
“That's the plan.”
I'm still really grateful for Eli, Luke, and Oliver for taking care of that little situation for me, I realize. A lot of guys wouldn't have said anything. Especially not for some woman they barely know.
But as far as dates go, Elijah, Lucas, and Oliver went above and beyond last night. In more ways than one. From the minute they first saw me, right up until this morning when they were putting me in Oliver's limo and kissing me goodbye.
“But Sof...” Chloe says, biting her lip with concern. “Fostering Angels will have to refund Greg's donation now. You know he'll raise a stink about not getting what he paid for.”
She hands me the mug back to put away and I nearly fucking drop it.
“Shit,” I swear. “I was so busy—”
“Getting busy,” Chloe supplies.
“Right. Like, fuck. I didn't even think of that.”
“Aw, babe. Come here.” Chloe wraps her tan arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. Chloe gives great hugs—nice, tight, and warm. “Come on. I know exactly what will cheer you up. Let's go to O-Town.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Chloe, not to brag, but I think I orgasmed enough times last night for all of Manhattan.”
“Pfft. No! The bakery downstairs. This calls for cupcakes!”
I cave. Nothing cheers me up like a chocolate caramel O-Town cupcake. Let's just say the place is aptly named.
We're just pulling on fresh clothes and making for the door when Chloe's date returns with our Starbucks.
“Two grande pumpkin spice lattes for the lovely ladies,” he says, triumphant.
We both grab one as we head out the door.
“Thanks, babe! Gotta run!” Chloe says, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Hey! Wait—what am I supposed to do while you're gone?”
“Clean the bathroom, for starters,” Chloe shouts over her shoulder as the warm taste of pumpkin, cinnamon and coffee slows over my tongue. Giggling, she adds under her breath. “He loves when I'm bossy.”
“I love when you're bossy!” Chloe's date shouts after us.
We laugh at that all the way to O-Town.
Elijah
I can't fucking focus.
There's a reason I come into the office on Saturdays.
The weekends are the only days I ever actually get any work done. I want my employees to work hard, so it only makes sense to lead by example. But during the week, between press conferences, potential investors, journalists, and our shareholders, I'm usually getting pulled in a million different ways all at once.
Right now, all my focus is being pulled in just one direction. Unfortunately, it's not what I came into the office for.
Sofie.
Beautiful, charming, witty Sofie.
I sigh, pushing the briefing on our new fuel system specs across the desk. I need to be brainstorming ways we can actually sell our investors on actually producing this thing.
Oliver and his team have designed it to last essentially forever. Minimum maintenance. Easily serviceable. Affordable replacement parts.
And its output is so clean, even a renegade environmentalist wouldn't find anything about it to complain over. Good for our customers. Good for the planet. Exactly the kind of thing Luke, Oliver, and I started this company to accomplish.
But our investors are old school. They made their money on coal and oil. Shit like this scares them, and maybe it should. Producing clean, renewable energy is the future, but it means they need to learn to leave the past behind.
And I don't know how the hell I'm going to convince them to do that when I can't even get my mind off of the girl I slept with last night.
I spin my desk chair around and push myself out of it. My feet take me to the office bar I keep hidden away in the antique globe in front of my bookshelf. I pour myself a bourbon, neat. It's breaking one of my personal rules—don't think while you drink—but Sofie has put me in a difficult predicament, and it's going to require a creative solution.
The bourbon ought to set me right, but it doesn't. Now, the taste of it just reminds me of the way my drink from last night tasted mixed with the sweetness of Sofie's lips.
Fuck me sideways. If my father's campaign managers could come up with a slogan half as catchy as Sofie Carson, the next election would be a piece of cake. I'm half tempted to introduce her to BioKin’s ad department just so they can take notes. Because try as I might, I can't get this girl out of my head.
And maybe I don't want to.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel her. Her lips on my cock, sucking like she couldn't get enough of it. Couldn't possibly swallow it deep enough. Lick it fast enough.
The weight of her breasts in my hands, so full and firm and fucking delicious.
The tightness of her pussy. The way she clenched around me when I made her come.
I've been with my fair share of beautiful women. Pleased every one of them the way a beautiful woman deserves.
But I've never felt a single one of them orgasm so hard like that. So fast. So easily.
Or anywhere near so fucking beautifully as the way Sofie came around my throbbing fucking cock.
I can't see her again. I know I can't. I'm a PR man, for chrissakes.
I know what happens when corporate fat cats start fucking the interns. It's a public relations nightmare in the making. Oliver, Lucas, and I are just begging for a lawsuit for taking it as far as we did.
An innocent dinner date for charity is one thing.
Triple-teaming said date on a fur rug in Oliver's penthouse is another entirely.
I toss back the bourbon in a single gulp and let it burn all the way down my throat. That ought to do it. Wash the taste of Sofie's sweet cunt right out of my mouth.
I lick a stray bead of alcohol off my lips.
