by Abby Angel
So, yeah, I feel that I owe her this.
Thankfully, the ride from JFK into Midtown into Times Square to the restaurant is a short one, and we get there just in time for the meeting. Of course, the ride wasn’t short enough for Cheryl; I figure that she was already tired of my voice after five minutes of me complaining about the meeting.
I stroll inside the restaurant with Cheryl by my side, holding my head up high. If this model thinks that just because he has a pretty face he can co-write a novel with me, he’s in for a rude awakening. Whatever Cheryl says, I still want to see if he has what it takes.
"I don’t want to be here for more time than is necessary, Cheryl," I tell her, scanning the room as I look for Aidan and his PA. "I don’t want to spend more than an hour hearing this guy bragging about how cool he is and --"
Holy shit. Is that him? In a table at the back of the restaurant is sitting none other than the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
"That’s him," Cheryl whispers, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me across the dining room floor. My heart starts pounding harder with each step I take, and I can’t take my eyes off of Aidan.
I guess I shouldn’t have complained that much after all.
Aidan
Jesus fucking Christ. It’s like someone came down from the fucking heavens and hit me with a fucking meat hammer.
"Aidan, I’d like you to meet Abby Cleveland and her PA, Cheryl Maddox," CJ says, a wide smile on her face. "Cheryl was the one who taught me everything I know in this business—when I first got started."
Cheryl laughs but I gotta be fucking honest. I’m barely listening to her.
"That’s got to be what, three years ago, Christine?" Cheryl asks. She’s referring to CJ’s real name. "When we were both running our operations on Facebook? Doing Facebook parties and takeovers?"
You’re going to hate me, especially if you know CJ or Cheryl, but I fucking tune them out at this point.
I’m much more interested in the woman who’s just sat down in front of me. I sit down. She’s staring at me. Intensely. Her eyes are the color of perfect weather. But her gaze doesn't compare to mine—to what I’m doing to her ... if she only knew. My eyes are fucking undressing that body. Unzipping her dress, unclasping her bra, dragging my fingers over her secret curves. In my head, I’m grabbing those luscious tits in my fists. I’m squeezing, biting, and pinching those nipples. I’m nibbling and kissing that delicate neck, right where it meets her shoulders.
In my head, we’re fucking naked. I’ve thrown her on the table. I’m fucking the living daylights out of her. No fucking mercy.
My cock is twitching like mad just thinking about this woman. It’s got a fucking heartbeat and it's pulsing like a caged animal.
"That seems like ages ago, Boss," CJ replies back. The two of them are in their own little PA-world. That’s fucking good. It leaves me alone with this gorgeous fucking angel sitting across from me.
To be fair, she’s looking at me kinda hesitatingly as well. She doesn’t know what the fuck to make of me.
"Have you been with Cheryl long?" I ask her, leaning close to her over the table. Abby shrugs and smiles seductively at me. "I knew her back when I started. She’s been with me through a lot. Back when I was just starting out," she says to me, her eyes transfixed on mine.
I nod. "I bet you write dirty," I say, grinning at her.
She grins back. Wow. No shame there.
"And what makes you think that?" she asks me. "Have you read any of my stuff?"
Fuck. This is where you’re going to look at me all weird and judgmental because I should be more prepared for this. But instead, I hedge the question.
"I’ve read some," I tell her and her eyes narrow.
"Which ones?" she asks me.
I don’t want to fucking answer that question.
"Oh my God," she squeals and I look over to see if she’s attracted the attention of a rabid fan, but Cheryl and CJ are still gabbing about whatever the fuck they've done together in the past as agents. "Tell meeeee! Please."
Fuck it. Here goes nothing.
"I read your first one, Hscosideme, when it came out," I say quietly muttering the title.
Abby looks at me and it looks like she’s holding back a smile.
"You read WHICH one?" she asks again, her body coming closer across the table to mine.
