His clothing is the sort that you’d expect to see on a billionaire in one of those romance books where a young, virginal thing gets seduced by a slightly older man with smouldering eyes, a spanking paddle and money to burn.
And his face? Let’s just say if David Beckham managed to splice with a young Harrison Ford and then scientists genetically enhanced him by turning the Perfection Button to eleven, well, they’d end up with this guy.
He’s got my loins in a serious tizzy, and I’m enjoying the sensation far too much. Independent Adriana is getting annoyed with my lack of restraint.
Stop looking at him. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this.
Thing is, I can’t stop. Because I may never get to behold such a sexy god-man again. So like an idiot I keep staring.
I’m only going to do it for a minute.
I can quit anytime, I swear.
Fuck it, I don’t care what anyone says. I’m going to keep looking.
Going to stop…right…now.
Or not. He’s just picked up his phone, which gives me a perfect opportunity for more open-mouthed gawking.
A broad chest is tugging at the buttons on his shirt, trying like hell to pop them off as he shifts his weight around on the barstool. My eyes are greeted by a hard, flat stomach, no doubt creased by defined six-pack muscles that would feel pretty damn good under my fingertips. Or my tongue. Let me lick your six pack, young Harrison Ford. His pants are fitted to the point where even from a distance, I can see an impressive bulge between his legs. Let me lick your pant-bulge, David Beckham’s younger brother. And that face. Damn. I sort of want to lick that, too. Maybe I’m morphing into some sort of freakish beagle-poodle cross.
My ugly panties are threatening to melt into nothingness. Or maybe they'll just run away screaming for fear that he’ll somehow catch a glimpse of their decrepitude over the waistband of my jeans. Either way, I want them to disappear. This man is definitely worthy of a woman who’s gone full-on commando.
MUST.
STOP.
LOOKING.
No man who makes my underwear want to erode to nothingness can actually be healthy. Every sensible woman knows that a man who makes a woman’s panties wet just by stepping into the room is one of two things:
A) a player who chews women up and spits them out, or
B) a sparkly vampire.
I haven’t seen his canines, but I seriously doubt if he sucks blood. He’s too tanned.
But he does have Player written all over him. With a capital P.
Not to mention that something in his expression exudes superiority and grumpiness. There’s an “I hate everyone, and you can bite me if you think you’re worthy of my time” attitude in his scowl that turns me off. Yep, Mr. Sexy may look good, but he probably tastes like bitter apple.
I finally avert my eyes, satisfied that I’ve just proven I can resist any man, no matter how hot. Independent Adriana has won her first meagre battle. I mean, don’t get me wrong; the newly minted virgin in me totally wants Mr. Sexy to strip me naked, bend me over the bar and shove his (probably) twelve-inch dick inside me before we’ve even introduced ourselves. I want him to take my renewed purity away in a flurry of scream-inducing thrusts. But I definitely don’t want to talk to him.
I give myself a mental pat on the back and smile. Good job, Adriana. Way to reject a man who’s way out of your league and doesn’t even know you exist. That shows real fortitude.
Turning my eyes back to the televised lime-green ass of some golfer bending down to get his ball out of a hole, I let out a sigh of satisfaction.
Three
Conlon
“Fuckery,” I mutter as I toss my carry-on down at the foot of the barstool, only to catch sight of my churlish expression in the mirrored backsplash half concealed behind an array of overpriced, second-rate liquor on the other side of the bar.
A grumpy bastard, that’s what I see. All right, so I’m not nice to know. I’m nothing more than a British arsehole in an expensive suit. Pissed off for every reason in the book, and yet for no reason at all. I snarl Fuck you at strangers without even opening my damned frowning mouth.
Resting bitch face, that’s what they call this look on women. Is there no name for the male equivalent? Reposing shithead? Fucker-itis? Chronic bastard syndrome?
Well, who the hell cares? I’m not here to look charming; I’m here to wait among a throng of smelly strangers for my damned flight’s gate announcement, so that I can make my way to some waiting area full of sweaty human cattle and then wait some more.
Thank Christ for Business Class, that’s all I have to say. At least when I get on the plane I can put my head back on a cushy seat and ignore the world around me without risk of touching whoever’s sitting next to me. I suspect that physical contact from me would be like that of an electric eel; I’d cause instant paralysis and a slow death. I pity any human who’s forced into my personal space over the next several hours.
“Can I help you?” asks the approaching bartender, who seems mercifully oblivious to my hostile exterior.
“Your most expensive scotch. A double,” I growl low. Good lord, the wanker needs a shave. Then again, so do I. My five-o’clock shadow has become a nine-o’clock one, and I think it’s passed the point of attractive sophistication and moved into rancid hobo territory.
“You’re British,” the guy says, as though I haven’t figured that out in all my thirty years.
“I’m aware,” I reply, more snark in my voice than should exist anywhere. Sorry, mate, I want to add. But he’s already gone to fetch my drink. Clever man lays my scotch in front of me in a matter of seconds, no doubt sensing my desperation. Before I’ve taken my first sip, my phone buzzes. I extract it from my pocket, ready to dash it against the far wall when I see the name on the screen:
Arse Face.
