by S. R. Grey
On top of Brent Oliver, would that really be so bad? All those muscles under little ole me. And I bet with playing all that hockey, his endurance is—
Wait! What the hell is wrong with me?
Luckily, the tortuous meeting adjourns. I quickly gather my folder and say good-bye to everyone. And then I make a beeline for the elevator.
Seems my life is becoming a series of escapes from Brent Oliver.
I stop in the ladies’ room on the first floor to splash some water on my face. That delays my trip back to my waiting car with the friendly driver.
Bad move. When I arrive outside my car is waiting for me, yes, but my driver—the rabid Wolves fan—is talking animatedly with none other than my new client.
Big surprise there.
Not.
Prancing up to the car, kitten heels clicking, I announce my arrival with a very loud cough.
Brent turns and instantly offers me his water. “Here. You sound parched. Have some water.”
“What? You expect me to drink from the same bottle as you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He wiggles the water out in front of me. “Have a sip. You look like you could use some cooling down.”
“As if,” I declare, channeling my best Cher Horowitz from Clueless. “I’m not, nor will I ever be thirsty enough to drink from a bottle that has touched your lips.”
Brent shoots me a look like I’m half off my rocker. “Suit yourself,” he says.
It’s still stifling hot outside, and I actually am thirsty as hell. But I’ll be damned if I’m drinking from his bottle. One of the “problems that need addressing” listed in the file stated that my client is a womanizer.
With this in mind, and clearly without thinking it through, I blurt out, “God knows where those lips have been and what you’ve picked up this summer.”
Okay, it’s now official—the Las Vegas heat has melted my brain and my filter.
The friendly driver gawks at me, surely shocked I’d say such a thing to Mr. Superstar. But it’s Mr. Superstar himself who looks genuinely hurt by my comment.
“Relax. It was just a joke,” I mutter.
I don’t think he takes it very well, since the look he gives me shouts a clear, Game on, bitch.
Since I have a job to do, one that demands he respect me, I send him a message with my eyes that says right the hell back, Go ahead and bring it, buddy. Show me your best.
If Looks Could Kill
I was all set to be nice, willing to call a truce even. But fuck it. If Aubrey Shelburne wants to spar with me, let’s do it. She’s about to get more than she bargained for.
It was more than clear when Dolby informed her that she has to stay with me, to essentially “train” me to be a good boy—fuck that shit, by the way—that she wasn’t digging it.
And now she has the nerve, after insulting me when I only asked if she wanted a sip of my water, to completely ignore me like I’m not still standing here.
Turning away, she strikes up a conversation with the driver.
Oh, so she thinks she can dismiss me and she’ll have a nice, quiet ride to my house, just her and the limo guy.
Not gonna happen, sweetheart.
The driver is a fan, as I discovered when I first spoke with him. Well, I’m not above using it to my advantage.
Speaking right over Aubrey, which earns me a scowl from her, I say to the driver, “Hey, man. Can you do me a big favor?”
“Yes, certainly, Mr. Oliver.” The driver’s eager smile tells me he’s more than ready to help. “Anything you want,” he goes on, “you just name it.”
I shoot Aubrey a smug ah-it’s-good-to-be-a-star expression, to which she rolls her eyes. Such pretty eyes too, just like this morning. It’s a shame we can’t stand each other. And let me be clear. I may have been up for her challenging me, but that was before I had any clue she was about to be assigned my—insert my own eye roll here—life coach.
Back focusing on the driver, I say, “You may as well go ahead and take off since—”
“Wait, no—” Aubrey tries to interject.
“—Miss Shelburne here is headed to the same place I’m going, which happens to be my house.” I narrow my eyes at her. “She can just ride with me.”
My new life coach glares over at me. And honestly, if looks could kill I’d be a dead man.
“Sure, fine, that’s cool with me, Mr. Oliver.” The driver hops out and begins unloading Aubrey’s bags from the trunk.
