by Jo Raven
“It would sure attract more customers.”
“Of the wrong kind.”
“Hey, money is money.”
She gives me a mock-shove and scrolls down her screen, frowning. “Okay, here we have a guy. Looks good. Oh wait, wait. Under qualifications: ‘Black belt in karate, and I can bake a mean lemon pie.’ What do you think, Candy?”
“I like men who can cook. He’d go nicely with the other one who can give mean head.”
“We can’t hire two. Besides, they’d go join Annie in Vegas and get married. With him baking mean pies and her giving mean head… it’d be a marriage made in heaven.”
“Amen.”
I re-read the guy’s info. Could it be…? Nah. It’s not him.
And I shouldn’t feel so let down.
“Ah, well. Give it a few more days.” I push off her desk, still struggling with that weird sense of disappointment. “Someone worthwhile will report in.”
No reason why he should have applied for the job. He’s a bartender for God’s sake. Who knows if he’s ever even opened a book in his life. If he kept the card I gave him or chucked it into the trash the moment I walked away.
Who am I kidding? He probably never even considered applying. He probably never gave me, or the business card I passed him, a second thought. Why would he?
Brylee was right. Real-life guys can’t hold a candle to my virtual boyfriends. Isn’t that why women are all over my blog? Why they spend their time reading and commenting and holding discussions about whether J&J like their whiskey neat or if they switch when they fuck each other?
Because they totally do. Fuck each other, that is. It’s a new development in the story I’ve been posting online. It had all started quite innocuously, actually—the story of me meeting these two guys and then starting a relationship with them—but it mostly consisted of them having sex with me, not each other.
Though they’d obviously watch when one of them did me, and jack off. Yeah.
But soon I’d added scenes where they touched each other. Kissed. Jacked each other off. Gave each other blowjobs.
Boy, that’s hot. Hmm…
And the more I delve into my own sexuality and discover what excites me, the more women I discover who like the same.
I stop at a shelf and stare at it blankly. Wait, what was I thinking about? Or more to the point, what was I doing?
Oh yeah, I was going to change the display of our romance bestsellers. So that’s what I do, new scenes to be written popping up in my mind, until I stop, whip my notebook out of my back pocket and jot some ideas down.
Holy crap, this scene is going to be hot. Really hot and dirty. Can’t wait to write it and escape into the story once more.
***
He straddles J-Two’s legs and whispers in a seductive, growly voice, “Take off your pants. I want to see how excited you are. Then I’m going to push you on your back, make you hold on to the headboard and put my mouth on your big, fat d—”
“Oh Jesus Christ!” Donna cries out from her office, and I drop my pen. Gathering it up, glancing around me to make sure Godzilla hasn’t attacked us and that no customer has walked in while I was busy writing my personal porn, I walk to the back.
“More resumes?”
“You bet. Listen to this one. ‘Why you should hire me: I’m the best in town.’ Best in town, what? Also, his email starts with ‘hotbarman.’ Like I said, Jesus Christ.”
My heart stops for a long moment. Could it be him? “You should totally interview him.”
“Why on Earth?”
“Because, ah, he’s the best. In selling, I bet he means. He sounds confident. That’s good, right?”
“Right.” Donna shoots me a dubious glance. “And he can probably mix the best drinks in town, too.”
I grin at her. “Better than lemon pie, or giving head.”
“You do know your logic is messed up, right?”
“Isn’t that why you hired me?”
She shakes her head.
“What’s his name?” I hurry around the desk and try to see over her shoulder, but she closes the window immediately.
“Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Come on, Donna. Just lemme see—”
“Get back to work. Girls these days.” She giggles and has no idea what she’s putting me through.
Frustrated, I return to the front of the store and my display.
Is it him? Would he say such stuff on his resume? Maybe the email was a code for me to recognize it’s him. And he sure seemed cocky at the concert.
Something is bothering me about this, though. Maybe how blatant it seems to be? How simple? I thought he gave off more of a complicated vibe. Darker. Wilder.
And that’s where I have to remind myself—again—that I don’t really know the guy. And that even if he is hot, he may be shit at selling books. Won’t that be crappy? Working with him could be uneasy as hell, especially if I get a girl-boner every time I see him. And what about Joel?
Now I’m kinda hoping it’s not him.
This is driving me up the wall. Hey, didn’t I decide he hasn’t applied? A fantasy he will remain, and now I’ll write that scene and I—
The door chimes as it opens, letting in a gust of wind and a tall man dressed in a dark blue Tee and running shorts. Running shoes, shapely calves, a broad chest, a wide grin and bright blue eyes…
Ohmygod.
He’s back.
***
“Hello,” he says, and I nod dumbly at Joel Kingsley, or J-One, as he enters and fills the whole damn shop with his hawtness.
I mean, presence.
Despite my righteous anger last time about his comment, I have trouble gathering my wits as he strides confidently into the shop and directs that megawatt grin right at me.
“You’re the girl who helped me the last time, right?” God, that melted-chocolate voice and that dimple…
“The nerdy chick,” I say helpfully, pushing my glasses up my nose, and freeze.
