Filthy Gorgeous (2 page)

He helps himself to another sandwich. “Anyway, don’t worry about the House of Aubrey campaign. I smoothed things over with Juliana … but you’re off the account.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed and take a moment to digest his words.

I’m off the account, but we still have the account.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I jump off the bed with renewed vigor and pour two tumblers of scotch. “And my father? Just
how
pissed is he?”

Parker looks confused. “Pissed? Oh, he doesn’t know about your rumble. I told him you took off upstate for some post-project rest and relaxation. You may thank me in your own time.”

Did you hear that? Music to my frigging ears. See, I told you he was my best friend, didn’t I? I hand him a drink. “You’re a goddamn genius, Parker. I’d kiss you if I didn’t think you’d enjoy it so much.”

He flips me the bird.

Looks like things are getting back to normal.

Well,
almost
.

“By the way, I may have insinuated that you’ll take Juliana out to dinner … and stuff,” his final two words trail off into a whisper.

I slowly lower myself onto the edge of the bed and eyeball Parker. “And stuff? Parker, please tell me that you didn’t tell Juliana Herrera I’d fuck her.”

He shakes his head. The tension in my neck eases.
Phew
.

And then Parker flashes a dazzling smile. “I implied. Told and implied are two very different words.”

Holy shit
.

“Parker, we pay you for your ideas! We don’t pay you to pimp me out. That cougar is pushing eighty!”

Parker shrugs. “Fifty-six, actually, but nobody checks the shelf life once they hit fifty. We still have the account. Consider yourself lucky the old gal thinks you’re hot tamale.”

I jump up and jog over to the door.

“What the hell are you doing, Slade?”

“Securing the room. It’s going to take more than a secret code and an electronic lock to deter that sex-crazed hag!”

I hear Parker let out a loud sigh, and he throws a sandwich crust back on the trolley. “You’re insane. Come back to the real world. People need you there. In a previous life, I think I’ve heard you refer to them as clients.”

I lean against the wall and slide all the way down to the floor. Maybe he’s right. My clients can’t see me looking like road kill. Truth be told, this isn’t just about my father. I’m in a funk. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about our clients. The only person that can snap me out of my malaise is …
her
.

Parker braces an arm against the wall and shoots me a pitiful look.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and get outta here.”

“Parker, take a look around. I have a four-poster bed, a whirlpool tub the size of an Olympic swimming pool, Moët & Chandon on tap, a baby grand piano, and a goddamn telescope. Give me three reasons why I should return to the real world?”

Parker wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “I’ll give you one: Ella. Have you spoken to her since—?”

“Shhhhh!”

“Have you even tried?”

“Kind of. But what’s the point? She hates me.”

Six weeks ago I was a hedonistic playboy with an unwavering commitment to bachelorhood, but that all changed when she
marched her glorious self through my office and into my life. I was bewitched. Under a spell. I’m a different guy. If you’d told me back then that I’d meet a woman who’d turn my world on its axis, then I would have had you sectioned.

The fridge clinks shut. I look up to see Parker holding two beers. He presses the ice cold can into my hand.

“Here. Now get your shit together. The team needs you, buddy.”

I can’t go back. Not yet. Can I? But she’s out there.

Oh, this sucks.

I crack my knuckles and jolt myself into action. “Parker, show me that video. I gotta assess the damage so I can prepare myself for the next round with you-know-who.”

And while we review the big fight, I guess you should know all about the woman who did the unthinkable.

The woman who stole Alexander Slade’s heart.

***

Five weeks earlier …

“Oh, God!”

Spank.

“Oh, God … that’s amazing! Do that again!”

Spank.

“Punish me … I’ve been such a bad girl!”

Spank. Spank. Spank.

“Say my name! Don’t stop, baby! Yeah!”

“Oh, God … yes there! There! There! Oh, God ... God … I love you!”

Oh, crap. 

You have got to be kidding me. Not another one. Not Renée. Why does this always happen to me? More poignantly; why does this always happen when I’m on the edge of a climatic nirvana?

I’m going to have to call a time-out here to regroup.

If you have any kind of brain activity going on at all, then you probably realize that we are not in a church. Though most women I meet do come to regard me as a mythical deity, this is not that kind of confessional. Did you think that my job description alone was enough to earn my good self the nickname ‘God’?

Of course not.

I’m the Dumbledore of deep-V diving. If cunnilingus was a martial art, I’d wear my black belt with pride. I’ve worked hard to earn my reputation as a master of the oral crafts. Let me tell you, it takes years of vigorous training to obtain the skills required to take a woman straight to heaven while utilizing only a tongue and a well-placed thumb.

Luckily I’ve always been a fast learner.

Anyway, it’s Friday evening. I’m unwinding in my bachelor pad after a hectic week at the office—a two-story loft conversion on the Upper West Side with spectacular views of the park. I love my apartment. The décor is contemporary with neutral colors—think strong lines, smooth forms, and minimal accessories.

Okay, okay, we don’t need to see that right now. I know you’re more interested in the spanking than getting a real estate tour.

The lovely lady on bended knee before me is Renée from our accounts department. She’s a dynamo between the sheets … and over my leather couch … and on the stairwell … you get the picture.

Renée is my Friday night girl. She’s also one of my harem; a group of women that I affectionately refer to as my Sladies. There are eight girls I see regularly. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer a certain level of intimacy between lovers; the kind of passionate closeness that can only be built through repeated, non-exclusive fornication.

I have to confess that I’m not a one-night-stand kinda guy these days, though I do make an exception from time to time if the pussy on offer is too irresistible to turn down.

