Filthy Gorgeous (6 page)

Two issues buzz through my mind.

Firstly.
Crap
.

Secondly. Is this it?  Is this the best my team of so-called creative experts can come up with?

I mean,
really
?

Making public knowledge of my expertise in oral sex and culinary arts do little to mitigate the fact that the whole world knows that I’m currently half-impotent.

The fuckers even sent a copy to over one hundred of our companies’ press contacts, ranging from broadsheets to glossy magazines.

In short; the entire company address book.

Chapter Four

Exercise is my religion. Every weekday morning, I hit the gym without fail. All successful people have a routine and Alexander Slade is no exception. I believe in taking good care of my body. After all, a healthy body makes for a healthy mind.

Besides, the Sladies go wild for my well-sculpted torso. At least, they used to. I haven’t gotten laid in three days. Three. Freaking. Days. Let me tell you, that’s a new record for me. Even after a vigorous workout, I’m still a ball of nervous energy. Tense. Horny.

A man’s sex drive is like a Li-ion battery. No matter how many times we screw a woman, our capacity for sexual arousal is never depleted. A full day of non-stop fornication might wear us out, but it’s only temporary. We’ll be back and ready to rock and roll in no time like an Energizer Bunny. Trouble is, my mind is fuzzy, I can’t even start to focus on a battle plan to appease my father.

Despite my desperation, I figured I’d give myself time to recover after the freak show that was the past weekend. I’m abstaining from the harem until I’ve filled the position of Friday night girl.

That’s why I’m waiting in line in Puccio’s; the best damn coffee house on Lexington. Granted, the Kenyan roast is to die for, but that’s not the sole reason for my visit.

It’s all about Kelly.
The deliciously buxom Kelly
.

Granted, her breasts are sublime, but that’s not the only reason she’s my barista of choice. Kelly is a latte artist, and a fine one at that. There is nothing, and I mean
nothing
that this girl cannot whip up using a jug of milk and a steam wand.

Each Monday morning we indulge in a flirtation that’s been playing out for well over a year. Kelly is the only girl east of the park who knows how to roast my beans, so much so that I’m thinking of asking her to be my new Friday girl.

It makes sense, don’t you think?

We’re familiar with each other.

She’s hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, and I don’t see a wedding ring.

“Would you like extra foam with that, Mr. Slade?” Kelly asks in a teasing tone. She knows exactly how I like my foam, but I can tell she gets some kind of sexual thrill out of asking.

Now, I have a secret to share. I hate latte. I’m an espresso guy. I prefer to knock back a shot of the black gold and head straight out of the door, but when there’s no foam, there’s no fun. I lean against the counter and inhale. The scent of coffee beans mixed with her musky perfume is fucking intoxicating.

“How do you take your coffee, Kelly?”

Don’t look at me like that. I’m not asking her in some creepy-sex-pervert kind of way. I’m not going to rub my junk against the counter and alleviate my horniness in public. I’m making polite conversation, that’s all.

Kelly leans forward, affording me an excellent view of the girls. She purrs when she tells me, “I like my coffee like my men, Mr. Slade. Rich, hot, and strong enough to keep me awake … all … night … long.”

Holy hell
. I need to take a rain check here.

My appendage should be harder than a Chinese algebra exam.

But it isn’t. He’s not even flying at half-mast.

Nothing. Nada.
Zilch
.

That can only mean one thing: Kelly is not the right Friday girl for me. I examine her latest artwork and try to hide my disappointment. Over the past few months, her offerings have included everything from innocuous-looking happy faces and love hearts, to cutesy animals—I won’t bore you with the details.

This morning she has well and truly upped her game. Take a look and see for yourself. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. Nothing screams I-want-to-fuck-you like a latte foam penis with a well-proportioned ball sack.

And so to work.

***

The Slade Group office is a stone’s throw away from Madison Avenue. We occupy the whole top two floors of our building. It’s a dominating edifice of glass and steel. The interior is chic; think industrial fittings, a kaleidoscope of color, and lots of natural daylight. The atrium-style architecture affords wide open spaces where employees meet to network and brainstorm.

See that goldfish bowl up there? That’s my office. Like I said, my father did a real number on this place. There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s hope that two weeks of sunshine and a few Mai Tai’s on the Big Island will make him chill the fuck out.

I go upstairs and find Raj hunched over his desk. He’s already on the phone. I had him come in early and call up each and every one of the press contacts that were on Parker’s hit-list. This kind of damage control requires a personalized approach, so we’ve invented some bullshit excuse about testing the effectiveness of an ad campaign we’re running. I hope they’ll buy it. Lucky for me, the hacks start early on a Monday morning.

Luckier than I could ever imagine, as you’ll soon see.

I hang up my jacket. “Raj, how’s my day looking?”

He spins around in his chair. “Busy. You have lunch with Robert Dalvano. I’ve booked you a table at Tao. Then you’re meeting Mr. Stavronski at three.” He reads from his trusty clipboard. “Oh, before I forget, Isaac de Vries from House of Aubrey called. He wants you to pitch for their fall campaign tomorrow. He didn’t go into details, but he mentioned something about creative differences with Ingleby McKay.”

I punch the air in delight.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

My father has been after this account for the best part of a decade. We narrowly lost out to our rivals a few years back, but it seems fate has intervened. If I can bring this home, then I can kiss goodbye to my father’s pathetic ultimatum for sure.

Today is going to be an awesome day. Juliana Herrera, the sexagenarian CEO of House of Aubrey, has had a major lady boner for me ever since we met at the Prada spring show. I dance my way across the room to the espresso machine.

Raj stands up. “Boss, you have fifteen responses from the Filthy Gorgeous campaign.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not a campaign, Raj. It’s a goddamn joke. Pull that ad—stat.”