Oops.
His brows go up. “Right.”
Disengage. Disengage. Shields down.
“Uh, I remember you, too.” My brain engages, but I must have chosen the wrong program because my mouth opens, and words spew out that should have stayed in, locked up with a high-security protocol. “You’re the bananas guy. Banana book guy. The guy who…” Crap, shoot me now. “The book. Recipe book.”
Finally he nods, and my mouth stops flapping. “Yeah. The cookbook for my friend.”
Cookbook. Right. There was a word for it, a word I know when my brain isn’t busy misfiring due to hot guy proximity alerts going off all over the place.
The book you got for your hunky friend, Jethro, whom I met at the concert and now can’t stop thinking about. Between the two of you, I’m getting sexual whiplash. Can’t decide who is hotter.
Shouldn’t have to.
“Did he enjoy it?” I ask, and he’s staring at me.
“Huh…” He blinks, pushing dark hair out of his eyes, and dear God, his scruff is a shade darker today, and a golden suntan on his face makes his blue eyes brighter. “Enjoy what?”
What, indeed. The scene I’ve been brainstorming for the past two days flashes through my synapses like an electric storm, burning out what connections were still live.
“Enjoy you. Your gift. Enjoy your…” Don’t say it, don’t say it. “Your banana gift. Oh God, I mean your cookbook gift.”
Why did I say it?
I would like to be buried under this spot, please, with a sign that says, “Here lies Candy who could never put her mouth to good use. But given the chance, she would have given good head.”
“Haven’t given it to him yet. Hey, I’ll need your help again,” Joel is saying, and I blink to find him gesturing toward the nearest shelves stacked with books.
“Anything.” I cough. “You need. Book-wise. Obviously.”
He gives me a long look under which my cheeks warm, heat, burst into flames and blister. �
�Yeah. I need a book.”
Of course he does. Of course that’s why he’s here. In a bookshop.
I can’t be trusted to speak with handsome guys in public. Or private. I mean, I’ll either stare open-mouthed, like it happened with Jethro at the concert, or talk until every stupid thing anyone on earth has ever come up with has seen the light of day.
“No bananas this time?” I ask and bite my tongue so hard my eyes water. “Or other fruit? Other recipes, I mean. Other…”
Shut. Up. Now.
I wait for him to speak, gritting my teeth.
“I’m looking for something about… history,” he says.
Come again? “History,” I make myself repeat. “What period?”
“Ancient.”
All right… He’s joking, right? Star athlete, graduated with a business degree, party animal and serial one-night-stander, that’s who he is. Not a history nerd. Is this… is he trying to impress me?
Haha, good one, Candy.
“An overview, right.” I tap my fingers on the shelves, unable for the life of me to remember if we have any such book. “Or did you want something specific?”
“Middle Eastern,” he says firmly.
“Mesopotamian?” I want to see how far he’ll go. “Assyrian, maybe?We have this one here.”
“What?”
When I turn back toward him, the blue of his eyes seems darker, and a light flush colors his cheekbones.
Right. He has no clue.
I’m disappointed.
And once more, what the heck, Candy? Expectations, again? Didn’t we decide they suck? Did you expect real-life Joel to not only be a hunk, but also interesting, interested in topics you like, sensitive and all-around perfect? Hello? Real life?
A threesome sex act probably sucks, too, in reality. I mean, you’re only just trying to imagine the logistics. In your head. With your imagination. Because it turns you on.
Doesn’t mean you’ll like it when you’re faced with the real thing.
I’m also flustered. I mean, here I was, thinking about threesomes, really filthy threesomes, involving the guy standing right in front of me, and his friend. Chances are, they’ve never ever thought about joining forces to please a girl, much less each other.
Of course not.
“I’ll try this one,” Joel is saying, pulling from the shelf the book I pointed out. His mouth twists in a lopsided smile. “It sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” I quip, and God, stop it, Candy. “Brilliant. Um.” I smile, giving him my full shark smile.
I’m still disappointed that he tried to impress me without considering I’d see right through him, and that it’s probably a technique he’s used before and it worked, but hey, he’s still eye-candy.
“You all right?”
“Oh yeah.” I wonder what my expression looks like for him to ask. Is my tongue hanging out? Am I making panting noises? “I haven’t had my coffee yet. It’s an addiction. Really bad. Withdrawal symptoms.”
My throat is clogged up. I hack, trying to clear it.
“Well, then,” he says and—wow, his biceps again. His thick biceps flexes as he turns the book to read something on the back cover. “I guess I’m done here.”
Right. Done.
Good that he took the first book I recommended, and he’s on his way so that I won’t have to drool over him any longer, or get my hopes up.
“Hey,” he says, “name’s Joel, what’s yours?”
“What?”
Cocky grin is back, and so is that dimple in his left cheek.
Hi, dimple. Missed you.
“Your name,” he says. “Can’t always call you Nerdy Girl, now, can I?”
“No. Yeah.” I almost choke on my own tongue. “Candy?”
“You offering?” He glances down at my hands, then around, as if expecting a basket of candy to materialize.
