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My jaw drops open as Kirsty stares at me, waiting for a response that I can’t find the words to provide. She’s suggesting I’m very sexually active, and if I was a man, that wouldn’t be a problem. But I’m a woman, and her suggestion feels like a negative accusation. Does she really think I’m promiscuous? There are other words for women who sleep around that I don’t even want to think about, let alone say out loud. The unfair double standard around sex fills me with rage, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been implanted in my head just a little.
“I don’t know what kind of personal element I can add,” I say slowly, bringing my pen to my lips and biting down on the warm plastic.
“Don’t be coy, Allie. It doesn’t suit you.” Kirsty reaches into her drawer and pulls out an envelope. She slides a bunch of keys from the top and spins them on her manicured finger. “These are the keys to a gorgeous beach house. And here are the details of the men you’re going to interview. You have seven days to research.”
I must look confused because Kirsty stands and thrusts the envelope towards me. I slide out the sheets of paper inside and my eyes bug out at the photograph of the gorgeous man on the top. Carson, it reads, and then there’s a long description; his job, his appearance, his interests, and at the top, his stats. Ten inches, it reads. Ten. Fucking. Inches.
“They’re all ten inches.” Kirsty’s red lips pinch as though she’s battling a smile. “If I was a little younger, I’d be fighting you to the death for this assignment.”
I flick through the rest of the men, taking in broad white smiles, twinkling eyes, and tattoos. They’re a buffet of hotness. A party platter of deliciousness. A dessert cart of temptation. Jesus.
“So, I’m going to interview them at the beach house?”
“They’re going to stay with you for seven days.”
“Stay?”
“You can thank me next week.” Kirsty’s already turned back to her computer. “I take it you know enough women to gather the female input for the article?”
I nod, my mind spinning through the favor I’m going to ask Dawn. She mentioned the reverse harem ladies club her friend Kyla is a part of. There must be women there who’ll be happy to talk to me about this. I don’t need to feature their names, just their anonymous opinions on the importance of dick size.
As I rise from my chair, my stomach feels like it’s dropped through my intestines. For the one millionth time, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. This isn’t what I went to college to achieve, but I have bills to pay, and monster-sized student loans to clear. Writing articles about genitals and the humans attached to them for Fine Line Magazine is the best paid gig I can find. My parents keep telling me to focus on the money. I’m constantly reminded that I don’t have the means to pick and choose what I write about, but it doesn’t feel good to suppress all the hopes I had about making a difference in the world.
“Clear your diary, Allie,” Kirsty says firmly as I reach the doorway to her office. “I need you on this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” There’s no way she’s put together all the arrangements today. She must have known what she had planned for me and didn’t share it until the last minute. Ugh. Either she believes I have no life, or she doesn’t care that I have one she’s about to mess up. I mean, what would happen if I had a boyfriend? He wouldn’t exactly be dancing with happiness about this arrangement.
It’s probably a good thing I put the ‘s’ firmly into single.
“Yourten men are arriving at the beach house tomorrow. You need to be there to welcome them.”
My ten men? “Okay.”
She nods curtly. “Enjoy yourinterviews.” The last word is said with long drawn-out emphasis before she winks. She actually winks. It’s like witnessing a Gorgon crack a smile.
“I’ll try.” Shuddering as I round the corner, I inhale deeply and try to blow out my tension. It’s not that I’m scared of my boss. Not at all. She’s formidable, but not unreasonable. It’s just that every step I take in this job brings me further from the path I want to be on, and the distance between me and my dreams makes my heart thud weirdly and my palms sweat.
At my desk, I place the keys for the beach house next to my water bottle and tip out the contents of the envelope. I find the address of the beach house first. It’s two hours' drive away and on a stretch of coastline I’ve always wanted to visit. The pictures of where I’m going to be staying for the next week are breathtaking; high ceilings and a modern interior combined with an outdoor pool and entertaining area that are impressive enough to host a bougie wedding party.
Beneath the property description, I find Carson’s profile again. Just looking at his photo makes my cheeks hot. Maybe it’s his shaved head and strong jawline, or his blue eyes that stare into mine with as much intensity as if he was standing before me. Maybe it’s reading about his occupation as a tattoo artist and the way my mind immediately imagines the ink on his skin. But it’s probably the highlighted statement of his dick size that makes my face heat to the shade of a sun ripened tomato.
Ten Inches.
How is that even a physical possibility? There’s a ruler standing in a pot on my desk and the ten-inch marker seems impossibly high. What would that look like, standing straight like a baton or a nightstick? What would Carson look like naked, covered only in tattoos, holding his ten-inch cock like a weapon?
A god of war.
A man who could destroy cities and rebuild them with his own bare hands.
And I’m a ridiculous woman with too much imagination who can’t look at a man naked without bursting into flames.
None of my friends know I’m still a virgin. If Dawn found out, I think her head would explode. She has nine boyfriends. Nine. The amount of sex that girl must be having shouldn’t be legal. I probably won’t achieve ayears worthof her sexual exploits in my lifetime.
It’s not that I’m a prude.
Far from it.
It’s just that I’ve been so busy with my studies and work that I’ve never taken the time to lift my head to check out the available men. This office isn’t exactly throbbing with hot prospects. The thing with writing for a women’s magazine is it tends to be women who are interested enough in the subject matter to write it. Brian from the mailroom and Colin from accounting aren’t setting anybody’s loins ablaze. The absence of male eye candy hasn’t done me any favors. Now, just a photo of a hot man is enough to make me flustered. If I can’t even look at Carson’s photo without combusting, how the hell am I going to cope with living with ten men for seven days and interviewing them about their dicks?
