“Have you ever heard of deodorant?” I ask the guy standing in front of me, his back to me. Thanks to him, I’m smashed up against the door of the train heading uptown from the World Trade Center. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but he reeks of alcohol and his sweat smells like garlic and dirty socks. It’s six in the evening and I’m never on the train this early. Or at all. Usually, I take a company car home. Now I remember why.
“Who pissed in your Frappuccino?”
The subway lurches to a stop and the guy loses his footing and stumbles backward. The heel of his shoe crushes my toes and I grit my teeth to stop myself from crying out in pain. I give him a shove, but he barely notices.
Could this day get any worse? I stare down at my strappy Manolos and focus on my Mint Candy Apple pedicure, trying to breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to inhale the disgusting scent of body odor.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
How did I end up here? Is this Karma fucking me up the ass without lube?
My foot is throbbing. As of today, I am unemployed. But wait, it gets better. Next weekend, my sister is marrying my first and only true love. And my fresh start in New York City is a bust. Last April, when I was given the opportunity to transfer from the LA office to New York, I jumped at the chance. For the past year, all I did was work. I put in seventy-hour weeks at Kinley & Co. Consulting and what did I have to show for it? A three-month severance package. They could shove it up their asses with a red-hot poker.
I was undermined by a man. What else is new? A fledgling member of the Old Boys’ Club with an Ivy league degree, custom-tailored Saville Row suits, and a sense of entitlement I should have been used to by now. James reminded me so much of a younger version of my father, and of my ex-fiance Chase. And every single day for the past six months, James Willoughby III made my life a living hell. I reported him to HR so many times, documenting each incident, and they assured me it would be ‘dealt with.’ Well, guess what? Today I lost my job because nobody likes a squeaky wheel. Meanwhile, James Fucking Willoughby was promoted to a position that should have rightfully been mine.
It’s a man’s world and anyone who tells you differently has never tried to claw their way to the top or break through that glass ceiling only to be told to ‘look pretty, don’t make waves, and smile like a good girl’.
Finally, the train stops at 79th Street, and I exit the station and stride up Third Avenue. Tired and hot and sweaty. It’s a warm Spring evening and everywhere I look, I see couples. Happy people in love. Happy people headed to restaurants or bars or headed home to eat dinner together and have sex. New York smells like sex. It’s a sexy city. Me? I haven’t had sex since I broke off my engagement nearly two years ago. How is that even possible? I love sex. I used to be pretty good at it.
I could go home, order sushi and binge-watch Netflix. Or I could go to a spin class and sweat out all my pent-up frustrations. But that would just prove how pathetic my life is.
Instead of going home to my empty apartment, I cross the street and walk into Rock Candy Lounge. It’s only a few blocks from my apartment and one of the only places I’ve hung out in since I moved to New York. It’s a chilled-out bar and it’s still early enough that it’s not packed with people yet. The décor looks like a cross between West Palm Beach and Little Havana.
“Hey Sienna.” Ella smiles at me from behind the bar. She looks so much like Camila Cabello, they could be twins. “How’s it going?”
I drop onto a stool at the bar and she tilts her head. “You know what? Forget I asked. What’s your poison?”
“Something strong. No. Make it lethal.”
“Do you want the Rock Candy Martini?”
“Laced with arsenic.”
She laughs like I’m joking. While she pours the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, shaking her hips to the beat of the Latin music, I run through my options. I could admit defeat and go back home to California. But then I’d have to deal with my divorced parents and my backstabbing little sister. Better yet, I could just throw in the towel and run away. Where would I go? Europe? The Caribbean? South America?
Ella sets the ice blue cocktail on a bar napkin in front of me and I thank her before knocking back half of my drink. It tastes like citrus vodka and exotic fruit juices. It’s so delicious and I’m dying of thirst so I down the whole thing and set my empty glass on the bar. “Keep them coming.”
Her dark brows arch. “O-kay. One of those days, huh?” She mixes up my next drink and gives it a shake, the ice clinking against the stainless steel while I stare at my reflection in the bamboo-framed mirror behind her. My SoCal tan has long since faded. I look like a pale New Yorker now. Overworked. Exhausted. In need of some sunshine and fun and ... sex. Why do I have sex on the brain? It’s the last thing I should be thinking about.
I’m twenty-nine years old and I thought by now I’d have it all figured out. I’ve read so many self-help books, I could write my own. On my commute to and from work, I listened to podcasts that promised to make me a better version of myself. Nope. Still me. A basic bitch in designer clothes with a closetful of designer shoes and handbags.
