Filthy Gorgeous (8 page)

Raj’s nods excitedly. “We assembled the applicants into three categories based on your known preferences. You have thirty-five ‘must-dates’, one hundred and twenty-eight ‘definitely maybes’. The others are definitely not for you.”

I laugh. “Guys, I am not dating these women. This whole campaign is frigging ridiculous. But, go ahead. Have fun. Fill your boots.”

Parker spins the laptop around. The image of a raven-haired beauty in a tight, white tennis dress flashes up on the screen. “Meet Tammie. She’s a tennis coach at Queens. As you have little interest in your own dating campaign, I thought I’d take her out tonight and show her a good time.”

I sigh. “Help yourself. Christ, Parker, you go on so many blind dates you should almost be eligible for a free dog, right?”

He flips me the bird and then there’s a knock on the door.

Shit.

It’s Renée.

You know, I never did return her call.

Her hair is pulled back into a chignon. She’s wearing a tight, green dress, and her make-up is heavier than usual. It looks like our head of accounts is trying to win her way back in my bed and onto my cock, doesn’t it?

“Jack asked me to sit in on the Aubrey meeting,” she announces sharply and takes the chair directly opposite mine. Look at the way her lips are twitching. She only does that when she’s angry. She’s dying to have it out with me, I can tell. She leans into Parker’s shoulder.

“Online dating? Really, Parker?”

Parker shakes his head. “This isn’t for me. This is for Slade. The big G.F. gave him an ultimatum—if he doesn’t settle down by his thirtieth birthday, he’s disinherited. Hilarious.”

Sure, about as funny as a lobotomy, Parker.

Renée’s eyes bore into me like a pneumatic drill. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under and pushing up daisies right now. I’m saved from an inevitable inquisition by the arrival of House of Aubrey’s dastardly duo, Isaac de Vries and Juliana Herrera.

I coolly adjust my collar.

It’s time to turn on the Slade charm.

As soon as Juliana waltzes into the room, she leaves us gasping for air. Not because she’s hot. Go on, take a deep breath and inhale the wonder that is ‘Fall’ by House of Aubrey. Smells like a crate of spoiled shrimp, doesn’t it?

“Juliana, you smell …
delightful
,” I take her by the hand and pretend to inhale the paint stripper adorning her wrist. “Is that what I think it is?”

She blows me a kiss. “How clever of you, dah-link!”

Imagine a cross between Cruella de Vil and Sharon Osborne. Now, add the permanent tan, Botox, and breast implants.

Scary, huh?

That’s Juliana Herrera you’re looking at.

She’s wearing a purple dress made of mohair with dozens of strings to pearls, and one of those crazy bird’s nests hats on the side of her head that women think makes them look elegant.

That aside, she’s filthy rich. Her husband is an investment banker, but rumor has it that she’s a real cougar. I can swing that to my advantage.

Our guests take their seats. I stand at the front of the room and flash Juliana one of my trademark dimpled smiles. The future happiness of my penis is in her hands.

Let’s do this.

Operation Cat Piss, here I come.

***

Well, we did it.

Not that there was any doubt, but Juliana loved my presentation, and Renée is preparing the contract as we speak.

Right now, I’ve got more important things on my mind; my dinner date with the delectable Miss Bryant. When it comes to preparing for first time sex with a new partner, market research shows that men spend considerably more money than women. If you think all a man does before a big date is take a shit, a shower, and a shave, you’d be wrong.

It’s imperative that a guy takes the time to look his best. Women say they don’t care about a guy’s looks and that it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Can you say bullshit?

Women want to be screwed by a Vin Diesel look-alike, not Mr. Stay Puft.

Luckily I was at the front of the queue when Mother Nature was dishing out the sexy genes. As an added bonus, I have two features that truly set me ahead from the rest of the pack.

Can you guess what they are?

That’s right.

My dimples.

My smile could melt the panties off a blind feminist. Those little puck marks on either cheek have gotten me out of so many scrapes and into so many beds that Karl thinks they should be made illegal.

My dimples aren’t just my best friend; they’re my secret weapon. Have you ever been angry at a guy with dimples? Of course you haven’t.

Go on—try it.

It’s impossible.

I know you’re dying to know how Alexander Slade is preparing for tonight’s session of lust with Ella. First of all, and for the second day in succession, I made it chest day at the gym. I performed an extra five hundred sit-ups before booking myself in for an emergency chest wax.

I’m happy with my body, but even the most aesthetically gifted need the occasional tweaking. Yes—it hurt, but the indignity of a chest, sack, and crack is the price a guy has to pay for passion.

I look in the mirror. Shall I go for the clean shave or sport a little stubble? This is a tough choice. I’m going with my three-day old scruff. It’s rugged, it’s sexy, and it’s the perfect length to enable me to nestle my face into Ella’s honey pot with little chance of chafe.

Besides, it makes me look slightly devilish, don’t you think?

My hair is a shade of dark chocolate. I don’t do gel. I find that women don’t cream up over the Julio Iglesias look. A little wax always does the trick. I pull my hair up in spikes and then ruffle it into a rakish style.

Women love a rake. I’m told it’s that winning combination of disheveled charm and immorality that get their ovaries trembling. I rummage through the racks of my walk-in closet and decide on a crisp white shirt, dark grey slacks, and a pair of my most expensive brogues.

Do you see that cabinet over there? The one with the colorful bottles? That’s my cologne cupboard. I have a whole shelf dedicated solely to
eau de seduction
.

Impressive, isn’t it?

There’s a secret to selecting the right scent for a date; you have to match the top notes to the lady in question. I have two options in mind for Ella, but I always let Petie make the final choice. My cock has yet to let me down. Holding a bottle in either hand, I stroll over to his cage. “Okay buddy, which one will it be? The brown bottle with the boozy rum opening and the soft white musk dry down with swirls of sweetness, or the green? This one’s all about the leather and wood.”