It doesn't even come close.
I ditch the rocks glass, letting my gaze slide over the titles on my bookshelf instead. Half the stuff on here looks like the kind of shit corporate men put on display to make themselves look cultured.
Tolstoy. Orwell. Churchill. Big literary names that carry a certain weight, even if you've never actually read them before.
Reading them is what's gotten me this far in my career. They were masters of words, and in the PR world, words are the best weapons I’ve got.
I flip open my copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, seeking advice.
But Aurelius apparently never had the express pleasure of a one night stand. Let alone one between him, his two best friends, and the woman of his dreams. And if he did, he didn't seem to find it particularly noteworthy.
It's a shame. I wouldn't mind having his opinion on this, but frankly, the guy writes like he needs to get laid.
The book goes back on the shelf.
The rest of the books on my bookcase are of the professional self-help variety. I've read them all.
Most are dribble. How to Win Friends and Influence People. The Power of Habit.
Catchy. Interesting. Sometimes even insightful.
But I've been in the business for long enough to know that there are no seven easy steps to anything, let alone to something so complex as figuring out another human being.
That takes practice, pure and simple. Charm. And maybe, if I'm being humble, a little luck.
Not that it matters. Whatever I'm feeling for Sofie Carson right now isn't something so simple that I can charm my way around it. No such luck available.
I've finally met a woman with enough power over me that not even an entire bookshelf filled with the greatest minds in the history of the human race can help me on this one.
She's got her pretty, slender fingers wrapped around my heart right now.
I might even like them there.
Although, if they were wrapped around something else right now, I can't say I'd complain.
Dad once told me that when you meet the right woman, you'll just know.
Christ. I'm getting hard just thinking about her.
In the end, I guess that's how I know.
Sofie, Sofie, Sofie. You're the one story I can't put a spin on. You should have been a one-time-only kind of deal...
But one time just isn't enough for me.
I want what I want. And what do I want?
Her.
She didn't give me her number. Maybe Oliver or Lucas scored it, but I'm not about to go calling them up just to beg it off of them.
Hell. Maybe I don't even want them to know.
Maybe right now, I just want Sofie to myself.
Resourcefulness is my bread and butter. Apparently, so is a little bit of underhanded activity.
What can I say? My family is in politics. Underhanded is practically in my blood.
I hit up my laptop and search the employee directory. Her name pops up immediately, along with her cell number in her contact info.
The phone is ringing before I can even stop to wonder if what I'm doing might be a little wrong.
Marcus Aurelius might not be proud of me right now, but hey. My dick sure is happy at the thought of hearing Sofie's voice again.
“Hello?”
Sofie's voice is smooth as chocolate frosting. Sweet as caramel. All it takes is that single syllable to make my cock throb.
I'm about to do it. Bite the bullet. Ask her out, consequences be damned. But before I can—
“Mmmmm,” Sofie moans gorgeously. “Oh my god—that's so good—”
Oh my god is fucking right. Sofie's moans bring back a barrage of flashbacks from last night, so hot and sensual that my next call is going to have to be to my tailor. My hard-on is threatening to rip right through my suit pants.
“Morning, Sofie,” I say into the receiver. Let me make this clear: speaking charmingly and intelligently is my entire job description, and this girl leaves me practically fucking speechless. “Sounds like you're enjoying yourself.”
“Oh! Eli! I'm not—” Sofie stammers. It's fucking cute. You can practically hear her blushing over the phone. “I'm, uh, eating a cupcake. A really good cupcake. It's not what it sounds like.” She pauses and we both chuckle. “Okay, maybe it's exactly what it sounds like. But it's a really good cupcake.”
“I can tell. Save room for dinner, though,” I tell her. “I want to see you again. Tonight. Say yes.”
“Really?” I can hear her licking frosting off her fingers. Does she even realize what that does to me? “I mean—yes! Obviously. I'd love to.”
“Pick you up at eight. Wear something flashy. I want to see you shine.”
I know exactly where I'm taking her. It's a bit of a gamble, of course…
But that’s what people do in Vegas, anyway.
Sofie
Elijah Kennedy’s limousine is exactly as sleek and sophisticated as he is. Shiny black exterior. Silver detailing.
Of my three billionaires (I’ve gotta stop thinking of them like that), I knew from the moment I saw him that he was the classic model.
I can’t stop thinking about last night. Every perfect kiss and lingering touch. Every gorgeous moment with three men who treated me like an absolute goddess.
I never thought I would see any of them again, and now here Elijah Kennedy is, leaning up against his limo, parked right outside my apartment.
I trot down the front steps of my apartment building with the world’s biggest, dumbest smile on my face. I’m wearing another timeless loan from Chloe: a shimmery silver flapper dress with long, metallic fringe. Of course, it’s a little bit too small on top, same as always, so my tits are pushed up to maximum boobage levels.