Sadly, this evening has taken a turn for the worst. Renée has just committed the ultimate fuck-buddy faux pas. There are three words that no committed bachelor likes to hear during sexy time.

Can you guess what they are?

That’s right.

I. Love. You.

Ladies, listen up and let me give you some advice. If you’re going to engage in casual sex with a guy, you need to adhere to the golden rule: keep your panties low and your expectations lower.

I know that women say they can have sex like a man, blah blah blah.

That’s bullshit.

They always want more in the end. At least, they do from me. The universe has been kind to me. I’m successful. I’m smart. I won the genetic lottery. You can’t blame a woman for wanting to hijack my DNA to ensure her progeny gets a head start in life.

It’s instinctive.

Before you go to slap me, you should know that I’m no Don Draper. I don’t cheat. I love women, and they certainly seem to love me. I just don’t do monogamy. I’m honest about my intentions and I expect my partners to keep to their side of the bargain.

Polyamorous is glamorous, that’s my motto.

Now back to the business at hand.

Renée pushes me back against the leather couch and slides herself down my throbbing cock. A groan of pleasure escapes my lips as she grinds around on my lap.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You want to hear something sexy?” she whispers in my ear. “I did the midyear audit today. Slade Group is on course to make a 34% year-on-year profit.”

Nice.

Well, it would be if I wasn’t faced with the ultimate sexual dilemma. Do I allow this evening’s pleasure fest to continue, indulging Renée in orgasm after orgasm as a parting gift? Or do I be the gentleman?  Or should I pull out, have ‘the talk’ and pay her cab fare home?

It seems like a simple decision, right?
Wrong.
You’d be shocked at the number of ways a raging hard on can cloud a guy’s sense of right from wrong.

Bzzzzz.

My cell phone bursts to life, bouncing around on the coffee table.
Shit
. It’s my father. Under regular circumstances I’d never answer my cell while pleasuring a lady, but I see this as some kind of divine intervention.

I press my index finger to Renée’s lips, signaling for her to keep quiet.  My father isn’t in the know about my nocturnal trysts with our head accountant, and I’d prefer for it to remain that way. If he finds out that I’ve been fucking in the factory again, I can kiss goodbye to my fat annual bonus.

“Hey Dad, how’s tricks?” I try to sound as breezy as possible. It’s a difficult stance to maintain when you have a naked hottie ferociously sucking your pinky finger.

“Son, we need to talk,” he says sternly.

We. Need. To. Talk.

Sure.
Preferably after I’ve blown
…

“Dad … um … I’m kind of busy right now. Can I call you—?”

“Son, make sure you get your ass home tomorrow morning! It’s important,” he barks.

“If you’re still upset about the Daylon account, don’t be. It’s all good. I rechecked the copy and handed it back over to Karl.”

Silence.

And then…

“I just got off the phone with Bob Strevens. You know Bob Strevens? Deputy Mayor Strevens? I’m sure you don’t need an introduction. It seems you know his daughter though, don’t you, son?”

Is that a rhetorical question?

I do, but I wish I didn’t. Either way, it’s better to ‘fess it than dress it. Is it just me, or does he sound pissed?

I met Lisette at a mutual friend’s party six months ago and she’s been obsessed with yours truly ever since. I didn’t promise her forever. I didn’t promise her the night. I didn’t even buy her a goddamn drink. Lisette Strevens is a fantasist and a stage five clinger. Believe me, if I had a time machine and could magically relive one day of my life, it would be the day I met Lisette Strevens.

Renée gives up the rodeo act, wraps herself in my silk robe, and heads to the kitchen. I hold my cell a little further away from my ear as he continues his tirade.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, son. Your mother is in tears. Of all the goddamn women in Manhattan you could step out with, you choose to mess with Lisette Strevens? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Dad, I—”

“Enough! Are you trying to ruin me? If so, then congratulations, son. You’re doing a damn fine job!” I hear him pour a drink. “Just get to Montauk by noon tomorrow. Oh, and give my regards to Renée.”

Click.

This is bad. As if another Lisette-related drama isn’t enough to contend with, I now discover my father knows about Renée. Speak of the devil, she returns with a bottle of wine and sinks down to her knees.

“Now, where were we?” she asks, sliding her hands over my thigh, toward my crotch.

It’s too late. The party is over. The Godfather has spoken and my dick is sleeping with the fishes.

I guess it’s time to call that cab.

It’s Saturday morning. At my father’s request, I’m driving to the Slade family home in Montauk. As I negotiate heavy traffic on the I-495, let me give you the low down on the Slade family dynamic. 

Under regular circumstances, I enjoy spending time with the folks. But right now, I’m nervous. Tense
.
Tonight, I should be hitting the town in search of a new Friday girl. Instead, I’m staring a parental curfew of ten o’clock in the face. In my mind’s eye, I see all possible ways that this adventure home could pan out, and I’ve narrowed it down to two scenarios.

One: My father and I will sweep this whole sorry debacle under the carpet and celebrate with a mug of Mom’s homemade cocoa while listening to Burt Bacharach on vinyl.

Two: In true mafia style, my father will take an axe to my balls and mail them to Deputy Major Strevens as a peace offering, and I’ll spend the next three weeks writhing around in agony in an emergency room.

My cock reflexively twitches at the latter.

Fasten your seatbelts boys and girls. This is going to be a real laugh riot.

Whatever the outcome, one thing is clear: my father is pissed. He obviously considers my regrettable entanglement with Lisette Strevens as the latest in a series of sexual indiscretions to taint our company’s reputation.