SEXT ME - A Steamy SEAL Romance

by Layla Valentine

  Kristin

  Well, why not?

  As I walked with my coworkers towards Cooper’s, I repeated the question to myself to combat the other voice in my head—the one that was urging me to go home and curl up with my cats, Romeo and Juliet.

  Because, really ‘Why not’ was right. It wasn’t as though I had anything better to do on a Friday night, other than watch some TV reruns and flip through some dating apps.

  “What do you think, Kristin? Think we’ll get a spot?” Harmony asked, and I shrugged.

  We had been to Cooper’s a fair few times, but every time had been different: one night you could have good service, the next, bad service; the place could be crowded like standing sardines, or empty as a tomb. We were almost at the familiar green-bordered door and it was too late to turn back now.

  Inside, a bartender I vaguely recognized smiled broadly at the sight of our group.

  “Think he likes you,” Gillian said, nudging me as we wove our way to a free table at the back.

  I said nothing, hoping she’d let the matter drop. No matter how many times I’d told the girls that I didn’t want to be set up with anyone, they persisted in trying to foist any man between the ages of 20 and 50 on me. Clearly, they didn’t understand that single was not the same as single and ready to mingle with any warm-blooded male.

  No sooner had we flopped down, a buxom blonde appeared at our table. “Anyone interested in drinks or the specials?”

  “Yes, a bottle of merlot please,” Harmony said and the girl bobbed off.

  I smiled. That was what I liked about Cooper’s; they got right down to business. As we waited for our drinks and chatted, Gillian began lamenting about the shortcomings of her husband, Paul.

  “Seriously, he eats so much! I always have to buy way more groceries, and they only last about two days, when they’re supposed to last a week. And then there’s the beer…”

  I stared off at the brick wall, imagining what I would be doing right now if I were at home. Probably flopped on my beanbag with my cats, them licking at each other and ignoring me completely, allowing me bask in the true love they shared—something that I, clearly, did not have. Or maybe I would have to endure one of Veronica’s perennial brag-worthy phone calls, during which she subjected me to an hour-long marathon of complaining about a husband, kids and worries that she knew I would love to have. Yes, being here at Cooper’s with the creepy staring men and my inconsiderate but well-meaning friends wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

  “You gonna drink that, Kir?”

  I glanced up to see Harmony holding a wine glass that was already half-empty, eyeing mine. I nodded and downed the whole thing in one gulp.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Whooee, you are fine!” exclaimed Gillian, eyeing me approvingly, “We better get you another!”

  And so the night progressed, me downing glass after glass of wine, with a few chicken wings in between. The talk went from men to vacations, before finally returning to men.

  “Paul really tries, he really does,” Gillian said, referring to Paul’s lack of sexual prowess, “I just think, maybe, I’ve just had too much experience.”

  Harmony shook her head.

  “I don’t know. I think if you both are dedicated to each other, then you can work through just about anything. Besides, the best sex I’ve had has been with the men I’ve loved the most, not the ones who are the more…technically skilled.”

  She turned to me. “What about you, Kir?”

  I stared at her blankly as different lies flickered in my head: “Same here.” “No, I’m all for a good fucking, baby, doesn’t matter who’s doing it.” Until, finally, the truth slipped out.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  A shocked silence followed.

  “What?” Gillian said, in a tone that implied that-can’t-mean-what-I-think-it-means.

  I nodded and downed the rest of my wine.

  “I’ve never done it, I mean. I’ve come close, gotten naked and stuff, I just…” I took a swig of Harmony’s wine, wiping away the tears that came to my eyes. “I just missed the boat, I guess. I’m 28 years old, guys. No man wants that kind of responsibility when they’re 28.”

  There was an excruciating silence, during which I finished Harmony’s drink and Gillian patted me on the arm like I had a terminal illness and was seconds away from death.