Score one for Brent Oliver.
Since I don’t care to stand on the curb with Miss Life Coach—I’ll be seeing enough of her in my freaking home—I offer to assist the driver with the luggage. “Hold up a sec,” I call back to him. “Let me help you with those.”
“Try not to steal any more of my underwear,” Aubrey hisses as I stride by her.
I stop in my tracks and walk back to her. Leaning in close to the sassy vixen, I whisper in her ear, “For the record, those panties you keep accusing me of stealing were left by you on my bathroom floor.”
Take that!
I don’t add that I happened to throw the lacy undergarment in my bag, which kind of technically means I did ultimately steal them. But never mind that.
“I did what?” she gasps.
She steps back away from me, seemingly appalled by this development in the panty saga. Is that embarrassment I see on her previously smug face? I think so. Oh, I can tell already I’m going to love riling this one up. Spending time with her might end up being a blast.
“Red. Lacy?” I raise a brow. “Ring a bell?”
“Uh…”
“And I should mention that I found them to be”—I pretend like I’m holding said panties as I lift my hand to my nose—“mmm, real sweet smelling,” I finish, enjoying this exchange far too much.
I’m really not this much of a pig, but it sure is fun to make her think so.
Taking the bait, she bites out, “You’re disgusting.”
Chuckling, I proceed to the back of the limo, where I help the driver place Aubrey’s stuff on the curb. He talks a lot of hockey and mentions having a young son who’s a huge fan. Before he leaves I promise to send him some signed things for his kid. We exchange info and then he drives off, happy as can be, leaving me on the curb with Aubrey, who incidentally looks as blazing hot as the sun above us. There’s the slightest sheen of sweat on her brow and her cheeks are flushed. I bet that’s what she looks like when she’s getting fucked.
“What the hell was that all about?” she blurts out, interrupting my racy reverie.
She’s fuming, but whether she’s mad about my panty comment, or pissed at me for sending her ride away, I’m not entirely sure. Probably both. In any case, anger suits her.
“Are you asking me why I sent your driver away?” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the departing limo.
“Yes,” she confirms.
Shrugging, I say, “Why waste gas when we’re going to the same place?” Without waiting for a reply—or more likely a nasty retort—I add, “There’s no reason to take two cars and add more pollution to the environment.”
She bursts out laughing. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you’re that committed to being green?”
Scoffing, I assure her, “I’m committed to a lot of things, honey.” I don’t add that one of them now is breaking her.
“Fine. Let’s just go,” she snaps.
Spinning away from me, she starts walking toward the parking garage where the players park. She knows this only because there’s a sign indicating as much. Only problem is I’m not done giving her a hard time. We may as well finish this out here on the sidewalk. Maybe she’ll hate me so much she’ll quit before her silly life-coaching gig gets started.
“Whoa, hold up there,” I call out as she prances away.
She turns, hands on her cute curvy hips, and demands to know, “What now?”
I nod down to her large collection of bags. “Don’t walk away thinking I’m carrying all this shit b
y myself. In case you didn’t notice, I’m not an octopus. You’re gonna have to help, princess.”
Her brow crinkles and she shakes her head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious,” she murmurs
“Yeah sorry, but I totally am.” I lift a bag. It’s a small carry-on, not one of her oversized suitcases. See, I’m not that much of a dick. “Here, take this one. I can probably get the rest on my own.”
Huffing, she walks over to me. “Fine, give it to me.”
I hand her the bag, and our eyes meet.
Shit, I’d sure like to give her more than the bag. I like the way her suit jacket is all askew, revealing her cream-colored camisole, sticking to her skin and perfectly accentuating the swell of her breasts.
Fuck, just like this morning—which now feels like a lifetime ago—my dick gets hard. I’d sure like to nail her, at least once.
But that seems unlikely as when I smile at her she returns a glare that just about lays me out.
I think Aubrey Shelburne has just made the leap from mere annoyance to outright hatred.