“Hello? Is this the pasty wanker with chronic halitosis?” I say once I’ve pressed the mobile to my ear.
“No, it’s the handsome one whose breath smells of roses in springtime.”
“Ah, my mistake. I thought it was my idiot brother.”
Galen lets out a chuckle. “Fuck you for that. I’m just calling to see where you are. I thought you’d be back in Paris by now. It’s past bleedin’ midnight in this part of the world.”
“Not yet. Missed my damned flight,” I growl, like it’s anyone’s fault but mine. “I won’t be in til morning. I’ve been sitting around sodding JFK, the whore of all airports, for seven wretched goddamned hours. Moving from bar to bar just to keep myself sane.”
“And is it working?”
“Not quite. I’m fairly irritable at the moment. Bordering on psychotic.”
“What’s the problem, then? Did you eat some dodgy clams?”
I snicker. “No clams. You know why I flew to New York, yeah?”
“Yeah. To meet with some writer about your memoir, though if you ask me it’s a bit premature. Aren’t those things for people with one foot in the grave?”
“It’s not a biography, you tosser. The board thinks someone should document the evolution of the company with some factoids about yours truly thrown in for good measure. The writer wanted to talk to me in person. Said it was the only way to get a ‘proper sense’ of who I am. What a load of bollocks that is.”
“So you met with him, then?” asks Galen.
“No. Well, yes. I met with him. The issue is that he’s not a writer. He gave me a chapter of what he’d been working on and it was pure shite. It read like a a children’s book, but without the compelling plot.”
“Right. So I take it you’ve decided to go another way?”
“Yes. Trouble is that I have no one else in mind. But more immediately, I’m enraged to have flown across the ocean to meet with an idiot. I could put my fist through a wall, to be honest.”
“Uh-oh. Glad I’m nowhere near you.” Galen pauses for a moment. That’s never good; it means the fucker is thinking. He’s about to say something profound, and I’
ll have to shoot him down as always. “You know, if you had a lady friend to take on these trips, perhaps you’d enjoy them a little more.”
“I have plenty of lady friends.”
“You have friends who are women, and then there are the women you fuck and leave in a trail of tears and broken dreams. Neither of those qualifies as what I’m talking about. Besides which, I can’t recall the last time you told me you were going on a date.”
“You’re talking about commitment. Monogamy. One man, one woman. Actual, meaningful conversations.”
“All of the above, yes. You should try it sometime.” Galen’s gone sincere. Such a good, protective younger sibling, looking out for his heartless brother’s happiness.
I pause for a moment, pretending to have gone deep into a state of focused thought. “Nah, I’m good on my own.”
“Conlon.” Galen only ever calls me by my name when he’s being hyper-earnest.
“Galen,” I reply.
“You’re not happy.”
“I’m content.”
“You exist. That’s about all that I can say for you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but the love of my life is right in front of me. A glass of scotch called Balvenie. She’s a beautiful, russet-haired goddess and I will treat her with all the care in the world until she’s entirely in my belly. Ours will be a love for the ages.”
Another pregnant pause. “I worry about you, mate,” my brother says. Still earnest. He’s killing me. “I don’t want you ending up like dad.”
Right. Now I’m getting irritated. I don’t particularly want to delve into that territory. “Is that why you called? To talk about dad?”
“No, to be fair. Just wondering if you’d made it back yet. I’ll be in town for a couple of days, and I wanted to make sure I’d see you. Oh, and I wanted to give you some news.”
“News, is it?”
“Yeah. Just got home from what is likely my last ever night out with Brittany. I’m afraid an era has come to its end.”
“Not big-tits Brit!” I bellow a little more loudly than I should.
My brother’s on-again off-again relationship for two years has been with a pair of large breasts. Brittany is not exactly a genius, and let’s just say that she has little to offer other than a couple of size triple-H flotation devices. I’m afraid I’ve teased him about them for some time, and I have no intention of stopping now. “You’ve had enough of getting slapped in the face by giant fatty deposits, have ya?”
Galen laughs. I can tell that he’s not heartbroken, which alleviates any guilt I might feel at being a cruel bastard.
“Let’s just say things fizzled. A gentleman never reveals.”
“She dumped you. Massive-Breasts-Brittany let you go.”
“Stop talking about her chest, you perv,” he says, but I can still hear the laughter in his voice.
“Mountains, they were. The Himalayas. At the very least, the Grand Tetons. The eighth and ninth wonders of the natural world.” I’m bellowing again, no doubt drawing looks from the wankers in the pub. Well, sod it. I’m having fun for the first time today.
“Yes, well, her giant orbs and I have parted ways for good this time. I feel that the world should have a chance to enjoy them as I did.”
“Hey, I’m just glad you didn’t suffocate under their mass. Well done, old chap.”
“Thanks. On to greener pastures, or something. Time to be single for a little.”
“Good. I highly recommend it as a default state, as you know.”
“I’m all too aware, Mr. Eligible Bachelor of the year 2015.” Galen is making reference to an article in an English magazine from a couple of seasons back. Thank God they didn’t list me this year; I hated the attention.