  “Well,” Harmony said, sliding me Gillian’s glass of wine, “It’s not all that bad. It could even be lucrative. I mean, I’ve heard of some girl who auctioned off her virginity…”

  Immediately, Gillian and I scoffed, scrunching our noses with the heinousness of the thought. Waving her hand, in a quiet voice Harmony added “…for fifty thousand dollars.”

  Silence.

  “What?!” Gillian exclaimed and Harmony nodded. Getting out her phone, she typed something then held it out for us to see.

  It was a news article. “20-year-old Sells Virginity for $50,000” the headline read.

  Taking the phone, I scanned through the story, which described the girl who had made the very practical decision in order to afford schooling and help out her family. The picture on the article showed a pretty, happy girl. I wonder if it had been taken before or after her part of the bargain.

  As I returned the phone to Harmony, Gillian gave out a low whistle.

  “Well, 50K is a nice bit of change. Can’t say I wouldn’t go for that if I still had my V-card myself.”

  Both of their glances flicked to me, but I shook my head.

  “I’m not sure I could. I…” I shrugged. “I mean I could do the whole thing until the end, I think. I’m not sure that I could go through with it, with someone I didn’t love.”

  Gillian and Harmony nodded understandingly.

  “You big sensitive soul you,” Gillian said, though there was a note of pity in her voice.

  We sat there drinking for a bit longer, but my embarrassing revelation was there like a dark cloud, hanging over everything. Gillian and Harmony had to go home to their spouses, leaving me with one final glass of wine.

  I drank it slowly, savoring it, and not especially wanting to go home just yet. After my little confession, I felt the ridiculousness of my situation even more keenly. And yet, the longer I sat there, the more couples that glided by my table, the more men that gathered at the bar, eyeing me like piranhas, the worse I felt.

  Finally, I waved the waitress over, paid the bill and staggered out the door. Cooper’s wasn’t far from my apartment, but I hailed a taxi anyway. I was in no mood to spend extended time with my gloomy thoughts.

  I paid the taxi driver and stumbled into my apartment building. Waiting for the elevator took time, but that was because I was living in one of Midtown Sacramento’s cheapest apartment buildings. When I finally did get into the creaky metal elevator car, it stank of stale sweat and cat pee, but luckily it was just a quick trip up to the sixth floor. Then, one long stumble to the end of the hallway, one twist of the key in the door of number 604 and I was in.

  Sure enough, curled together on the beanbag with their tails entwined, were Romeo and Juliet, my hopelessly in love cats. As I wobbled in the door, they took one requisite look at me before closing their eyes and snuggling back with each other.

  It was ridiculous, seeing them together almost brought me to tears. I had gotten cats to be less lonely, not to be reminded of my loneliness every time I walked through the door. I wavered for a minute in the middle of the room, before making for the window.

  Opening it was easy, climbing through it less so, although I managed, flopping my legs over the sill. My window had never had a screen, and for some reason it had become my favorite sitting spot. From the windowsill, I looked out over the forest. Even in the dark, I could see the black sea of trees, with the far-off glimmer of city lights beyond. I looked out into the dark, the expanse that I was just a speck in, and I felt my loneliness even more keenly.

  Who would have thought it would come to this? Ten
years ago, I had been at the top of my game. I had been accepted to Brown University, I was about to go to prom with the hottest, most popular guy in school, and I was about to have the best night of my life. And what had happened since? Nothing but a free-fall into disappointment: the worst night of my life—no prom date, complete humiliation. Four years of college that nearly bankrupted my parents despite me working two jobs throughout, before graduating into a depressed, saturated job market. And now, here I was: 28, and a dead broke, lonely virgin. One who was actually considering selling her virginity, humiliating herself for a pile of easy cash.

  If I did auction off my virginity, it didn’t mean I would have to humiliate myself. I could do it anonymously, invisibly. It could be a secret, seamless transaction—one meeting, one night, one huge deposit of cash and nothing more. After all, hadn’t I suffered enough? Wouldn’t this solve all my problems, my perpetual running from bills that just kept building up, scaring away potential boyfriends when I admitted the truth of my virginity to them?