I don't like being in this fucking spot. I’m 6’ 3". I got tribal tats from the actual ancestors of ancient tribes when I surfed in Kihei. I can bench this entire table and the people sitting around it. I’ve fucked so many women that my man credentials don’t need any defending—from Hollywood starlets to pop music icons to the fucking President’s daughter.
Then why am I worried about what I’m going to look like to this woman?
"I said," I say out loud, and notice that Cheryl and CJ are looking at me now. Abby raises her eyebrows and widens her eyes. "I read your first one, His Cock Inside of Me, when it came out."
Abby blinks. Twice. Her beautiful face scrunches in silent fucking mirth.
"And what did you think about the book when the cock was inside of you?" she asks.
I hear CJ give a short chuckle and Cheryl purses her lips.
They’re all fucking laughing at me.
Not for long.
I lean forward a bit more. Abby looks me in the eyes and my body gives a silent call for her to come closer. She does so involuntarily.
"I think," I whisper and I can tell that CJ and Cheryl, who have gone back to their own conversation, are straining to catch a listen to what I’m whispering. "That when you write about guys with big dicks who pleasure their women, you’re almost there," I say.
"Almost?" Abby asks.
"The only way you can make it definitive," I tell her, and my eyes flash triumph. "Is to write about me."
Fuck, remember when I said I was hesitant about co-writing? With a washed up top author?
Yeah, I’ve pretty much forgotten about all of that. I’m staring at this girl’s fucking tits. Her perfect fucking legs. Her taut, flat tummy. Her beautiful face.
And I can’t think of why I would never want to do something with her.
But she’s still talking. I need to focus and get my head back in the game because she’s asking me something.
"…really. So you think that it’s not complete until I write about how your cock can satisfy a woman?" she asks me.
I nod.
"Absolutely," I tell her.
"And you think that’s why we should work together?" she asks again.
I shrug.
"I think that’s why we should at least have dinner together," I tell Abby. "Away from these two," I say, gesturing toward our agents.
"Might give us a chance to…brainstorm?" Abby asks, emphasizing the word brainstorm.
I have no idea why the fuck that was sexy, but my cock seems to be leaking fucking precum at the mention of Abby saying 'brainstorm' the way she just did.
"How about 8 tomorrow, at Del Posto?" I ask.
Her eyes go big.
"Don’t worry, I’m buying," I tell her. Abby nods. Dinner at Del Posto can cost up to $1000 for two people. It’s a good thing I can bill this all to CJ.
"Tomorrow at 8," Abby says, almost entranced.
"It’s a date, darlin’," I tell her as I get up from the booth. "Are any of your book boyfriends as smooth as this?" I ask as I turn around to go.
"All of them," Abby replies. I smile.
She’ll find out just how smooth. Soon enough.
The games have only just begun.
Abby
"Keep it professional, Abby, you don’t want to screw this up."
"Of course I’ll keep it professional," I tell Cheryl, my cell phone pressed against my ear. "You know me."
"Yeah, I know you… That’s why I’m telling you this," she replies with a sigh, and I can picture the look of exasperation she must have on her face right now. God bless her; I’m not exactly the ea
siest writer (or person, for that matter) to manage.
"Don’t worry, Cheryl, I promise I won’t screw this up." Although I can’t promise if I won’t allow Aidan to, ahem, screw me. I mean, it’s not like I’m being proactive about it, but how do I even stop my brain from thinking about it? This guy is the consummate fantasy material. All alone but wet? He’s the perfect man candy; just close your eyes and let your mind (and fingers) do the rest. No wonder he used to be the go-to guy for romance covers. Still, it’s surprising that he managed to keep working in the industry for so long; he burned so many bridges you’d think he was fighting in Vietnam.
"I’m there," I tell her, looking out the window of my Uber and seeing the low-key entrance to Del Posto, the restaurant we agreed on for today’s meeting.
"Okay, Abby. Good luck, and don’t forget to--"
"Act professional, I know, I know. Bye, Cheryl," I finish off, ending the call and stuffing my cellphone back into my purse. I mouth a quick thank you at the driver, and get out of the car as soon as it halts to stop.
