Filthy Gorgeous (15 page)

Karl has a theory, like always.

She’s the one that managed to get away.

I was cruelly denied victory on the home run, and now I’m seeking to avenge it.

My father’s ultimatum, coupled with the fact that my dick won’t stand up straight for any other female but Ella, has meant that I’ve met up with each and every one of my harem to tell them that I needed space. I’m over the drama. Alexander Slade has taken a temporary vow of chastity until he gets his shit together.

Men are cowards. We like the easy life and we hate to make a woman cry. That’s why we always try to end a relationship in a public setting. We figure a girl’s less likely to burst into tears and cause a scene in public. Sometimes we’re wrong. If that fails, we’ll ignore a woman until she insists on a declaration of hate.

I work with Renée, ignoring her is out of the question, so I called a meeting in my office to have ‘the talk.’ I figured it was private enough to allow her to let off steam, and that the ceiling-to-floor windows would save me from her wrath.

Boy, how wrong was I?

Who’d have thought that a staple gun could do so much destruction to a thousand-dollar suit?

In hindsight, I guess I was lucky. She missed my balls, but only just. Those suckers are still intact. The only notable damage from our confrontation is a severe credit restriction and a broken heart.

Hers, not mine.

Anyway, my self-imposed sex ban continues to prevail. Two goddamn weeks. Having your penis go from hero to zero in fourteen days has not been easy. I haven’t been this chaste since my formative years. My dick wants to go on the kind of rampage that hasn’t been seen since Michael Douglas in
Falling Down
.

I’ve been keeping myself busy to relieve the frustration. I’ve hit the gym twice a day. I’ve been working on Cougar’s campaign. It’s going well. Right now, the guys are upstate for a few days on an ad shoot. Jockass is with them. I haven’t spoken to Ella since our parking lot dalliance last week, and it’s been fucking torturous. I wanted to give her a few days space to miss my ass.

Let’s get one thing straight; that whole parking lot brush off episode?

It was nothing but a set-back.

Being put in the friend-zone doesn’t mean that Ella rejected me. Sure, she’s with Tyler, but do you really think that it’s going to last?

I don’t think so, either.

Now, normally I’d never pursue a woman if another guy’s in the mix, but this is different. He’s an asshat. She deserves better. I’ve seen the signs; the stolen glances, the flicking of her hair, the licking of her lips. Ella Bryant has a major ladyboner for me, and I’m willing to undertake any number of machinations to get inside her panties again.

So, what is my next move?

I have to prove to Ella that I’m willing to be friends.

Simple, right?

Yeah … try telling that to my dick.

***

I didn’t always want to work in advertising. During high school, I harbored dreams of becoming a pilot. It’s true. It’s a fantasy that came true when my parents took me on a pre-college vacation to Europe. As my parents slept soundly in business class, I hit the liquor and worked my magic on the air hostess. Tara introduced me to the mile high club somewhere over the North Atlantic.

It was awesome.

Anyway, I’m telling you this because my expertise in attracting the opposite sex is the primary reason why my father lets me take the lead when we’re pitching for ad campaigns, specifically those in which the primary target is women. I’ve had years of experience. I know what they want.

I know what makes them tick.

An adman worth his weight in gold knows that before you can sell anything to a woman, you have to focus on getting a reaction. I’ve been mulling over ways to grab Ella’s attention. She’s ignoring my calls, so I’ve sent an invitation for our next date via special delivery to her office.

Not flowers. Not chocolates. That’s so fucking nineties.

Women want personal.

Now I’m just sitting on the couch in my office and patiently waiting. I check my watch. Twenty past eleven. Excellent. I should be hearing from her any minute now …

Bzzzz.

Here we go—like clockwork.

I answer, but there’s no time to exchange pleasantries because she’s already yelling. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

Feigning innocence, I ask her. “Why would I do that?”

I pace the room, and listen to the commotion coming from the other end of the line.

“Quit messing around!” She’s really fired up now.

Nice.

Christ, I wish I could be there to see her erupting—I bet it’s spectacular.

I try my hardest to not sound smug. “Ella, if you’d returned my calls this would never have happened. You told me you loved
Twilight
. I fail to see how you could find a sparkly vampire stripper so offensive.”

She interjects. “Tell that to my boss. She just dialed security to have him removed from the premises. There’s glitter everywhere!”

Sparkly vampire strippers are pretty hard to come by, even in the city that never sleeps. It took me three days to hunt down something so personal. He cost me a goddam fortune and she had him evicted?

Women
.

“He’s supposed to sparkle, Ella. He’s a vampire. Listen, get a cleaner. Have your boss mail me the bill.”

“And the kittens? Do you seriously expect me to keep all seven of them?”

Yeah, I also had the stripper hand-deliver a basket of kittens. How could you refused to accept that?

“Ella, did you get my invitation?”

I settle down into my Dr. Evil chair. By the way—it’s awesome, isn’t it? It’s where I sit when I bark out orders during meetings. “Ella, I’m attending a charity function at the AMNH this evening. I need a plus one. I’d like that plus one to be you.”

She’s silent for a few moments. “You’re joking, right?”

I chuckle. “Don’t be paranoid. Nobody knows about our kitchen encounter. Or what happened in the parking lot. Sorry about that. I’ll keep my hands to myself, tonight. I hope you will, too.”

I’m crossing my fingers, by the way.

Her voice is stern. “Seriously, quit while you’re ahead. You do realize that I have the power to knock you off the bachelor list completely, don’t you? Imagine the effect that will have on your pulling prowess.”