  I took one last look outside, took a breath of fresh air, and then shook my head. No. No matter how auctioning off my virginity would help me; I couldn’t bear to actually do it.

  As I hopped off the windowsill, Gillian’s voice echoed in my head: “You big sensitive soul you”.

  I froze. Then, in one fluid motion I slammed the window shut. Romeo and Juliet jumped off the beanbag and fled to hide under my bed. In the dark window, I gazed at my reflection.

  I was tired of being a big sensitive soul, of letting the world hurt me while I sat around and did nothing. Yes, I was ready to do something—something rash and stupid that would maybe hurt me too—but at least I’d be getting hurt on my own terms.

  I marched to the kitchen to get out another bottle of wine. If I was really going to do this, I was going to need to be drunker.

  In the bathroom, I tied my ponytail high and got to work with some makeup. My hand moved so fast it was a blur: slashes of black eyeliner, gobs of black mascara and slaps of red lipstick. Black and black and red. It was ironic, these smears of chemicals I had saved for the special occasions that never came, the date with the special someone I’d never gotten around to meeting. The dress was the same, a sad hope, a come-in-handy-later. Well, now, yes now, this tight red fuck-me dress would come in really handy. A pose with my finger between my red lips, hips out, ass up.

  I took out my phone and gazed at the image on the camera, the image of red-dress-me in the mirror.

  It wasn’t bad—maybe this would work. A snap here, a snap there, no flash. I could do this. I paused, looked at the photos I had taken, and sighed. This was not going to work.

  I changed my pose: hands on hips for the next one. I got more wine, took more photos. Red wine and red lips and this dress, this dress that was going to make me thousands of dollars. This dress was going to save my life. Because this was all Clark Denton’s fault, really. He was the one who ruined my life, who made me the laughingstock of the prom and scarred me for all my future relationships. He’d ruined my life, but tonight, I was going to save it.

  Another few poses, and I was good to go.

  Next was the easy part; making websites was part of what I did for a living. A black background was obvious, what font to use less so. Red would be too much, especially with the dress. White would do just fine.

  I took another swig of wine and began coding. Website after website after program I flicked through. My hands were fused with the keyboard, and the page was growing by the second. I had planted the seed, watered it and fed it all at once. It was growing now—the black background, the white font, the red-dress pictures—just those red lips of mine visible, the rest of my face cropped out. The words I typed in a mad frenzy, as they rose from someone else, saucy and devil-may-care:

  You don’t know me. But you could.

  This is how I look; this is what you could get…if you dare. I’m untouched material, unbroken ground. You could be my first. The only question is, what can you do for me?

  Then, the form at the bottom, where buyers would enter in their bids.

  I took a last swig of wine; somehow, I’d finished the bottle. Through bleary eyes, I surveyed my creation victoriously. This was the best website I’d ever created, the bravest, most out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. This, right here, this sexy come-hither finger of a website, was going to change my life.

  Chapter Two

  Clark

  I woke up at dawn, when my workday began. When did it end? When my head hit the pillow. That was the price of success. That was the price of this life I led.

  I reminded myself of that as I ate my protein-bar breakfast in the car that was taking me to my office. Denton Tower was a recent purchase, one that was, unquestionably, my best one yet. Seeing the hulking tower marked with my logo as my car glided its way through downtown Sacramento’s near-empty streets was the best start to my day that I could ask for.

  I was early enough this morning that even Carla wasn’t at the front desk yet. I shook my head. I knew I shouldn’t have slept with the old girl—Jules, wasn’t it? She had been good at her job. Good in bed, too, but not so good that it was worth losing a secretary over.

  I let myself in and flopped into my ergonomic desk chair. I wheeled myself to the window that made up one whole wall of my office. Another day, another set of challenges I would have to rise above. That was what business was about: seeing the obstacle, and learning how to beat it. That’s all there was to it.

  I glided back to the hardwood desk, turned on my computer and got to work. Decisions and calls, little meetings and big memos filled my day until it was bursting at the seams.