Full closet. Empty bed.
“You know what you need?” Ella asks as she strains the drink into a glass.
I suck on the rock candy twizzler and wait to hear what she thinks I need. I barely know the girl. But I guess bartenders are kind of like therapists. I bartended weekends at a cool bar in west Hollywood during my last semester at USC. That was one of the best times of my life. Dylan used to drive up from San Diego and stay with me. We’d stay up all night having sex—rough and dirty, tender and sweet—and sleep on the beach during the day. He’s probably forgotten the good times, but even after all these years I still remember them. By the end of our eight-year on-again, off-again relationship he hated me so much he couldn’t even bear to look at me. And it shouldn’t still hurt this much. I should have moved on by now. My heart shouldn’t still skip a beat whenever I saw someone who looked even a little bit like him. It shouldn’t ache whenever I heard a song that reminded me of him.
“You need a boyfriend,” Ella says, sliding the fresh drink across the bar so it’s right in front of me.
“I’m done with boyfriends. I suck at relationships.”
She gives me a skeptical look. If only she knew how many relationships I’d fucked up she wouldn’t be looking at me like that. “I don’t believe that. I think you’ve just been meeting the wrong men.” She smiles, this little secretive smile, her gaze darting to the front door. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Without turning around, I check the mirror to see who she’s smiling at. When I see who it is, I groan and down the rest of my drink. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, Asher the asshole walks in.
“Hey Ash,” Ella says, waving him over to the empty barstool right next to me. I purposefully set my handbag on it in the hopes nobody would sit there.
I don’t even turn to look at him. Bad enough I can see him in my peripheral.
“Ella.” He winks at her. “Cruella De Ville.” I earned that nickname when he saw me in my fur-trimmed cashmere coat this winter. He picks up my handbag and unceremoniously dumps it into my lap. I clutch it to my chest like it’s my firstborn.
“Why so glum? You haven’t gotten the chance to murder any innocent minks or chinchillas or baby bunny rabbits today?”
Ella puts her hand over her heart and makes sad eyes. “Not bunny rabbits. Say it’s not so.”
I give Asher my middle finger. He just laughs it off.
“Careful that crocodile doesn’t bite off your finger.” He eyes my emerald green Birkin bag. My father gave it to me for my college graduation, and it iscrocodile, so I can’t even deny it. I don’t even know why I still carry this bag. I’ve cut off ties with my father and haven’t spoken to him in two years but I’m still carting around all this stupid baggage.
“Oh wait. My bad. That crocodile can’t bite. It gave it’s life so you could carry a handbag that cost as much as my year’s rent.”
“Shouldn’t you be banging one of your skanks right now, Magic Mike?”
“You’re such a bitch.” He says it matter-of-factly, sounding almost cheerful, like it doesn’t really bother him. And why should it.
We’re neighbors, nothing more.
“Have my extracurricular activities been keeping you up at night? Losing sleep because of me, Cruella?”
“Nope. I sleep like a baby.”
He pulls his stool closer to mine and I pretend I don’t notice that Asher is hot. If you’re attracted to cocky assholes who look like male strippers, he’s your guy. As it turns out, Asher Hawthorne really is a male stripper. Ella is the one who told me. She takes a few dance classes with him. “You know what you need? You need to get laid. We’ve been neighbors for how long... six months? And I’ve never seen you with anyone.”
“Unlike you, I keep my personal life private.”
“You don’t have a life. All you do is work. Your idea of fun is a Pilates class at ass-crack o’clock on a Saturday morning.”
The sad part is that I can’t deny any of his accusations. Not a single one. I’m a certified bitch. My social life is non-existent. And I have luxury items that some poor animals have sacrificed their lives for. I’m all out of witty comebacks.
“What’s that? Is that a crack I see in your armor?”
I shrug one shoulder and take another sip of my drink. I’m usually a better sparring partner but he’s hitting me when I’m already down and I don’t have the energy to hit back
“Why are you living in a city you don’t like and working at a job you hate?” He asks this a couple minutes later, and he makes it sound like he’s genuinely interested in hearing the answer. If I didn’t know better, it almost sounds like he cares. Which is ridiculous. We only see each other in passing. Sometimes he’s just coming home from a night out when I’m heading to work. And we’ve never had a real conversation.
“I didn’t hate my job.”