From the way Eli looks at me before scooping me up into his arms and spinning me around, it’s safe to say he approves.
“Evening, gorgeous,” Eli says, reluctantly letting me reclaim my feet. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
“Are you really?” I ask innocently.
I mean, I felt the hard-on he’s rocking when he picked me up. I have some idea. But as a rule, I’m open to whatever flattery he’s willing to shower me with.
“I’ll prove it,” Eli says, lowering his lips to my ear. He places a kiss there, just beneath my earlobe, and I totally melt.
Fuck. My one true weakness.
“Oh,” I moan softly. I can think of about a billion and one other places I’d like those lips to go right now, but that’s a solid start.
“Get in,” Eli says. “We’re on a time crunch.”
The interior of Eli’s limo is just as classy as the exterior. Soft golden lighting. Black leather seats. Elijah puts his arm around me, and I don’t stop him.
As far as dates go, this is short notice, but I’m not about to complain.
“Here,” Eli says, reaching into his suit jacket with his free hand. “Thought you might be interested in this.”
He lays a newspaper on my lap. It’s the society section, as far as I can tell. And right there, staring back up at us in massive black and white, is the only documented evidence that last night really happened.
It wasn’t a dream, and I don’t need to be pinched (except for maybe in very particular places, and only if it’s Eli’s fingers doing the pinching).
It was real. All of it.
It seriously takes me a second to let that sink in.
Right there on the page is Lucas, pointing at the photographer in that sexy aggressive way he seems to use whenever he’s dealing with any man who might pose some kind of threat to me.
Behind him, Oliver is at a smooth jog to grab the door. And there, in the background of it all, are Eli and me.
Or, well…Eli and Eli’s suit jacket, with a pair of long, smooth legs coming out from beneath it.
“Title‘s a little tacky, don’t you think?” I say, pointing to the big, black letters that some jackass decided were clever to print over the photograph.
“Three Billionaires, One Cup?” Eli reads. I can tell that he’s trying hard to hold his laughter in. “Nah,” he jokes. “Tabloid journalism is nothing if not classy, in my experience.”
“I guess they’re not exactly wrong,” I giggle.
Eli strokes my shoulder idly with his thumb as he leans in to stifle that giggle with a kiss.
A real, proper kiss this time.
Goddamn.
I’m smitten.
We tangle tongues for so long, I get totally lost in Eli’s lips. His hands, roaming up and down my body. The smell of his cologne. The thick, dark waves of his hair as I run my fingers through it.
We make out for so long that I forget something kind of important.
I still don’t know where the fuck we’re going.
“Eli,” I gasp, coming up for air. It’s dark outside the limo now. All I can see is headlights, headlights and more headlights. “What exactly do you have planned for tonight?”
“Hmm. Well, I meant for it to be a surprise, actually. But seeing as we’re already here…”
Eli flashes his pearly whites at me as the limo comes to a stop. As we get out, I’m mo
re confused than ever.
It’s loud. Dark. Lots of lights in the distance. But other than that…
“Eli…” I say, trying not to sound as suspicious as I feel right now. “There’s nothing here.”
He places his hand on the small of my back and a kiss on my cheek.
“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.”
Suddenly, something lights up out of the darkness.
I have to blink hard. Very hard. Multiple times. Because I literally cannot believe this man right now.
“That’s a private jet,” I state in dumbfounded disbelief. “And it has your name on it.”
“Yeah,” Eli says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was thinking after all the press you got last night, well, we could go to somewhere the tabloids won’t care. After all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...”
“No fucking way,” I say. I think I’m in shock. But my feet are already moving towards Eli’s jet, which matches his gorgeous fucking limo, and I have to turn around to continue the conversation. “Eli, I didn’t bring a suitcase!”
Eli shrugs. “We’ll buy you anything you need.” He takes my hands in his and looks at me with boyish sincerity. “Seriously, Sofie. Clothes, perfume, jewellery...French champagne, fine chocolates. Whatever you need to feel comfortable. Hell, forget need. Anything you want.”
That floors me. Like, full-on jaw hitting the ground disbelief. Growing up in the foster system wasn’t exactly a luxury experience
No steak dinners. No French champagnes. No creme brulee. Sometimes, there was barely enough tuna casserole to feed all of us.
The only escape I had from it sometimes was my studies. Using pencils I stole out of some more well-off kid’s locker and calculators I lifted out of the lost and found when I had to.
Now, I was about to be whisked away on a private jets to Las Vegas with barely a moment’s notice.
“Okay. Now you can pinch me,” I tell Eli. “I’m definitely dreaming.”
Eli takes me up on the offer and brings a twinge of reality to my ass cheek between his fingers.
“Not a dream, Sofie,” he says. “Admit it.”
I’m tempted to let him slip his fingers into my cunt and see how wet I am. That feels like something that might change his mind. But in my experience, you should never fuck a gift horse in the mouth.
The King's Virgin Bride Page 30