"You’re a punctual one, aren’t you?" I hear someone say, and I turn on my heels to meet Aidan’s gaze. He’s getting out of a cab, and he looks like someone cut him out of a magazine cover; he’s wearing a tailored suit, all black, and there’s that panty-dropper smile on his lips.
"Look who’s talking," I shoot right back, flashing him a smile of my own. To be honest, I’m really not that punctual, and the fact that I got here on time is a small miracle. But he doesn’t need to know that; professionals are never late, are they?
"Shall we?" he asks me, offering me his arm. I take it, feeling as if I’m being led by a gentleman from the 20s instead of a untamable bad boy; I guess there’s more to Aidan than meets the eye.
We walk inside Del Posto arm-in-arm, and the host greets us merrily and asks for our names. After checking the reservation list, she then hands us off to a middle-aged gangly waiter with a slight Italian accent.
"Please, follow me to the Gattinara," he tells us with a smile wider than the host’s, and we follow after him.
I’m about to ask Aidan what the hell is a Gattinara, but then I purse my lips and stop the words from coming out. He’s acting as if it’s an obvious thing, and I don’t want to sound uncultured. The waiter leads us down a set of stairs, and then takes a turn to what looks like an upscale wine cellar. In the middle of the room there’s a small round table covered with a white cloth, and right in the center is a chandelier with five lit candles. Are we going to dine here? This looks expensive, especially now that I’m a writer with a dwindling bank account.
"Enjoy your dinner," the waitress says, and then nods respectfully before disappearing so fast you’d think he just vanished in thin air.
We take our seat, and I look around the room, realizing that this is a private dining area. How the hell am I going to afford this? Besides, what the hell is a Gattinawhatever? I give up. "What’s a Gattina -- you know, what he said, what is it?"
"The Gattinara? It’s the Del Posto’s private dining room," he says, waving his hand at the space around us.
"Hmm, it looks expensive," I force myself to say. I don’t want him to see me as a cheap skate, but I really can’t afford to blow my savings on expensive dinners.
"It is expensive," he agrees, pushing the menu to the side as if he already knows what’s in there. "But don’t worry about it, a friend of mine working here owes me a favor and… here we are," he adds, looking me straight in the eyes. The words keep on coming out of his mouth, but I barely hear what he’s saying. I’m just staring at him, watching the way his lips move and imagining how it’d feel to kiss him.
The next ten minutes are a struggle; Aidan’s so distracting that I can’t even make small talk. Every time our eyes meet I start to undress him mentally, and wondering how he must look naked and up close. I went looking for him online after I got home last night and, oh my, no wonder he was crowned the king of romance covers. His body screams sex, and the filthy crazy kind of sex at that, not the ‘turn off the lights and cover me with the sheets’ kind.
By the time the waiter comes with the food and a bottle of red wine, I’m actually surprised I haven’t started drooling. I’m trying to hide how hard my heart is racing, but if I don’t regain my composure he’s going to notice soon.
"Thank you," I tell the waiter as he finishes pouring the wine into both of our glasses and then I breath in deeply. I take a sip of the wine and, changing gears, I get ready for business; maybe that’ll help take my mind out of the gutter. "So, Aidan, any ideas for what our project should be about?"
"I thought you were the one with the bright ideas," he teases me, his smart eyes making me feel as if there’s a dagger in my heart.
"You’re right," I say without thinking, "and I actually have already started to think about a possible story. I just wanted to know if you have any ideas of your own."
"Oh, I have a lot of ideas, and I think they’d all work very well between the covers of a romance novel… or between any kind of covers," he says with that deep, seductive voice of his, and I lick my lips as I feel a growing wetness between my thighs. I’m doing my best to act professional here, but it’s getting harder by the minute.
"You know, I’ve been thinking about changing my writing style. I think my books are sexy, but there’s something missing … I’m thinking we should focus on what women love the most," I tell him, trying to ignore the innuendo in his words.