“Doesn’t make you happy.” He takes a swig of his beer. “And what’s with the past tense? Did you quit?”
I shrug one shoulder. Asher is the last person I want to confide in. He’ll just revel in my downfall. After he figures out that I’m not going to give him an answer, he drops the subject.
“Hey Ella. Bring us another round when you get a chance.”
“You got it.” Her smile is so big and wide. She gives me a knowing look, her eyebrows arched as if to say, I told you so. But she’s wrong. The last thing I need in my life is a guy like Asher. He’s not boyfriend material.
“Put it on my tab,” I tell her when she sets our drinks in front of us. He’s drinking an IPA straight from the bottle.
“Put it on my tab,” he counters.
Ella looks from him to me. I turn in my seat to face him. I’ve never seen him this close up. He smiles, flashing his pearly whites. Asher’s hair is dark and longish and his eyes are green. I’ve never noticed his eye color before. He’s tan year-round and I guess that’s just his skin tone. It doesn’t look like a spray tan. Now I can’t stop staring at him. “I don’t want you to buy me a drink.”
“Loosen up. It’s just a drink. Not a marriage proposal. You don’t owe me anything in return. Not even a kiss goodnight.”
“Good. I have no idea where that mouth has been.” He gives me a wicked grin. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Whatever you say, Cruella.” This time, he smiles when he says it, like it’s a term of endearment, and my eyes are drawn to his full lips. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“In your dreams, Magic Mike.”
“Drop the Mike.” He gives me some jazz hands. “Just call me Magic.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “That was so lame.”
“Made you laugh though. Hey Ella, bring us some of the coconut shrimp and the satay. You know what? Just bring us everything on the menu.”
“You got it.”
“We’re gonna snag that table.”
Before I even have a chance to protest, he’s grabbed our drinks and carried them over to a two-top in front of the sliding glass window that’s open to the street. For reasons I can’t even fathom, my feet carry me to the table and I drop down in the cane-backed chair across from him. There’s a potted palm behind him and the green leaves match his eyes. I don’t want to notice that or anything else about this guy. Yet here I am sitting across from him at a cozy little table, his denim-clad leg brushing against my bare one. Why haven’t I moved my leg away from his? Why am I suddenly noticing everything about this guy?
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, hoping he won’t point out that I did indeed follow him to this table of my own free will.
“Having dinner with you.”
“Why?”
“I want you to be moderately sober.”
“For what?”
“For dessert.” He leans back in his seat, all casual and relaxed, but the look on his face is intense as he studies mine. I can’t even begin to imagine what he sees there but he just nods like he’s figured something out and he’s satisfied with his conclusion.
“What’s for dessert?” I’m half-afraid to hear the answer but there’s another part of me that’s nervous with excitement and anticipation.
What if... no. No way. I’m not going there.
With his eyes still locked on mine, he reaches under the table and lifts my foot into his lap. And when he removes my shoe and drops it to the floor, I’m starting to think that he might just live up to the nickname Magic. He holds my foot in his calloused, rough, magic hands and kneads it, hitting all the pressure points. Maybe I moan. Maybe I sigh. I don’t even know what I do. Little sparks of electricity zing through my body and I feel like I’m lit up from the inside.
“Me,” he answers finally. “I’m your dessert.”
“You think I’m easy, don’t you?” she asks as we hang a right on First Avenue. She’s buzzed, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, but I don’t think she’s drunk.
Earlier, when I told Sienna I was going to be her dessert, I expected her to reach across the table and slap me. Or jam her foot into my balls. Neither would have surprised me. The girl has a lot of fire in her. I was almost disappointed when she hadn’t put up a fight.
But easy is not the word I’d ever use for Sienna Woods. I’m sure there’s a lot more to her than meets the eye, but quite frankly, I have no interest in peeling back the layers to discover what really lays underneath her perfect exterior. I’m not a shrink. I’m not looking for anything deep or meaningful. I left that behind when I walked away from my old life. It’s why I chose the profession I’m in. Number one. I’m good at it. Number two. It’s something I do for fun, and even though I take it seriously and put a lot of hard work into it, it’s not rocket science. When the show’s over, I can go home, and I don’t have to think about it anymore.
“My opinion of you won’t change after we have sex, Cruella.” And that is the God’s honest truth. I love sex. Sex is great. Why not enjoy it?