“No. I mean, Candy. That’s my name. Candace Riley. Candy for short.”
He blinks long dark lashes over sky-blue eyes. We thank you, God, for this boy and his awesome genes. Keep up the good work.
“Candy,” he repeats. “I like it.”
“You do?”
He just said so, Candy.
And he seems to be waiting for something. A reply? A smile? A clue? Me to jump him in the middle of the store?
I totally would if I thought there was any chance of him letting it happen and not calling the cops.
Here, baby. Let me wrap my legs around you and ride you into the sunset.
“Ride me into the sunset?” One dark brow goes up, disappearing under his floppy dark hair, and I stare at him, horrified.
What in the actual fuck? I said that out loud? I didn’t… Did I? What’s wrong with me? My heart is pounding, fit to burst through my chest, and my face is on fire.
“The register is over there.” I point with a shaky finger. “If you don’t need anything else.”
“Candy—”
“You misheard, by the way. That wasn’t what I said at all. About the riding stuff.”
“No?” That damn brow is still playing hide-and-seek in his hair.
“No. And besides, it was an expression. Like, well, knock me over with a feather. Ride me into the sunset.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
You’d better not, you awesome piece of man-candy. Go and leave me in my misery.
He doesn’t call me out on my bullshit, and that’s wise because I’m a second away from throwing a book at him and bolting.
My book throwing aim is pretty lethal. I practice all the time with books that piss me off. My walls have dents from where I throw them repeatedly when I’m in the mood.
“So,” I say brightly when he doesn’t move from the spot, smirking at me. “If that would be all…”
“You know, you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, and my mouth drops open. “And mad.”
“What?”
His baby blues do a slow once-over, his gaze sliding from my face to my boobs to my legs. “With those glasses, and if you wore a mini skirt and heels… You’d totally fit my librarian fantasy.”
Now the flush is spreading down my body. My breasts are tingling, and in the land down under, there’s a fire burning.
Joel Kingsley is checking me out. And he has a librarian fantasy. Jeez.
I open my mouth to say something so stupid and embarrassing I’ll never live it down, when his phone dings, and he whips it out of his pocket to check his messages, his brow furrowing.
“Oh fuck, sorry,” he mutters, “gotta go.”
And that’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Playtime is over.
Clutching the history book against his side and murmuring a thanks, vaguely directed at me, Joel Kingsley turns in the direction of the register.
He just goes.
After checking me over and tricking me into thinking he finds me pretty.
Who? Me, with my nerdy glasses and nerdy leggings and nerdy hobbies.
Donna’s already at the register. She rings up the book, and he tells her something I can’t hear, too busy pretending to be rearranging the books on the shelf.
Then he’s gone.
***
Donna’s shrewd gaze follows Joel as he leaves without a backward glance, broad shoulders stiff and back rigid.
The door chimes echo in the empty shop.
“Now spill,” she finally says. “What happened? Why did he look like his cat ran away to join a dog kennel?”
I honestly wish I knew. Wish I knew who called him, what was said to make him react like that.
“So this is Obi-One, huh?” Donna puffs out a breath. “He sure is hot.”
“J-One.”
She is an avid reader of my blog—that was actually how we originally met online, and how I got this job—and has more inside information on the story than most people.
Though, let’s be real: any girl with a brain who went to college with Joel and has read my blog has to
know who the two Js stand for.
“He is hot,” I agree. No doubt about it.
That was the whole point of getting him in a threesome with me. Even if it’s an imaginary one.
“Do you like him?”
“I’m sorry? I’m practically panting with my tongue hanging out, and you’re asking me—?”
“That’s sexual attraction, Candy-girl. I mean, do you like him? Is he boyfriend material? Or do you only have the hots for him?”
“I have the hots.” I lick my lips. “The only thing we have in common is Jethro. A pity Jethro’s not a hobby we can share.”
“Tsk.”
“Plus, Joel wants someone else.”
“But he’s not with her.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping. Donna, shame on you.”
“And he’s flirting with you.”
“Why, because he asked for my name?”
“Because of that bit with the mini skirt.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s Joel Kingsley. Serial flirter. He’d flirt with female cats if no human girls were available.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Hm.” Donna is wearing her I-am-seeing-right-through-you expression. “Say, what about that nice boy you used to date? He was sweet. Liam, right?”
“You said it. He was sweet.”
“Too sweet for Candy?”
“Not a Candy kind of boy.”
“Not imaginary, you mean.”
I bite my tongue. What if she’s right? What if I shouldn’t have broken up with Liam, settled for what he offered?
Quiet, slow sex. Light kisses. Flowers. Chocolates. Romantic movies.
He really was a sweetheart.
But I never came with him. Not once. I had to fake my orgasms, and come on, that’s not a good basis for a relationship, is it?
Probably not his fault, though. I seem to need more. More work, more foreplay, more roughness in order to come.
More boys. Two boys, ideally, doing me and doing each other.
Nothing turns me on like the fantasy of two men together. Masturbating. Doing each other as I watch. Big hands on muscular asses, on hard, straining dicks, hard mouths slamming together in savage kisses as they chase their release.
