Panty Dropper (A Sexy Standalone Contemporary Romance)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Favor Ford Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

H
e slid
his hand down the front of my shorts, grabbing hold of my crotch and pressing his fingers into me. I sucked in a breath, my eyes falling shut.

“Did you think wearing these would keep me from you?” he said, dipping his head close to my face. “Did you?”

“No,” I breathed, as his hand continued to move slowly across me.

“I didn’t pay you,” he said, pushing on my now wet pussy, “nearly enough attention this weekend. I intend to make up for that.” He guided me backward until the back of my legs hit the armchair in the corner. “Sit.” I did. He nudged my shoulders back, then pulled my hips down lower on the seat.

He started by kissing the tops of my thighs. My heart raced, seeing him down on the floor in front of me. I reached for his head to run my fingers through his hair; he caught by hand with his lips, kissing me. His eyes found me, the lust in them clear, and I thought I’d cry out before anything really started. He made my body feel as if it were floating.

His hands continued on my thighs, his palms running flat across them, kneading them and making me squirm. He unbuttoned my shorts and slowly pulled the zipper down. I lifted my hips, moving myself a little closer to his face as he slid the shorts down to the floor. He moved forward and covered my thighs with kisses, his hands all over me, on my hips and up my stomach, over my breasts. My eyes fell shut, and I couldn’t sit still, moving myself closer to him, desperate for him to take me. When he pressed his lips on my pelvis and I groaned. He kissed me there, and then under, right where I was soaked the most. I begged him, desperate for him to take down the last scrap of fabric separating us.

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I
was looking
into the eyes of The Panty Dropper.

I squirmed a bit in my seat in the conference room and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. My first day on the job and we were talking about this specimen of a man, who I only knew by one name:
The Panty Dropper
.

All five women who were at the meeting, notepads and pens out and ready to work, oohed and gushed over the photos being passed around. They all looked so smart and chic, dressed in stylish tops and perfectly-fitted dresses, accessorized and styled to the max—all to go to work. I’d put in half the effort, even though it was my first day on the job.

I guess when I thought of a writer I saw someone in yoga pants and a topknot. I’d done a little better than that—black, loose pants and a button down with flats. I thought I couldn’t go wrong, but looking around the table, I knew I was out of my league.

Even the view of the Hollywood sign off in the smoggy distance couldn’t hide the fact that I was in over my head. After applying to every magazine, newspaper, journal and news site I could find, it had been
Crush
, and only
Crush
, who agreed to hire me.

Turns out employers want editors with experience and writers with bylines, but how could I get the experience if no one would hire me? Luckily
Crush
took a chance on me and I was grateful for the work—even if I didn’t read the magazine—and anxious to get my first assignment. I wanted to make a good impression. I just didn’t think that at my first meeting on my first day, we’d be talking about someone named The Panty Dropper, whose chiseled face was scattered across the conference table in more than a dozen photographs, from paparazzi shots to red carpet events.

“Look at her, she’s blushing,” said one of the girls, watching me with a smirk.

“I bet they don’t have men like that back in Maine, do they?” asked the girl sitting next to her, and the two laughed.

“No, I bet Maine men are outstanding,” said the first. “I bet they’re all chopping wood in red flannel shirts, muscles bulging…”

“I think I see some bulge in this picture,” said the girl next to me, leaning over to take a closer look at the photo. Everyone laughed.

“Alexa, Bethany, let’s pretend we’re professionals,” said Kait, the magazine’s editor in chief. “And be nice to the new girl. Actually, before we get into the good stuff, why don’t you introduce yourself to everyone?”

Kait stared down at me from the head of the conference table. Everyone quieted, and all eyes turned on me. Now they could all get a good look at this stupid outfit I’d chosen for my first day at work, this cheap, ill-fitting ridiculousness that made me look, I now realized, more fitted for sitting in a retirement home than sitting in the offices of one the top women’s magazines in the country. I’d overthought my wardrobe last night, something I did far too often, and never to good results.

“Um, hi,” I said, giving a funny little wave to the other women in the City Living department of the magazine, the same department I’d been hired to work in. I dropped my hand back in my lap. “Yeah, I'm Sophie Scott. From Maine. Um, I just graduated and I’m, well, really happy to be here.”

They kept looking at me, waiting, for what I had no idea. I could hear the a/c click on, and a chill went down my arm.

“Okay, then,” Kait said, looking bored and unimpressed. God, I was blowing it already. “That’s Sophie who graduated from Maine.”

“I didn’t graduate from—” I began.