"And what is that?" he asks me with a grin, one eyebrow slightly arched.
"Big cocks, what else," I say in a single breath, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Sure, look, I know that big cocks aren’t really the most important things in the world, but they sure add a kind of joie de vivre to everything, right? Besides, it’s a novel we’re talking about; at least with a book everyone’s allowed to fantasize, no holds barred. That annoying cliché, when writers say that they don’t it for the money but because they must… well, it’s kinda true, you know? Shaping my thoughts and fantasies into words and getting them down on paper, it’s a special kind of release. And when people read my work, which means they’re really peering into the depths of my mind, and love it, well, that’s just the icing on the cake. The money really is the last thing I worry about. Except when I don’t have any coming in, of course, which is why I’m sitting across from Aidan in the first place; I guess there’s a silver lining to my situation.
"Big cocks," he repeats, his eyes never leaving mine. Jesus, if he doesn’t look away from me soon enough I’m going to be so wet my fluids are going to drip down my legs and start pooling on the floor. That process has already started, you know? "Is that what most women want?" He speaks calmly, but I can’t tell if he’s truly asking me a question or if he’s just playing with me. "Or is that what you want?"
"Maybe," I respond, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse speeding up in my temples. "But more important than that, I like a man who knows how to fuck. It’s not all about the size." I’m trying to tease him, but I think I’m just digging a deeper hole for myself. I might be the writer in here, but in the state I’m in right now I doubt I can match him in a battle of wits.
"Would you like to see some good fucking then?" he asks me, leaning in toward me. His eyes are narrowed, and I can see a hunger dancing there. Before I can stop myself from doing it, I nod and smile.
"Write what you know, that’s the number one rule for a writer," I say, breathing so hard it’s a wonder I got the words out.
"Then let’s make sure you keep improving as a writer," he goes up to his feet, pushing the chair back, and offers me his hand. "Follow me, and I’ll show you some good fucking. The kind you’ll never forget."
Sorry, Cheryl, I really tried to act professionally.
But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Abby
We grab a cab out of Del Posto’s, and we’re at the entrance of Aidan's apartment building in a matter of minutes. Well, it probably too
k a little longer than that, but time flies when you’re having fun.
"I hope you didn’t say all that just to get me alone," I tease him as we step out of the cab. I’m pretty sure that he really meant every word of what he said, and that he intends to fuck me in a way I’ll never forget, but I just can’t help myself and stop teasing him.
"You’ll be the judge of that soon enough," he merely says without even turning to look at me. We go straight for the elevator and, as the doors close, I start feeling so nervous that I have to grit my teeth in order to stop them from chattering. Calm down, Abby, you got this.
I’m looking at Aidan from the corner of my eyes, anxious to have him jump on me right here. But he just waits patiently as the elevator makes the climb upward, and he’s so relaxed that it just makes me more anxious about what’s going to happen. Really, how can he be so calm?
"You’d a think a romance writer wouldn’t get so nervous," he says in a mocking tone without turning to me.
"Who says I’m nervous?" I shoot back, but my words sound as fake as plastic. Crap.
"Nobody. It’s plain as day," he shrugs as the doors finally slide open. Thank God. "Come," he says, taking his key out of his front pocket and sliding it inside the keyhole of one of the doors in the hallway. He steps to the side, waving me inside with a grin, and I walk inside his apartment.
I stop in the doorway, taken aback at what I see. I expected something… more normal. His apartment isn’t exactly big, but that’s not what has me this surprised anyway. Every piece of furniture looks high end and made of hardwood, a throwback to more cultured eras; the walls are lined with bookcases, and the books in there don’t look like they’re there just for show. From Stephen King and Bukowski to Eddie Cleveland, it seems that Aidan reads a lot—probably a lot more than I do. On the wall there’s a huge painting of small girls in Victorian dresses, and I somehow recall it from my times in college, a piece painted by some Spanish guy, Velazquez or something, from long ago.