When we get into the elevator I cage her in my arms and lean in close.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” she reminds me. Only her body is betraying her brain and I can tell by the way her chest rises and falls that she’s tempted.
“And I’m not going to kiss you. Not on the mouth, anyway.”
I skim my hand up her thigh, bringing the material of her full, just-above-the knee skirt with it. It’s white with big black flowers on it and cinched around her waist with a thick shiny black belt. Her breath hitches when I trace the outline of her lace panties with my fingertips.
Sienna looks like an angel, but she doesn’t try to hide the fact that she’s not, and I respect that about her. A California dream girl with a bit of Grace Kelly thrown into the mix, she’s an icy blond with big baby blues and a perfect pout, always Instagram-ready. She looks rich and expensive and when I dip my head to kiss the crook of her neck, I inhale her scent. Citrus and flowers. The scent is almost too innocent for her, yet it suits her perfectly.
When I rip the strip of lace off her body, her eyes drift shut and her bee-stung lips part.
The girl is fucking beautiful, and she knows it. But right now, she’s putty in my hands.
The elevator pings at the eleventh floor so I stuff her underwear in my back pocket and usher her out with my hand on her lower back. In heels, she’s only a few inches shorter than my six foot three with toned legs that go on for miles. I’m imagining those legs wrapped around my waist, my cock buried deep inside her.
Despite the fact that she supposedly worked a high-powered corporate job, surrounded by stiffs in suits—Ella is a font of information—Sienna doesn’t fit the profile. She looks like she belongs in the fashion world or as one of those lifestyle influencers on social media.
“My place or yours?”
“Mine. I know my sheets are clean.”
I laugh, not the least bit offended, and wait outside her door while she digs her keys out of that ridiculous crocodile handbag. When we get inside, she hits the dimmer switch on the wall then steps out of her shoes and drops her bag next to a pink velvet chair where she takes a seat. Crossing her legs, she drums her fingers on the arm of the chair and looks at me expectantly. “I’m ready for the show, Magic Mike.”
I give her a slow grin. “You sure you can handle it?”
Her gaze drops to my crotch. “You’d be surprised how much I can handle.” She loops her fingers around my belt loop and yanks me toward her. For now, I’ll let her call the shots. I’m interested to see where she’s going with this. She unbuckles my belt and pulls it out of the loops, making a big show of inspecting it. “Hmm. Real leather. It seems we have a hypocrite in our midst.”
“A cow didn’t die for that belt.”
“Keep telling yourself that, baby.” She cracks the belt against the parquet floor like a whip and I’m thinking that this night has just gotten a whole lot more interesting. The only reason I ended up at Rock Candy Lounge tonight was because of her. I was passing by the window and saw her sitting at the bar alone. Unlike her usual resting bitch face, she looked vulnerable. Sad, even.
“Show time,” she says with a smile.
I’m tempted to crush her mouth to mine and kiss her until it sucks all the oxygen from her lungs. But I won’t. That wasn’t our deal. Besides, it’s more fun if she makes me work for it.
“Give me your phone.” I wiggle my fingers for her to turn it over.
She arches her brows. “Why?”
“I need music.”
Sienna fishes her phone out of her bag and unlocks it before she hands it to me. It’s already opened to Spotify, so I type in the name of one of my playlists and hit play then crank up the volume. “Wicked Games” by the Weeknd blasts from her surround sound speakers. I toss her phone across the room, and it lands on the gray sofa, unharmed.
“Why did you do that?”
“This is a private show. For your eyes only. And one more thing... grab hold of the arms of your chair.”
“Why? Do you think I’m a flight risk, Captain Mike?”
She’s funny and clever and I wish she’d call me by my name but she never has. “You’re going to need something to hold onto.” She rolls her eyes like I’m being ridiculous. “No matter how much you might be tempted... and I can guarantee you will be, you’re not allowed to touch yourself. Or me.”
She scoffs. “Trust me. I won’t be tempted. You’re not that irresistible.”
Guess we’d see about that.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Four
Sienna
God, I need a cigarette. I’m blaming it on the seduction playlist. He rips open his black button-up and the buttons go flying across the room, exposing his chest and chiseled abs. He’s a clean canvas, no ink, and I want to lick his bronzed skin, slide my tongue over his ripped muscles.
Asher slides his shirt off and spins it over his head, his hips swiveling to the beat of the thumping bass that reverberates through my core. His hand glides down his chest, then lower and lower until he’s cupping his junk and thrusting his hips. The shirt lands in my lap and I resist the urge to gather it in my hands and hold it to my nose so I can inhale his scent.