“Listen,” I say, changing the subject with ninja-like reflexes, “I’ll be home by eleven or so tomorrow morning. I’ll send you a text when I get in. I’ll see you in a day or two?”
“Absolutely. I need some adjustments done, so I’ll set up a time with your people.”
“Fine. Just let me know when you’re in town and I’ll come pick you up.”
“Great, thanks.”
“And Galen—about Brittany, I’m sorry. I hope you’re not too down about it.”
“Thanks, mate. I’ll be fine.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I’m sorry that you’ll no longer be able to motorboat those massive tracts of—”
“Bye, ya great plonker.”
“Bye, Gale.”
I hang up, laughing quietly to myself, my mood temporarily improved. I shouldn’t tease Galen for his disastrous love life, but it’s just too tempting. My brother tends to fall hard for women who are terrifically bad for him. I’ve told him many times that he should follow my enduring advice:
Fall for no one.
Don’t get me wrong; nothing gives me more pleasure than feeling a woman’s hips gyrate under the light touch of my tongue, and I refuse as a rule to leave a woman unsatisfied. I don’t even mind if she leaves me with a painful hard-on, so long as I get what I want. The important thing is that she leave at some point, so that I can return to my solitary life.
The last thing I want is to be stuck in a relationship, mired down in the painful duty of looking after someone. I don’t want another person depending on me. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I don’t want the sodding t-shirt, either. Let the fairer sex use me as a fucktoy then discard me like a used candy wrapper; my cock and I are more than happy to be fodder for their fantasies. As long as they don’t involve a white picket fence or lifelong commitment.
Speaking of sex, women, and hardening cocks, my eyes drag to the end of the bar where a lovely—very lovely—young thing is sitting upright and alone, delicate right hand on her glass, funny little smile on her face.
Correction: she’s not just a lovely young thing.
She’s a SILF.
A stranger I’d love to fuck.
There’s something unrelentingly sexy about her that I can’t immediately define. I’m not sure if it’s the upturned lips, or the way her fingertips are fondling her glass. Her well-fitted jeans accentuate curvy gams in tall boots tangled around the metal legs of her barstool in exactly the way I’d like them to be wrapped around my hips. She never stops moving, whether it’s to shift in her seat or just to turn her head and look around. There’s a sense of excitement about her that’s all but contagious, enervating. Some part of me wants to go over there, spin her around and press her back into the bar so I can kiss that far-too-happy smile off her face. Or maybe I just want to steal some of her bliss for myself.
Either way, I slightly resent the fact that she’s drawing me in. The evil seductress is actually making my cock hard with her enticing allure, absolutely destroying any remaining traces of my foul mood.
Damn you, woman.
A happy person in an airport seems an impossibility, so something must definitely be very wrong with her. Maybe she just read one of those “Ten Ways to Have an Orgasm Whilst Sitting in an Airport Waiting Area” articles in a dreadful women’s magazine. That would explain why she keeps shifting in her seat.
God, I wish my face were that seat.
Fuck it. Insane a thought though it may be, I need speak to her. Curious and punch-drunk, I stand up, drink in one hand, and pick up my carry-on bag. I stride over and thrust my arse onto the stool next to hers, my head turned to stare at her some more.
Good God, she’s even prettier up close. Blond hair, green eyes, poreless skin that’s not concealed behind the mask of spackle-like foundation that so many women inflict on their faces. This one is a natural beauty.
For a moment she looks my way. But she turns her gaze away just as quickly, her smile fading fast. Is that a blush on her cheeks, or irritation?
There’s only one sure way to find out. I have no idea what I’m doing; I’m not generally the sort to chat up young women in airport bars. One of the many benefits of being stinking rich and vaguely famous is that women normally appr
oach me. But sod it, I’ve got hours to kill, and it’s not like I’ll ever see her again.
“Where are you headed?” I ask.
And so it begins.
Four
Adriana
Oh, sweet donkey nuggets. Mr. Sexy is talking to me.
I pivot to stare at him like he’s just asked if he can eat my firstborn, even if what I really want is to strip him naked and eat him up.
The gears begin to turn inside my head as I contemplate my next move. Do I engage? I mean, I’m supposed to be Independent Adriana, spurner of male advances. Besides, I just heard him on the phone talking about some woman’s breasts, further proving my hypothesis that he’s a lady-eater, and not in the good way.
Problem is, on a purely visceral level I want to part my legs, tell him to rip my jeans off and have a go at me with every ounce of his strength. This man is way too attractive, and he’s doing funny things to my woman parts again.
Damn it. I’m still staring.
Focus, Adriana. He asked where you’re going. Don’t just gawk at him. Answer his question.
“Paris,” I say, wincing as soon as the word comes out.
Fuck, why didn’t I lie and say London or something?
No, that would’ve been even worse. He’s English. Paris is fine. No way is he going there.
“My home town,” he says, and I nearly fall off the stool with the shock of it.
Shit, really?
Shit.
“Well,” he continues, “actually my home town is London, as you can likely gather by my accent. But Paris is where I live. I’m headed there as well.”
Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1) Page 2