My, my, haven’t the tables turned?

Ignoring her threat, I fire back, “I also know you like Mr. Darcy. And swans. I’m in a giving mood. You know what? I’m in a giving mood. Perhaps I could send another gift to your office?”

I’m just teasing her, but she doesn’t know that.

She’s silent for a few moments. “This is blackmail.”

“I know. That’s why you’re going to meet me at the seventy-seventh street entrance at seven thirty. It’s black tie, so dress appropriately. Or naked. Either way is fine by me, but you might be cold.”

She snorts. “To think I was actually beginning to entertain the idea that you’re actually a decent guy.”

I roll my eyes. “C’mon. Tyler wouldn’t want you sitting on your lonesome while he’s away. I’m offering to keep you company. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Her voice is softer now as she resigns to her fate. “Fine. Whatever. Mail me the details. Just promise me that there will be no tap-dancing Darcy-gram sent to the office?”

“I promise.”

Click.

***

Planning and executing a liaison that will result in sex is not an easy feat for many guys. Why do you think so many single men wind up at salsa class? It’s because they lack the charm and cunningness to execute a date that will lead to successfully burying their bone.

Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. Ask any guy what he considers to be the perfect end to a date and I guarantee that you’ll get the same answer.

Sex.

We’ll wine you.

We’ll dine you.

We’ll dance with you.

But, don’t be fooled, we’ve got one goal in mind.

Nailing you.

Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s the truth.

Do you know what’s even more difficult than planning a date which culminates in a nice long screw?

Planning a date where there’s zero chance of getting laid.

It really sucks.

It’s like taking a Hennessey Venom GT for a test drive when you have no intention of buying, or getting a lap dance during a black out. It’s an exercise in futility, so why put yourself through the pain?

I always liken sex to a game of bridge. If you don’t have a good partner, then you had better have a good hand. So I’ve made a date with Rosie Palmer before I hit the town.

That’s right.

I’m applying the handbrake.

Choking Kojak.

Faxing the pope. 

Ella is off-limits. Out-of-bounds. I can’t go on a ‘date’ with sporting a fully-loaded sack, and still remain chaste. This is the only way.

Sadly, a simple hand job won’t cut it.

A guy with my vast experience, prowess, and desires always needs something a little extra, which is why I got myself some props.

Ask your husband if he’s ever tried the Banana Man. What about the Sargent Pepper, the Kiwi Delight, or the Mattress Sandwich? He hasn’t? Well, he really should. If he denies all knowledge of the latter then file for a divorce because he’s a goddamn liar.

I’ve been all about the blindfold fantasies since our restaurant date, so I wrap one of my expensive red silk ties around my head and lower it over my eyes.

I’m working late in the office, and I …

Scratch that.

I’m lazing on the deck of my luxury yacht, sailing across the Mediterranean Sea. It’s dusk and I’m drinking scotch straight from the decanter. I look up to see Ella emerging from below deck, wearing a boner-inducing pink summer dress. A gentle breeze whips up the hem of her dress.

Would you look at that?

She’s going commando.

I think it’s time for you to leave.

***

Though barely a five-minute walk from my apartment, I haven’t been to the American Museum of Natural History since seventh grade. The curator caught me making out with Janie Gough behind a woolly mammoth. We were supposed to be sketching fossil bones, but the only bone Janie had on her mind was in my pants.

Good times.

Anyway, tonight’s gala is in aid of an animal welfare charity. My father is a patron. As he’s still hula dancing his way around Hawaii, I’ve been asked to attend in his absence.

I’m sitting on top of the steps and waiting for Ella to arrive. She’s late. You’re probably thinking it would serve my sorry ass right if she stands me up. How dare I cajole Ella into joining me for this evening’s charitable festivities, blah blah blah.

You think I should give up, don’t you?

Never.

Anyway, tonight isn’t solely about me wanting to screw her. I do, of course, but I have something else planned.

And no, it doesn’t involve my penis.

I look up, and I’m speechless when a familiar figure emerges from a cab. She’s wearing a floor-length emerald gown that billows in the breeze. Her hair is pulled back into a messy up-do.

Fuck me
. That’s my date.

Take a look around. Every guy within a fifty meter radius of Ella Bryant is salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I know I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her upstairs, but I can’t.

I’m rooted to the spot. Transfixed.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, all I can stammer is. “Y-you’re late.”

Ella tilts her head to one side and says coldly. “Just a couple of minutes. That’s positively early for a busy Manhattanite.”

I think I’m telling her how nice she looks. I don’t know. I’m mumbling like a teenage boy who’s just been caught masturbating by his grandmother.

I shake my head, trying to consign all my lewd thoughts to the back of my mind. “Ella, I told you that I’d behave, but you’re not making this easy.”

My gaze follows the thigh-high split in her dress. I lick my lips as I recall the sweet taste of her soft skin that night in my apartment. Beneath that frosty exterior I can tell she’s totally digging the black bow tie and my new Armani suit.

I give her one of my trademark dimpled smiles and can’t help but ask. “How are the pussies?”

She shakes her head, and I swear I see a flash of anger in her eyes, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. “Don’t go there. My roommate is taking care of them for now, but you need to take them back.”

See, what did I tell you? It’s another win for the dimples; no woman can stay mad at me for long.

We head inside. I grab two glasses of Prosecco from a waiter and hand one to Ella. “Follow me. There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.” I lead her to a clique of elderly men in the corner of the lobby.

“Professor Bernstein, this is Ella Bryant. Ella studied veterinary science at Cornell.”