With his eyes on mine, he drops to the floor in front of me and does these sexy one-armed push-ups, thrusting against the floor like he’s humping it. Say what you will about Asher but the guy knows how to move his body.
I uncross my legs and cross them again, squeezing my thighs together. I’m so wet I can feel it dripping down my inner thighs and my hands are white-knuckling the arms of the chair.
He’s on his knees in front of me, and my chest is heaving, my nipples straining against the confines of my lacy bra. I want to touch myself. I want to spread my legs, push up my skirt and sink my fingers into my pussy.
I don’t know how he does it, but he even makes it look sexy when he toes off his black high tops and as if by magic his socks disappear and he’s barefoot and shirtless, his body moving in a slow, sensual way, his back turned to me, and he’s watching me over his shoulder. I thought by now I’d be laughing my ass off at the cheesiness of a male striptease show. But I’m not laughing. I can’t even poke fun at him. Not even a little bit.
I can see how he would fulfill women’s fantasies. That’s what it’s all about, right? It’s his job and he’s good at it.
His hands move to the button of his jeans and he slides them down, exposing his ass covered in black boxer briefs. I want to take a bite out of that ass. My nails dig into the palms of my hands that are balled into fists and if the music wasn’t pumping, he’d be able to hear my ragged breaths. I clench my core muscles and sit up straighter in my chair, trying my best to be lowkey about the fact that I’m rocking in my seat, basically trying to hump an inanimate object.
My God, fuck me already and put me out of my misery. I’m ready to tell him to stop dancing. To stop gyrating his body and teasing me and just stick that cock inside me. The cock I haven’t even seen yet.
His jeans come off and I’m seriously starting to think that everything he does is freaking magic. And this is it. The big moment. He turns around so he’s facing me and my eyes roam down and over his Adonis belt and to his erection.
Holy Mother of God. It’s big and it’s beautiful and he’s pierced. I’ve run out of patience. He hasn’t even touched me. Not once. But my clit is throbbing, and I need him so badly, I’m not above begging for it.
I unbuckle my belt and slide it off then fling it at him and get to my feet. Unzipping my skirt, I let it fall to the floor and step out of it. “I’m not touching myself. Or you.”
I take a step closer to him, and lift the hem of my stretchy black top, sliding the material up my body and over my head. I take another step closer. I’m only wearing a bra now.
“Turn around.”
I do as he says and give him my back. “Don’t move.” He unclasps my bra and slides it off one shoulder, his hand coasting down my arm and then he removes the other strap and I force myself to stand still. I’m barely breathing. He takes my hands in his and pulls them behind my back, binding them together at the wrists.
“On a scale of one to ten, how adventurous are you?” he asks, his soft breath on my neck sending delicious chills up and down my spine.
“I’m not into BDSM. No anal.” I’m not afraid of him. But it dawns on me that this guy is a virtual stranger. For all I know, he could be a serial killer. He could murder me in my own apartment. But I’m so turned on that my body is calling the shots and my brain isn’t sending the right signals to tell me to stop.
This is how people end up dead, Sienna. But oh, what a way to go.
Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.
From behind, he fists my hair in his hand and yanks on it, so my neck is arched and exposed. His lips are soft against my skin as they brush, not kiss, over my shoulder and up the side of my neck. My eyes close and a moan escapes my lips when his big hand cups my breast and he pinches and twists the nipple between his fingers, a mixture of pain and pleasure shooting straight to my core.
Oh God. I want more. I want to touch him. Grind my body against him to release the ache between my thighs. But my hands are tied. His chest is pressed against my back and his hard length is prodding my ass cheeks.
I push back against him. He pinches my other nipple then his hand coasts downward, over my stomach. I’m panting so hard and thrusting my hips backward, trying to drive him as crazy as he’s driving me.
My tied hands reach for him but before I can touch his cock, he yanks on my hair again.
And finally, finally, his hand moves lower and his fingers glide between my slick folds, his thumb pressing against the tight bundle of nerves. My body jerks and I feel like I’m about to detonate. My legs are shaking so badly, I can barely stand.
“What do you want, Sienna?”
“I want you. Inside me,” I grit out, frustrated with this slow, gentle assault that brings me no relief. “I’m tired of this game.”
“You want to quit now?”
“No. I just want you to fuck me.”