“Now let’s get back to work,” Kait finished, not knowing or caring that she cut me off. Which was fine. I was there at
Crush
to do a great job. I’d listen, and learn, and work really hard. That was my goal. Do well, and move on to a better, more intellectual magazine or journal and work on something more substantive than the fluff they wrote here…

I think their big think piece for the newest issue was “how to have an orgasm in less than ten seconds.”

Oh, no
, I suddenly thought. What if I had to write an orgasm story someday soon? I slunk down in my seat a little lower, not wanting anyone to look at me for any reason. It was my first editorial meeting, and I was there to listen. Nothing more.

“Back to The Panty Dropper,” Kait said, pointing to the photo before me. “We all know who he is—or do we? Sophie, do you know who that man is?”

I looked back at the photo before me. It showed a man in a slim blue suit and dark sunglasses walking purposefully across a street. Frankly, it looked like a fashion shot for the magazine, but it was a paparazzi shot. From the full-body picture it was clear this guy was fit—I could practically see the muscles in his thighs and biceps beneath the tailored suit. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy. His jaw was hard and defined—like the rest of him, if pictures don’t lie. He was incredibly handsome.

But as to who, exactly, he was? I didn’t know. But I didn’t want the others to know that I was clueless.

“Right, the panty dropper,” I began. “He’s that guy, everyone knows him.” I nod my head enthusiastically, as if what I’m saying actually means something. “He’s that really famous guy, he’s rich, successful…” Looking at the picture, I could just see panties falling out of his pocket because he was so successful. At his job. Selling panties?

I could already hear Alexa and Bethany across the conference table snickering at me as I spun my wheels.

Kait let out a deep, disappointed sigh. She leaned across the table and took the picture from before me. “This, as most of you know, is Leo Armstrong, twenty-seven, the most sought-after bachelor in all of L.A. and the head of relative newcomer Epix Studios.”

“Also their youngest head in history,” said Bethany. Unlike me, she was dressed simply and fashionably in a slim, cap-sleeved green dress. I tugged on the collar of my shirt, a new level of discomfort filling me.

“I’d like to give him head,” muttered Alexa, and none too quietly either. They barely tried to stifle their laughs.

Kait ignored them. “Leo Armstrong is the president of Epix Studios. Every girl L.A., from the fledging starlet to the seasoned Oscar winner wants to sleep with him or at least get an audition with him—”

“On his couch,” said Alexa, and Bethany swatted her arm.

“And of all the women he’s dated,” Kait continued, “and there have been a lot, no one knows anything about him personally. There’s never been even the tiniest whisper of what it’s like to date him. He’s the most famous person in this town and no one knows what he’s really like. We’re going to change that.” Her sharp eyes took in all the women at the table. Then she said, “One of you is going to date Leo Armstrong.”

A hush fell over the room. No one was laughing anymore.

Even though I didn’t know these women—I didn’t even know all their names, save for Bethany, Alexa and Renee, the girl who sat next me, studiously taking notes—I realized I was excited for them. If this guy were some famous Hollywood big shot, plus totally hot, it would be a fun story to work on. Who wouldn’t want to date a rich famous guy and write about it? My dating experience was limited, relegated to Paul, who I dated for a couple of years in college, and who cheated on me. The worst part was, he wasn’t even that good looking. I’d spent my college years so focused on my studies so that I could get a great job as soon as I graduated. Now I saw the irony of limited dating experience as I sat in the offices of a magazine dedicated to the art of the blow job.

“This guy is the classic womanizer,” Kait said. “He dates, and discards, one after another. But what goes on behind closed doors? That’s what
Crush
is going to find out. I want to know everything about him, and not just boring things like how he takes his coffee and if he snores. I want to know how he treats these women. Does he bother acting like a gentleman? Is he boring? Selfish? Does he have something to say? Is he more than just good looks and loads of money? How big is his dick?”

Everybody burst into laughter, and I tried to chuckle appreciatively, as I felt my face flush yet again.

“Everyone in L.A. wants to date this guy,” said Renee. “You said so yourself. But how does anyone get that date? How are we going to infiltrate this guy’s world and get him to take one of us out on a date?”

“Multiple dates,” Bethany said, and when Alexa gave her a look, she said, “No, seriously. You can’t write an exposé off of one date.”

“Yeah, not to mention the fact that there’s no way Leo Armstrong is going to date a
journalist
,” Alexa said. “A celebrity dating a journalist would be like a compulsive eater dating a chef. Leo would never trust a writer, and so we’re shot in the foot before we even get started.”

“Plus,” Renee said, “how do we get that first meeting?” she asked to Kait. “Honestly, if I knew where to bump into Leo Armstrong I’d be there right now.”