He huffs. “Are you sure? Sexygal69 says she has a great deal of experience with cock cages. She’s also a Russian ballet dancer and she’s here on tour with her company.”

Raj holds up a photo of a stunning brunette dressed in nothing but a tutu and pink stilettos.

Well, I’ll be damned. Tight legs, tight …
everything
.

“Raj—you’ve convinced me. Book a table at Del Posto’s for eight. Tell her not to be late.”

Don’t roll your eyes. I know I said that I don’t do one night stands, but I’ve always harbored a secret fascination for ballet dancers. Ask any guy—it’s a contortion thing.

“Is that all, Raj?” I ask as I slap the side of the espresso machine.

Raj shakes his head. “I spoke to a Miss Bryant from
NY Style
magazine. She received the e-mail from Parker and she’d like to interview you.”

“I’m way too busy for this, Raj.”

There’s a gurgling sound, and before I can blink, I’m covered in hot water. I curse as I pull off my shirt and throw it at Raj. “Here, get this dry cleaned, and grab me an espresso on your way back—make it a double.”

Raj backs out the door, leaving me clean up the mess.

Have you ever felt a sensation that you’re being watched? A sixth sense. Like that movie where the freaky kid sees dead people? Well, I’m feeling it right now. My heart quickens and I slowly turn my head toward the door.

Sweet Jesus
.

Standing before me is undoubtedly the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d normally rush to greet any guest in my office, but right now? I’m speechless. She’s fucking gorgeous. Radiant. Transcendental. I’m struggling to breathe.

My eyes instinctively fall to her breasts. Plump. Rounded. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and soulful. Voluminous, honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her lips are a perfect cupid’s bow, slightly puckered and full. They’d look perfect wrapped around my dick. She has a small brown beauty spot just above her lip.

Some men favor tits. Some prefer ass. Me? I’m all about the legs—the longer, the better. And this girl has legs that just won’t quit. She’s tall. She’s toned. She’s tanned. She’s soigné from her fingertips to her toes.

It just all works; like a well-attuned orchestra.

The beautiful stranger’s eyes flicker back and forth over my exposed torso. We exchange glances before she speaks first. “I … I’m sorry. I can come back later.” Her voice is soft, yet firm. I’m frozen to the spot. Captivated. The only movement is the stirring sensation in my groin area.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

Boner incoming.

Call off the search; God has found his new Friday night playmate.

“Don’t leave. Take a seat, Miss …?”

“Bryant.”

“Right.”

I sidestep toward my desk and sit down. I don’t want to scare her away. I’m not bragging, but trust me, if you’re ever fortunate enough to find yourself in my presence while I’m sporting a hard on, you’ll sure as hell know about it.

Miss Bryant glides through my office with confidence and grace. Her billowy navy pantsuit hugs her body in all the right places. The front cuts into a low V-shape that wraps snugly across her breasts, offering a hint of delicious cleavage
. Good God
. I’d stick pins in my eyes to be able to stick my face between those beauties.

I look to the ceiling as I try to quash the hundreds of lurid thoughts that are rushing through my mind. I accept her offer to shake hands and inhale deeply.

Christ
. She’s wearing Allure.

Raj better return with a handle of scotch and a defibrillator or I think I’m going to pass out.

“I’m Ella Bryant from
NY Style
. I spoke with Mr. Kapoor this morning. He said you would be available for an interview.”

I motion for her to sit down. “So you saw the advert and you’d like to apply, huh? I have to warn you, competition is tough. My schedule is jam-packed and I do have specific criteria … however I could make an exception for a woman as beautiful as you.”

She arches a quizzical eyebrow. “And if you didn’t consider me to be beautiful?”

Ouch
. Most women would just take the compliment. Looks like I’ve caught a live one here.

“I’d still make an exception for you, Miss Bryant. You seem like the kind of girl who’d enjoy a game of chess. Do you play?”

She smiles and nods. “As a matter of fact, I do, but that’s not why I’m here.”

I grab my desk calendar and wink. “Riiiight. The advert. Let’s see when we can book you in. I have a date with a ballet dancer tonight, but I’m free tomorrow. I know a great place off Madison.”

Her eyes narrow. “Actually, I’m here because I write our ‘Bachelor of the Month’ feature. According to my boss, we had you penciled in for an interview in October. I was intrigued by the mail that my colleague received from a Mr. Harrison, and I had another bachelor cancel so I thought I’d bring it forward”

Parker Harrison, you’re a goddamn genius.

She’s silent for a few seconds and continues. “Mr. Kapoor said I should drop by. Are you sure this is a good time, Mr. Slade?”

“Absolutely,” I pull a business card from my drawer and push it across the desk. “Ella, there’s no need for formalities. Please—call me Alex. I’m Global Operations Director of Slade Group, though all the ladies round here just call me God.”

She traces a graceful finger over my initials and a warm smile spreads across her face. “Alexander Solomon Slade. I guess if we’re going with acronyms I could also call you ‘Ass’?”

Nice comeback
.

I drum my fingers on my desk. “Ella would you like a coffee?” Without thinking, I thrust the latte from Puccio’s under her nose. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Is that a penis?”

Way to go Slade,
a cock-a-latte
. My first Freudian faux pas of the week and it’s just shy of nine on a Monday morning.

I shift my eyes. “Penis? That thing? No, it’s a … umm … space rocket.”

Would you look at that? She’s blushing. She grabs her handbag from the floor and riffles through. It’s a move that affords me a glorious sight of her breasts. Staring is inappropriate, but to hell with propriety. After careful consideration of the delights in front of me, I am happy to confirm that those puppies are most definitely on the large side of a C-cup.