He spins me around to face him and it’s like I’ve forgotten what he looks like. I don’t know how I never noticed how gorgeous he is. Probably because we were always so busy insulting each other. Or because of all the times I saw him with his arm wrapped around a different girl. But now I see him. The stubble on his chiseled jaw. Straight nose and eyes so green they look like they’ve been Photoshopped.
And I’m just a girl standing in front of a hot, naked guy with her freaking hands tied behind her back with the underwear he ripped off my body in the elevator.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.” I struggle against the ties binding my wrists and hear the material rip. They weren’t tied that tightly, so I break free and I have the use of my hands now. “I don’t like being told what to do or what not to do. You can leave now.”
Without looking to see what he does, I march into my bedroom and slam the door shut. Grabbing a short silky robe from the hook inside my en suite I slide my arms into it and tie it tightly around my waist. Then I throw myself onto the bed and stare at the ceiling while I wait for him to leave.
Tears of frustration sting my eyes and I squeeze them shut to keep them from falling. I’m so angry with myself. So angry for falling for his bullshit. I’m trying to be stronger. Trying to be a girl who takes charge of her own life. And what did I do? I let some guy mess with my head. Again.
A minute or maybe two goes by before there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door and Asher walks in, fully dressed. His shirt is hanging open because the buttons litter my living room floor. And all I can think is that he ruined a shirt for me.
When he sits on the edge of the mattress, it dips under his weight. I’m waiting for him to call me a spoiled princess or to get angry and call me a bitch or a tease and not in a joking way. But he doesn’t.
“Come here.” He pats the mattress next to him and I laugh harshly.
“I’m not a puppy dog. I don’t do as you say.”
“I want to give you a parting gift. It’s the least I can do.”
I push myself up on my elbows and narrow my eyes on him. “What kind of parting gift? An STD? No thanks.”
He laughs. “There’s my Cruella. No. I’m going to use my tongue and hands and mouth to make you orgasm so hard you’ll be screaming my name. It’s not Mike, by the way.”
“I can do it for myself. I don’t need you to give me an orgasm, Mike.” I love sparring with him and I love it that he doesn’t get all offended and slam the door on his way out.
“Should have known you were a control freak,” he says. “No wonder you never get laid.”
He flops back on the bed and tucks his hands under his head like he’s just hanging out, contemplating life.
I scoot back on the bed and shove his shoulder with my foot but it’s more of a playful gesture than one designed to hurt him. “Did you ever stop to consider that not every woman wants you?” He rolls onto his side so he’s facing me and props his head on his hand. “I have high standards and you don’t even come close to meeting them.”
His laugh is low and sexy. Like him. But that’s all he is. A walking, talking sex machine. Over the past six months since he moved in next door, I’ve seen him with enough women to know he’s a man-whore.
“What’s your criteria? A big bank account and a stiff in a suit? A guy with a good pedigree and an Ivy league degree? Is that what you’re looking for, Cruella?”
I have no idea what I’m looking for. I was engaged to a stiff in a suit who was loaded with money. He had an undergraduate degree from Stanford and an MBA from Wharton. That didn’t make me happy. And Dylan... he was the opposite. He grew up with nothing. A bad boy who made good because he used that big brain of his to build his own empire. So I have no idea what kind of man I need.
“How old are you, anyway?” I ask him.
“Twenty-seven. You?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“So, who was he?” Asher asks.
“Who was what?”
“Who was the guy who fucked you up?”
I laugh but it doesn’t sound happy. The first guy who fucked me up was my dad. The next one was Tristan Hart. Then came Dylan. After him was Chase. But I don’t want to talk about any of this with Asher. The men from my past were all volatile or manipulative in different ways. Tristan bullied me. Dylan used to punch walls when I made him angry. Chase was a pro at gaslighting. He had this way of making me feel like I was never good enough. It was emotional abuse, I know that now, but at the time I thought it was what I deserved. And thinking about it now just depresses me.
“You should go now.”
“Is that what you want? Do you want me to leave?”
It’s been so long since someone asked me what I want that I have to stop and think about it. It isn’t what I want. I want to hang out with him and dress like a slob. Watch a movie and eat ice cream from the carton. And yeah, I want to have sex with him but right now, I just feel too raw and vulnerable.
I want to be with someone who cares what I want and really listens when I talk. But I’m not ready to open myself up to someone only to get knocked back down again.
So I do what I always do. “Thanks for the show, Mike.” I wave my hand toward the door. “You can let yourself out.”