Petie nods to the green bottle.

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure, buddy?” He bops his head up and down, but I’m not convinced. “You know Petie, I’m going to override you. I’m going with Kilian. I have a feeling Ella is a bit sweeter than that.”

I hope to God I’m wrong.

Bring on the leather, whips and chains.

Petie is still hopping from one foot to the other. He hates it when I overrule him. “Jesus, don’t flap at me like this. You’re just biased—we both know the cause of your aversion to rum.”

I spray cologne along the nook of my neck, over my wrists, and around my crotch. It’s essential to prep the area for the obligatory pre-intercourse blow job. Forget flowers and chocolates—one squirt of this baby is a guaranteed one-way ticket into Ella’s panties. I can almost taste the panty candy from here, and let me tell you, it’s goddamn delicious.

And I’m ready.

“How do I look Petie?” I twist from side to side and await his appraisal. He bops his head in approval.

This cock knows style when he sees it.

It’s show time.

A women’s choice of clothing for a first date carries a complex series of sexual meanings. Let me explain. If Ella Bryant rocks up to our date tonight in a cashmere sweater, she’s playing hard to get. A low-cut top means ‘
let’s skip dessert.
’

I arrive at the restaurant. Can you guess what she is wearing?

I’ll give you a clue; it’s not a turtleneck. She’s dressed to kill.
Kill me
. Christ, hemlines that short should be made illegal. Her strapless purple skater dress displays those glorious legs like a mannequin in a store window.

And you don't really believe that she ‘forgot' her jacket, do you? Look at the way she's showing off her collarbone. I’ve feasted on enough necks to know that it’s a subtle, age-old way of attracting male attention. Ella Bryant is luring my devious mind toward sex without trying to being too obvious.

Do you remember that scene in
Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
The one where Eddie meets Jessica Rabbit for the first time? I have that same glazed look in my eyes right now. Ella must really want the scoop on yours truly. She’s exploiting my biggest weakness. There’s not a devil-in-hells chance that I’m going to get through dinner without blowing my load.

I adjust my collar and cross the avenue with the confidence of a lion. I’m the hunter and Ella Bryant is my prey.

“You’re late,” she scolds.

I check my watch. She’s right.

“Two minutes late. That’s positively early for a Manhattanite.” I point to her dress. “And you forgot your turtle neck.”

Her eyes fall to her dress. “Oops, so I did. My bad. Let’s see if we can get through this ordeal without my fist making contact with your face.”

Ella reconfirms our reservation with a waiter. He leads us through the restaurant and I watch those beautiful legs stride back and forth until we reach a dimly-lit patio at the rear. We settle into a booth in the far corner and the waiter hands us menus. We’re already five minutes into our date and she hasn’t thrown a drink over me yet. This is going well, don’t you think?

Just wait for it …

“Nice venue. You have good taste, Miss Bryant.” She isn’t listening. She’s too busy digging around in her bag.

She hands me a black scrap of material. “Here, put this one.” I unfurl the object and stare at it in wonder like a redneck at an opera recital.

She smiles. “Don’t look surprised. It’s easier this way. Besides, I heard that eating while blindfolded heightens the taste sensation.”

Is she for real? If she’s already blindfolding me in the restaurant, just imagine what she’s got planned for later.

Kinky
—I like it.

I clear my throat and twist the blindfold through my fingers. “Let me get this straight. You’re dressed for our date in clothes that would give a gay priest wood and you expect me to sit through dinner wearing this?”  

She nods.

It’s cruel. It’s like taking Stevie Wonder to a strip club for his birthday and expecting him to foot the bill.

I lean forward and lower my voice. “And if I don’t wear this? What will you do?”

She crosses her arms. “I’ll leave.”

Pffft. She won’t leave. She’s bluffing. It’s her goddamn interview. But if wearing this brings me one step closer to her panties, I’ll willingly submit to her request. I’m not one to back down from a challenge.

I lower the blindfold over my eyes, and savor the last glimpse of Ella’s beautiful face before darkness descends.

“Fine. Have it your way, though you should know that this whole blind dining experience could backfire and prove to be a real turn-on. If that should be the case, please know that you’re in imminent danger. I hope you have adequate health insurance.”

I hear her laugh …
I think
. And now there’s a sound of pouring liquid. Christ, I hope it’s alcohol and not some socially inept drunk peeing on our table.

“Miss Bryant, do you insist that every bachelor you take to dinner wears a blindfold?”

“Only bachelors that need to learn restraint. Here.” I feel something cold attack my knuckles. I fumble around in front of me, and then relax. It’s only a glass. I bring it up to my nose and inhale. Merlot. Excellent. I bring it to my mouth and try to avoid spillage, but the wet sensation spreading across my crotch tells me that I’ve failed.

Slipping two fingers under the elastic of my blindfold, I try to hook it over my ears.

“Don’t you dare!”

Christ, she can’t seriously expect me to eat under these conditions. “I’ll start with a few quick-fire questions,” she announces in a measured tone. “What’s your zodiac sign?”

“My birthday is tenth of August. What does that make me?”

“Egoistic. Sexual orientation?”

Like she even has to ask. “Ella, let’s just say that if I ever found myself buck naked and frolicking in the Garden of Eden, I’d choose Eve over Steve.”

There’s silence. And then. “What do you do to unwind?”

“I play the guitar. Work out.
Dine out with beautiful women
…” I growl the last three words.

She sighs. “Right. So, no chess?”

“Sure, though I’ve yet to find anyone smart enough to stand up to my Sicilian defense,” I tell her in a hushed tone. “We should test that out some time.”