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One
Sienna
I drag my tired self through the front door of my brownstone, ready to kick off my heels. Been a long day at the office, dealing with clients who don’t know they ass from their elbow.
Truth is, I’m tired of coming home to an empty house. Tired of warming up leftovers for one and watching TV by myself every night. I’m a sensual woman with needs.
A sista needs a man who can handle all that she is. Someone who can match my passion and isn’t intimidated by a strong, confident woman. Most of these boys out here can’t handle a real woman. They want a size 2 with no opinions. They don’t know what to do with all this.
I unbutton my blouse and skirt, letting them fall to the floor as I make my way to my bedroom. Time for a hot bath and some self-care. But a woman has her needs, and these fingers and toys can only do so much. I’m ready for the real thing. The question is, where the hell am I gonna find a man who can give it to me?
I slide into the warm water and let out a satisfied groan, already feeling the tension leaving my body. Closing my eyes, I think of large, strong hands roaming over my curves and full lips kissing a path down my neck. A shiver runs through me as I fantasize about what else those hands and lips would do to me.
Lawd, I need a man. The ache between my thighs is real. But until I find the one, my faithful battery operated friend will have to do. At least I’ll sleep good tonight.
* * *
The next morning, I head downstairs to get my mail as usual. Bills, junk mail, more bills. I’m about to head back up when something catches my eye.
A single black card sits in the mailbox, stark against all the white envelopes. I pull it out, turning it over in my hands. Heavy, expensive stock with gold embossed letters: KNK.
What the hell? There’s not much on the card. Just those three letters, a website and phone number. My mind races, trying to figure out what it means. A secret admirer? Some kind of prank?
I study the card again, running my fingers over the letters. KNK. Suddenly it hits me. Those letters arranged like that can only mean one thing.
Kinky. Naughty. Kink.
A slow smile spreads across my face and heat pools between my legs. Well, damn. Looks like I got me an invitation. But from who? And to what, exactly?
I clutch the card in my hand, anticipation thrumming through me. The mystery person who sent this knows exactly what I’m looking for. And they’re telling me they got me. Maybe my dream man is out there after all.
All I have to do now is find him.
* * *
I hurry back upstairs, mind spinning with possibilities. Who could have sent me this card? And how did they know about my interests? I haven’t exactly been advertising I’m into kinky shit.
The thought sends a delicious shiver through me. A matchmaking service could be perfect. They’d have access to an entire database of men who are interested in the same things I am. Men who would appreciate a woman like me, curves and all.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, staring at the card. Do I dare contact them? This could be exactly what I’ve been looking for, a way to finally find a man who gives me what I need.
But going through an agency is risky. What if they set me up with someone I have zero chemistry with? Or worse, what if the guy they match me with ends up being a complete creep?
I take a deep breath, weighing my options. Finding the right man has never been easy for me. But I’m tired of settling, tired of wasting time on men who can’t handle me. I want passion. I want fire. I want a man who’ll make me burn.
And this card, with all its promise of naughty delights, just might lead me to him.
I pick up my phone, the black card clutched tightly in my hand. Time to take a chance. Looks like I’m going to find out what KNK Matchmaking is all about.
I dial the number on the card, my heart pounding. What am I getting myself into?
A smooth, masculine voice answers. “KNK Matchmaking. How may I help you?”
I clear my throat. “Hi, I, uh, received one of your cards in the mail.”
“Excellent,” he says. “We’re glad you’re interested in our services. How did you hear about us?”
“I found your card in my mailbox.”