He gets to his feet and does exactly what I asked him to. “I’ll see you around, Cruella.”
I wait until I hear the soft click of the door closing and the locks sliding into place before I give myself the pleasure I’d denied myself. My back arches off the mattress and I dig the heels of my feet into it as I slide two fingers inside myself and squeeze my nipple between my fingers, coaxing out the orgasm. My eyes are closed and I’m imagining Asher’s hard cock thrusting into me, the piercing at the head hitting my G-spot.
Oh God. I come so hard, shards of light splinter behind my closed lids and my legs won’t stop quivering.
It’s only when I come down from my high that the disappointment settles in my gut.
“You’re such an idiot, Sienna.” Nobody responds because I’m alone.
Chapter Five
Asher
The elevator doors are closing when a female voice shouts, “Hold the elevator.”
I don’t lift a finger to stop the door from closing. Oops. Too slow.
Her hand slides between the doors and stops them from closing. The doors open again, and she glares at me as she steps inside then turns her back to me and crosses her arms over her chest. “You didn’t move a muscle to help, did you?” she huffs.
“Nope.”
This is the first time I’ve seen her in two weeks. No, that’s a lie. I caught a glimpse of her when she hopped into a taxi last week. But now I have a view of her back and my gaze lowers to her toned, tight ass in blue leopard print spandex. Don’t get excited. She’s not hitting the clubs for a night of partying. It’s nine in the morning and she’s headed to the gym.
“Stop staring at my ass.”
I cross my arms over my chest and my eyes meet hers in the reflection of the silver doors. I stretch my arms over my head then wrap my hands around the back of it, striking a pose so my fitted T-shirt rides up. This is what she expects from me, so this is what I give her. I flex, making my abdominal muscles roll, and in the reflection, I can see that her eyes are trained on it. She licks her lips and I want to sink my teeth into the lower one until I draw blood. “Stop staring at my lats and obliques.”
“Lats and obliques? Really?”
Old habits die hard. The words just slipped out before I could stop them. “To put it in terms you might understand, I’m referring to my V cut. Happy trail. Victory garden. Call it what you want. It all leads to the same thing. Paradise.”
She laughs and it’s a real laugh, not the fake one I’ve heard her use on the phone. The elevator stops in the lobby and she steps out, walking briskly ahead of me, her blond ponytail swinging. I grab my bike—a racing red Madone—from the locked storage room and catch up to her outside on the sidewalk, falling in step with her.
Instead of getting on my bike and riding away, I lift it with my right hand and rest the saddle on my shoulder.
“Are you following me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t adjust my schedule to yours. Besides, if I were following you, I’d be walking behind you.” I stop short of saying Duh.
It’s five blocks to her gym and since I’m headed uptown anyway, we walk for a few minutes without talking. It’s one of those perfect New York springtime mornings, the sky so blue it hurts to look at it and the temperature is perfect. Warm but not blistering hot with zero humidity. It kills me, physically pains me, that she’s going to waste this gorgeous day by spending it inside a soulless state-of-the-art gym. “You know... there’s a lot of classes you can take in the park. Or you could run along the river. Or cycle.”
“I’m good with the gym, thanks.”
“Okay. Whatever you say. How you sleeping at night, Blondie?”
“Still sleeping like a baby, thanks.”
I don’t believe her. She’s not wearing any makeup and don’t get me wrong, she’s beautiful with or without it, but I can see the pale purple shadows under her eyes. Her skin is naturally golden but it’s pale. “You need some Vitamin D.” I point to the sun.
“Well gee, thanks for that, Dr. Mike. Anymore medical knowledge you’d like to impart?”
I laugh. If only she knew. “Just thinking you look a little pale. You need to get some sun on your face.” It’s not a very gentleman-like thing to tell a girl but I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.
“If I wanted your opinion I’d ask for it.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you. Seems like the neighborly thing to do.”
We stop at the crosswalk and wait for the light to change. She opens her mouth to tell me what she thinks of my observation, but I’ll never know which barb or insult she was planning to dish up because the phone in her hand rings. She stares at it for a beat then takes a deep breath and answers. Her voice is fake, and her smile is tight like she’s trying to convince herself that the news on the other end of the line is something that’s supposed to make her happy.
“Thank you so much. That’s great news. And yes. Two o’clock is perfect.” She listens for a moment, nodding as she takes in the information. “Okay. Perfect. Thanks again.”