  “Sandra wants to know if you are still on for tonight.” Carla buzzed me to ask, a note of judgement in her voice. At this point, she’d fielded texts from Sandra, Rain, Cassidy and God-knows-who-else.

  “Tell her ‘yes,’” I said, with a hang-up for goodbye. If Carla wanted to keep her job, she had better learn to keep her opinions to herself.

  I wheeled back to gaze out the window. After all, who else in my position would behave any differently? I was the billionaire CEO of a booming company; I didn’t have time for girlfriends. Just a quick meeting here and there, a nice night of luxury for us both—and I was generous, wasn’t I? Really, what red-blooded 28-year-old would do anything differently?

  Frowning, I stepped out of my office and made for the elevator. I could always ask Carla to get me the chocolate bar I was craving, but I wasn’t in the mood for her. Yes, it had been my express request that Eugene find me a homely, unattractive sort for my secretary, so history wouldn’t repeat itself, but that hadn’t meant I wanted an actual gargoyle.

  Downstairs, the café was out of my favorite snack.

  “One question,” I told the skinny dweeb behind the front counter, “Who owns this building?”

  “Uh, you?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Right. And so, who, out of everyone in this building, who would you say is the most important?”

  He gulped.

  “You?”

  Another big nod, a flash of a $40,000-veneered smile.

  “Exactly. So, if this person has a favorite chocolate bar, wouldn’t you say it was pretty fucking important that you got it for him?” My voice has lowered to a deadly hiss and the skinny dweeb looked like I was holding him by the throat.

  “Y-yes,” he choked out.

  Leaning in, my face inches from his, I continued.

  “So if I came back here and it wasn’t here again, I wouldn’t want to be whoever was responsible for that.”

  Turning and walking away was the period to my sentence. In the hallways, people parted, the men nodded and the women smiled. Busy, busy. I walked over to my personal elevator, which came faster than theirs, naturally. I was the only one riding it after all.

  Back upstairs; I stopped at Carla’s desk.

  “Has my mother called?”

  She shook her head, her brown perm ruffing with the movement.


  “Do you want me to call her?” The question was innocent enough, and yet that tone, coming from that self-satisfied face, told me exactly what she thought.

  I stormed off, back into my room. Flopping back on my chair, I had a dozen or so things to do, but found myself plagued by the one thing I didn’t have to.

  Really, why should I call my mother? She and I had been on and off for years. The pattern was like the seasons, inevitable and expected. I gave her things, she asked for more, rinse and repeat.

  My brother’s voice echoed in my head: She just wants you to spend time with us.

  I smiled as I remembered my response: “Eugene, don’t I spend enough on you all?”

  Because really, I did. Who’d bought the big house on Sunnydale Avenue they all enjoyed? Who bought them that trip to Hawaii? Sure, maybe I hadn’t visited the house quite as much as I’d said I would, but couldn’t they see that this was all for them? Ever since that night of the prom debacle, all of this work, this empire building, it was all for them, for us. So we could breathe easily for once and enjoy some success for a change.

  “It’s Eugene on the line,” Carla’s voice buzzed from my phone.

  “Put him through,” I said.

  A click, then “Clark?”

  “Eugene! What did she say?”

  A sharp intake of breath, then “Well, she doesn’t really want to talk to you.”

  “What? Doesn’t want to talk to me, my own mother? Ludicrous, put her on the line now!”

  Silence, then “I’m sorry, Clark, I… I’m not at home. I promised her I wouldn’t talk to you anymore.”

  “Eugene, seriously. She can’t be serious. I mean, it’s my birthday.”

  “I know, Clark, I know. But this latest thing…this not coming to Sam’s birthday party.”

  “Pfft, that was a busy time, I told you all that. And, truth be told, I’m pretty sure Yvonne already hated me, let’s be honest now.”

  A sigh. “Maybe she would if she ever saw you. As it is, Clark, it’s been months since any of us have seen you.”