I Hate Him, but My Hooha Disagrees
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
This becomes my new mantra as the days pass. Brent Oliver is driving me crazy. He fights me on everything. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is when he goes up against me, I secretly love it. His obstinacy gets me all hot and bothered. And because of this I find myself doing everything I can to make him angry and rile him up.
Like right now—I’m pouring all his booze down the kitchen sink. It needs to be done, anyway—out of sight, out of mind, and all that—but he sure is going to be pissed.
No matter. I have a legitimate reason for doing what I’m doing—it’s my job. My client was so hungover this morning that when his new team-appointed trainer arrived bright and early, he could barely get out of bed.
That is unacceptable.
Conclusion—he’s not going to stop drinking as long as his beloved Grey Goose is around. So, here I am.
Reaching for what feels like the umpteenth bottle of booze, I let out a long sigh. Brent has so many fifths that need emptying that I’m starting to feel like I’m re-enacting the Boston Tea Party, only with Grey Goose instead of Earl Grey. Or whatever the hell kind of tea they drank back then.
I purposely chose this time of the night to complete my task. Here’s where the riling him up part comes in. This is when my adversary usually heads down from his bedroom to raid the fridge. Tonight his little snack will have to be a banana, or another piece of fresh fruit, just like it was last night, courtesy of my most recent trip to the organic market.
The first night I spent in the house, Brent came down looking for potato chips. I know this because he was mumbling something about salt and vinegar as he entered the kitchen. Too bad for him I’d already found and discarded all the bags of his preferred snack.
He actually caught me as I was in the midst of changing out all the junk food he’d had someone—probably that smug agent—stock the fridge and pantry with. I’ve since replaced every bad thing with a healthy alternative. But that night I was only halfway through with the task. I heard Brent literally skid to a stop behind me, so I spun around, smile on my face and a nice healthy peach in one hand.
The sought-after salt and vinegar bags were sticking out of the top of the trash, and with his eyes glued in that direction, he asked tightly, “Why are all the potato chips in the garbage?”
It took me a full minute to formulate a coherent response. I was caught off-guard by his buff body. Seemed he’d forgotten to put on a shirt, and the baggy gray shorts he had on were doing a bang-up job of showing off how muscular his legs are.
All those bulging muscles, right there in front of me, made my head as fuzzy as the peach I was pretty much squeezing to death by then. I swear there’s not an ounce of fat on that man, in spite of his junk food and vodka addictions.
Every inch of him is so firm and smooth that my hooha perked to attention immediately. I insisted she calm down, seeing as we despise Brent Oliver. She complied, after calling me out as a delusional liar and after I promised her some relief.
Not with Brent Oliver, just with my hand.
B-o-r-i-n-g, I imagined her spewing, along with a yawn. But then that graphic image disturbed me so greatly that I couldn’t help but make a please-bleach-my-brain-now face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Brent asked, snorting. “You’re not the one whose babysitter is throwing away all the good stuff in the house.”
Pointing at him, I replied, “I am not your babysitter. I’m your life coach.”
He shrugged. “Semantics.”
“I didn’t know hockey players knew such fancy words.”
“You obviously don’t know much about us at all, do you?”
“Pfft,” I snorted. “Let’s be sure we keep it that way, Oliver.”
“You got it, Shelburne.”
My lady bits got all excited from the lively exchange. So much so that I completely misunderstood when he said, “You’re dripping, by the way.”
“Huh? What?” I wasn’t that excited, was I? Good God, I hoped not. Because, if so, how mortifying!
I stared down at my short shorts. Could you see through them? They were kind of thin. Could I be that freaking wet?
Brent, clearly confused, said, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m checking to make sure, uh…” Suddenly, I remembered the peach I was squeezing like crazy.
Oops.
“Aubrey?” He quirked a brow, like he was catching on to me.
Think fast!