She cuts the call and gives me a forced smile. “That was the headhunter. The consulting company I’ve been interviewing with wants to make me an offer. It’s more money than my last job and bonus points, they’re competitors.”
I’m guessing she’s expecting a congratulations, but I don’t see anything worth celebrating here. “Don’t accept the job.”
She laughs and shakes her head as we cross the street and walk toward her gym. “Why wouldn’t I accept it?” She stops outside the fancy gym she belongs to and turns to face me, still trying to convince herself that taking this job is what she needs to do. “It’s a great job with amazing benefits and a signing bonus.”
“Sienna.” Her eyes widen a little when I use her real name. “It won’t make you happy.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
I run my hand through my hair and blow out a breath. I’m not going to give her my whole story or tell her how I know what happens when you’re doing something that’s wrong for you. I have no intention of going there with her. “Just trust me when I tell you that I know.”
“And why should I trust a male stripper? Have you ever even had a real job?”
My jaw clenches. I roll out my shoulders and tune out my father’s voice in my head.
“This isn’t about me. It’s about you.”
“And you don’t know me. You don’t know the first thing about me so where do you get off telling me that this job won’t make me happy?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Just trying to help you out, Cruella. I might only be a male stripper but I’m good at my job and I can read body language. Yours is telling me that this is the last thing you want to be doing with your life. So why don’t you listen to your gut and do what makes you happy instead of chasing after some ideal of what you think you’re supposed to be. That advice is on the house.” I wink at her, laughing at the way her eyes narrow. “You’re welcome.”
With those words, I throw one leg over the seat of my bike and cycle away, taking my life into my own hands as I dodge the crazy New York taxis, so I don’t end up as roadkill. I fucking love this city. The noise and the energy and the spirit of optimism that you can be or do whatever the hell you want. The only limit is your own imagination.
Sienna has given me no real reason to give a shit what she does with her life. And really I shouldn’t care. But the part of me that has been in a similar position, doing something that was wrong for me and doing it for all the wrong reasons, can sympathize with how hard it is to break out of your comfort zone and try something different.
For her sake, I hope she figures that out before she ends up like I did.
Chapter Six
Sienna
Was I really going to take the advice of a male stripper who barely knew me? Turns out I did. I didn’t take the job. I was sitting in that office across the desk from a bigwig in a suit who said all the right things and I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I couldn’t breathe and my head was buzzing, and my palms were all sweaty. And then I just stood up and said, “I can’t do this” and I walked out of that midtown office, and I kept right on walking. Straight up Park Avenue until I got to Central Park. Which is where I am now, sitting on a bench doing absolutely nothing.
I’m not even surprised when I see Asher. It’s like I knew he’d be here and if I sat in one place long enough, he’d cycle past me. Which is crazy. The park is huge and there are a million different directions he could have gone in. But here he is, shirtless and covered in sweat on his fancy racing bike.
When he sees me, he coasts to a stop and wipes his face on the T-shirt that was tucked into the back of his cycling shorts.
I stand and close the distance between us. “Hey Mike.”
“Hey Cruella.”
I smile and it’s a real smile. I don’t have a job and I don’t have a boyfriend and my life is a disaster but right at this very moment I feel happy. And I feel free. Like the world is my oyster and I can do whatever the hell I want. I run my hand over his abs and up his chest.
“So... I’ve been thinking...”
“Ouch.”
I laugh. “Do you want to hang out sometime?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I thought maybe, if you’re not too busy, you can give me that orgasm you promised me.”
I lick my lips. “And I’m sure I can find a way to return the favor.”
“On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“When you’re screaming my name, you call me Asher.”
“I think I should be able to manage that. Tonight then?”
“Tonight sounds good. You headed home now?”
I shake my head. “No. I think I’ll hang out and catch some sun on my face.” He nods and he’s just about to cycle away when I grab his arm to stop him. “It’s just sex though. Nothing more.”
“Keep telling yourself that, baby. Sex with me is not just sex. It’s going to fucking blow your mind.”
So cocky. I watch him cycle away and then I kick off my shoes and walk through the grass. When I find the perfect spot, I lower myself to the ground and lie on my back with the sun on my face.
I’m hoping he makes good on his promise. I’m more than ready to have my mind blown.
Copyright © 2020 Author Emery Rose - All Rights Reserved.
Privacy Policy
Be the first to know about new arrivals, sales, exclusive offers, and special events.