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“This was last night’s episode.”
I glance at her and wonder for the hundredth time if she’s always been wound up this tight. She used to be married, from what I hear, but as long as I’ve known her she’s just been married to her work. If she’s this offended by a talk show about sex, I can’t imagine her sex life with her ex was all that exciting. I feel a bit of sympathy, but in the next second I forget everything else except what I’m seeing on the screen.
I almost can’t believe my eyes. My mouth drops open. Because OMFG. Jacob Kent isn’t just going down on his featured guest of the night like he supposedly does every episode. He’s full on clam diving, and every fucking bit of it is on display for the world to see.
Holy shit.
As I watch the Cunning Linguist himself eat pussy like he’s starved, I can’t deny that there’s a little tingling going on between my own legs. Yeah, the man is sexy as sin, but the way he’s making that guest scream and moan makes me wish for a minute it was me he was getting a taste of.
I cross my legs to relieve some of the growing pressure in my now throbbing clit as the guest’s eyes literally roll back in her head and she passes the fuck out.
What the hell did I just watch? And why am I so turned on by it? It’s not like I haven’t seen something like that before—in much more graphic detail. But the skills that man must possess to actually make a woman pass out? I can’t even imagine. I have to admit, I’m impressed.
Though from the look of disgust on Lori’s face, I certainly won’t admit it to her.
“It’s obscene,” she rants again. “We have to bury ACL in fines immediately. They are in clear violation of FCC regulations. This show needs to be canc
eled.”
God damn, this woman is the picture of self-righteous right now. I force myself not to look back at the screen that’s now paused on an image of the woman passed out, Jacob Kent’s face still buried between her thighs. And I hope to God Lori can’t tell that I’m a tad bit horny after watching that.
I nod wordlessly.
“This show could ruin marriages, Layla. Do you understand that?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lori this worked up. Her polished exterior is slipping slightly, and I start to wonder again just why she’s so uptight—apparently even more so when it comes to sex. Sex is meant to be fun, to be enjoyed. I’m not intimately familiar with Jacob Kent’s show, but he’s famous enough that I know he spouts off rhetoric about how much women deserve good sex and killer orgasms like it’s the gospel truth. I can’t say I disagree.
Lori, however? Not so much.
“This is bad for families,” she continues. “We just can’t have this. We’re going to slap them so hard with fines that they won’t have any choice but to cancel the show.” Lori levels me with a stare. “I want you to take the case, Layla.”
My eyebrows fly up. I didn’t expect that. Typically Lori takes on all the big cases. I sit up a bit straighter as a smile spreads over my face. Perhaps I’ve finally proven myself and she’s ready to trust me with something major.
“Really?”
Lori nods once. “Yes. This could really help your career. I think this is exactly what you’ve been waiting for to take your career to the next level. What do you say? Do you think you can handle it?”
Even though I don’t have near the amount of disgust for ACL that Lori obviously does, this is an opportunity I can’t refuse. “Absolutely,” I say with confidence. “You might as well consider ACL canceled.”
Layla
Flashing my FCC badge as I breeze by the security buffoon standing at the door that goes backstage at the studio where ACL is filmed, I glance around. This place is posh, even backstage. I can hear Mr. Kent’s voice as it reverberates through the studio. It’s even sexier in person. I’ve only heard him a couple of times on interviews. The deep timbre almost sends a shiver through me.
God, Layla, pull it together. I am so not going to be some stupid horny fangirl for Jacob Make-You-Pass-Out-With-My-Tongue Kent. Nope.
I thought I timed my arrival at the studio just right, but apparently I’m just in time for yet another epic pussy licking. Not quite sure how I feel about that, but I’m determined to remain professional.
Walking further backstage, I’m suddenly intercepted by a tall buff dude with a headset on and a tablet in his hands. He almost looks like a slightly younger version of Mr. Kent. (I’ve taken to calling him that in my head, hoping it will help me remain more aloof when I meet him face to face after the show is done filming.)
“Can I help you?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together suspiciously. “Do you have a backstage pass?”
I reach for my badge, but before I can get a chance to say anything, this guy gives me a knowing grin. “Did you sneak back here to try to get Jake to yourself? You know, he’s a busy guy. But I might be free later if you’re in need of some expert assistance. I’m Toby.”
The guy extends his hand as he takes his time looking me up and down. When his eyes finally make it back to my face, I tilt my head and arch an eyebrow. “Hmm. Looks like Mr. Kent has a little protégé.”
Toby smirks. “Nothing little about me, baby.”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, even though this guy is pretty sexy—any other time I’d probably take him up on his offer—I flash my badge. “I’m with the FCC.”
I almost laugh at the way his face shifts from I wanna fuck you to oh shit we’re fucked in an instant.