“I thought I felt something on my leg,” I said in a rush. “A bug, maybe.” Nodding down to my sticky forearm, I hastily added, “But yes, I see what you mean. Damn peaches. They’re just so overly ripe.”
“Sure they are,” he murmured.
When I dared to look over at him, it was clear he knew precisely what I’d originally thought—that he’d aroused me. He had, of course, but there was no need to confirm it for him. In fact, I quickly went to work on making him think I hated him.
’Cause I do, right?
Right? Right?
Crap, I don’t know anymore.
Icily, I asked, “Are we done here? I’m trying to do my job, which happens to involve buying fruit for you, a food that’s on your approved list by the way.”
Yes, it was in his file. And since he hates the idea of a babysitter, which I sometimes kind of am, I knew that would chase him away. And so help me God, I needed him gone. He was turning me into a horny, confused mess.
Frustrated, I tossed the peach at him. He caught it easily and started to say something, but I turned away to face the sink. I was just so damn embarrassed by that point.
I heard him sigh as he left the room, and wouldn’t you know it, my traitorous hooha sighed right along with him, which then made me sigh. The mood was ruined for everyone, and it was an overall crappy night.
But tonight I’m ready and prepped to spar with Brent Oliver, something that is quickly becoming a highlight of my time here. Plus, if I get all worked up now, I have a new outlet.
Smiling, I pour another bottle of Grey Goose down the drain and think about my new duo of toys and how I came to acquire them.
Lainey would be so proud.
This afternoon, Brent was off meeting with team bigwigs, which meant I had a few hours to myself. The company I work for finally got around to renting me a car, so I decided to take it out for a little spin around the area. I also needed to get out of the house for a while.
Brent’s home is spacious and beautiful—it’s a huge terra-cotta villa with clay roof tiles and a lovely desert garden dominating the front and extending to the back—but I was feeling closed in.
I’ve already explored the two separate wings of his home, which included a thorough investigation of the area I share with him. That’s right. My damn bedroom is directly across from his. And all this freaking closeness is the real reason why I needed a b
reak from Mr. Hottie’s lair today.
Like it was meant to be, as I was driving along, just aimlessly making random turns, I spotted a sex shop along the side of the road.
“Yes!” I fist-pumped the air as I eased into the lot of the aptly named Giddy-Up Adult Toys. Okay, maybe I more than eased in. There may have been a lot of spinning tire and plumes of dust, but damn it, I was in a hurry to get in that store.
I was so pumped that I started singing, making up a little jingle. Giddy-up, girl, go! Get your freak on in the desert at Giddy-Up Adult Toys.
Damn, I should do marketing on the side.
Then again, maybe not.
In any case, it was all new to me, and I was excited. I’ve never owned a sex toy, but my sister, as she likes to remind me, swears by them. It’s high time I hop on that horse and go for a ride, that’s what she’s been telling me. Well, if I can’t ride Brent—and I absolutely cannot—then the Giddy-Up sex toy store would have to provide the next best thing.
“Surely they’ll have something for me,” I told myself as I cut the ignition.
By then I was feeling a tad self-conscious after my splashy arrival, so I slid the scarf I was wearing up to cover my head. I then threw on a pair of cat-eye sunglasses, completing what was quickly becoming my fifties movie star appearance. No matter. I wanted to remain incognito and it was effective. Not that I expected to run into anyone, but with my luck it seemed a prudent move.
To my dismay, I received quite a few looks when I walked in that store. Not because I was a woman coming in to buy a sex toy—I’m sure that happened a lot—but because I kind of looked like I was about to hold up the joint.
With a nod to the scruffy surfer-looking dude manning the register, I scurried back to a wall of toys.
Damn, what I found was a dizzying array of pleasure devices, in all sorts of shapes, colors, and sizes. I peered at the packages, but it was a little hard to see with the dark glasses on.
Hastily, I grabbed two toys—one pink and one green. Yeah, color me the preppy perv. I then scampered over to the register and paid with cash, all while casting surreptitious glances left and right.