“I’m not saying this is going to be easy,” Kait said. “But I’ve put a lot of thought into it and I have a plan. One of the first things we’ll do, as Alexa brought up, is have you use a false name and occupation. Leo Armstrong can’t know he’s dating a writer at
Crush
magazine. What I still don’t have, though, is the undercover agent who’s going to do this gig.” She looked around the room at the six of us who made up the City Living section of the magazine. I’d been hired as the voice of The New Girl, the magazine’s “fun, flirty” column about getting adjusted to L.A. life. And believe me, I had a thousand ideas because L.A. is worlds apart from Maine, and I don’t just mean the three-thousand miles, either.

Kait looked around the room at all the women and I noticed, with some relief, that she didn’t look at me. Obviously I’d never get this assignment—it was a big gig, and she’d want one of her seasoned writers on the job.

“Kait, I’ll just go ahead and say I’d love the job,” Bethany said, sitting up straight. “I’ve got lots of experience under my belt, and I really think my piece on dating older men set me up for this type of story.”

“Leo Armstrong is only twenty-seven,” Alexa said. “Besides, with my background in theater, I could really play the part because isn’t that what undercover is—playing a role? Kait, I could do this, no problem. And you once said my stories were the easiest to edit because they were so clean—grammatically speaking, of course.”

Bethany shot Alexa a look, and just like that, it looked like the two besties had pitted themselves against each other.

“But I have more journalism experience,” Bethany said.

“Writing restaurant reviews for a local Orange County free magazine?” Alexa said. “Please. Kait, honestly, I know I’d be great for this if you’d just…”

“And so will I, I’ll be better—”

“Girls,” Kait said, holding up a hand. “Easy on the sales pitch. I’m not making any rash decisions here.”

“Look at these pictures,” said Renee, “and all the women he’s been with.” She took two, and held them up. “There are eight here, and more on the Internet that I didn’t pull. He clearly has a type. Out of all of us, there is one person who seems like his exact type. It’s
her
.”

The room was quiet, and when I looked up I realized Bethany had been speaking to me. I even pointed to myself and said, “Who—me?”

I felt my pulse beginning to pound increasingly faster.

“She’s right,” Kait said, really examining the photos. She picked up a photo of Leo riding bicycles with a brunette in Manhattan. “Looks just like her.” Her eyes widened. “The bone structure, the lips, the eyes…”

“I don’t believe this,” said Alexa.

I saw only a passing resemblance to the beauty in the photo, and that was mostly due to the long dark hair. And she probably wore extensions anyway.

Suddenly, all eyes were on me. And I laughed. A stupid, sputtering laugh.

“Well, I,” I began. “I mean, of course I’m up for whatever you want,” I said to Kait. “But I’m sure you want someone with more experience. Either of you guys would be better than me,” I said to Alexa and Bethany, who looked at me with narrowed eyes.

Kait fixed her sharp eyes on me and said, “When I hired you, you told me you were a hard worker who was willing to do whatever was best for the magazine.”

“I know but...”

“And we’ll be there for you,” Kait said. “
I’ll
be there for you. I’ll be your direct editor on this story and will help you through it.”

“Kait, you can’t be serious,” said Bethany. “She just got here. From Maine. And you’re going to trust her with this? No disrespect but that’s crazy.”

Bethany was right—it was crazy. Yeah, the writing and investigative part of it frightened me, but in a good sense. It’d be a challenge but I wasn’t afraid of a challenge. After all, I’d packed up my life and moved all the way out here knowing exactly zero people. What worried me the most was Leo Armstrong. The intimidation of this guy came right off the glossy photos scattered across the table. I could handle the writing—but could I handle the subject?

They wanted me to date this big celebrity, and dating was far from my strong suit…

“No, Renee is right,” Kait said. “Sophie looks the part. She’s a good writer or I wouldn’t have hired her. And I think her innocence will lend itself well to the subject. He’d never guess a sweet little New England girl is out to get him.” The look in Kait’s eyes made it clear that she was living for the day she busted Leo Armstrong. It made me squirm in my seat. That and the fact that—was this really happening? Was she going to make me do this job?

“She’ll need a makeover, in the very least,” Alexa said.

“Not to mention wardrobe,” Bethany said, looking me down.

“Good thing we have entire sections of this floor dedicated to fashion and beauty,” Kait said. “With the right makeup and hair and clothes, we can make Sophie look like Leo’s dream girl.” And then, after thinking some more, she looked at me and said, “Congratulations, Sophie. You just received your first assignment.”

“Lucky girl,” said Renee.

“Unbelievable,” muttered Bethany.

In my head I knew they were both right. I
was
lucky, and it was completely unbelievable. It was also totally out of my league.