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Make time for Steely Dan. Why does the Dickhole’s dick seem bigger than the Dan? Why make time for Steely Dan when I can peek at the sleeping dickface and his dick? It’s okay to ogle right?
Read 110 spicy books this year. 51 down, 49 to go =>gah, I can’t focus. This has never happened before. Every time I try to read, my fiancé, I mean, my fake fiancé’s face, and other parts of him appear in front of my eyes.
Make list for tomorrow.
Put this down for the satisfaction of crossing it off the list.
27
Gio
I flounce out of the car and up the steps of the arena. There’s no one around, thank god. The team must have left after practice, and my footsteps echo in the empty corridor as I head for the stairs. I take the steps as fast as I can and reach the second floor, then march down the short hallway. I nod toward my assistant and enter my office. It’s a quarter of the size of the one I had in L.A. And I don’t have a team, only an assistant. But the position pays well, and given how I left my last agency in L.A., I was lucky to get this job. As I must keep reminding myself.
As for this stupid fake engagement thing? It’ll blow over. It’s only temporary. It's only until we convince his grandmother we're for real. To be honest, the look on Dennis’ face when Rick told him we were engaged already makes this move worthwhile. Now, I only need a few more opportunities to rub it in. To make him feel as wretched as I felt when I walked in on him with that skank, Tiffany. Of course, she’d have to be called Tiffany. How typical.
I head for my desk, drop into my chair and open up my laptop. The screen comes to life and the first thing that pops ups is that grainy picture the paparazzi shot of Rick and me making out in his car. The headline declares:
Can This Ice Kiss Melt Stone?
Ugh! Trust a hack to come up withthatheadline. I click out of the website as Rick prowls into the office.
He shuts the door, locks it, then leans against it with his hands crossed over his chest.
"What do you want?" I scowl.
"You didn’t answer my question."
"What question?"
"You know which one."
I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest, mirroring his stance. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Sure you do. It’s why you flounced off without bothering to reply."
"If I remember correctly, I told you to go to hell," I scoff.
"Only if you follow me there. Come with me, and I promise you, I’ll turn it into the kind of heaven you read about only in your books."
I frown. "You have no idea about the kinds of books I read."
"You mean likeThe Seven Habits of Men Who Know How to Give Highly Effective Orgasms?”
My jaw drops. I manage to scoop it off the floor and begin to laugh, but turn it into a cough. "Did you play onThe Seven Habits of Highly Effective Peopleby Stephen Covey?"
"Or it might have been a play on the spicy novels you love to read and hide."
This time, I jump up and plant my palms on either side of my laptop. "Get out."
"Or what?" He takes a step forward, and another.
I swallow. A frisson of fear runs up my spine. I can’t let him touch me. I can’t. If I do, I won't be able to stop myself from enjoying it. From giving in to the pleasure it evokes in me. I won’t be able to stop myself from begging him to throw me down on this desk and fuck me. And if I do that, I’ll lose all respect for myself. He moves toward me; I straighten. He pauses halfway across the floor, then crooks his finger. "Come ’ere."
I toss my head. "You haven’t got a hope in hell of me obeying you."
"I have high hopes of cramming my dick into your pussy and making you come all around my shaft—and with your consent."
A thousand butterflies flutter in my belly. Moisture squeezes out between my lower lips.I do not find his dirty talking a turn on. I do not.I draw in a breath. My chest rises and falls. But he doesn’t glance away from my face. Doesn’t break that contact between us, which is like a laser beam that binds me to him every time our eyes meet.
