Filthy Gorgeous (9 page)

I can’t vouch for a heightened taste sensation yet, but I gotta admit that this temporary loss of vision is great fantasy spank fuel. Right now I’m picturing a nude Ella wearing nothing but a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She’s taking notes and sucking seductively on the end of a pen.

Hot damn.
And I’m hard
.

“What do you look for in a woman?”

I smirk. “I’m a leg man. I prefer golden locks, and reserve a particular fetish for women dressed in purple. I’ve heard it’s a sign of sexual frustration, and women who wear it are subconsciously begging to be satiated by handsome bachelors with expertise in oral sex.”

How could she not like that answer?

I hear a dull thud followed by the clattering of crockery. Sounds like our food arrived. This is without doubt the least fun I’ve had on a date since Yasmine from our HR department snagged a tooth on my ball sack. 

Frigging bumper cars; they should be made illegal.

“Do you have any food allergies?”

I shake my head. Who writes these crazy ass questions? The clanging of plates signals the arrival of our food. There’s more than a hint of a challenge in her voice when she tells me. “Taste this.” I fumble around in my seat, and trace my finger over the offering in front of me. It’s warm, solid, and smooth. I bring it to my mouth and bite down.

It’s soft, yet crunchy.

And then I realize the truth. I’m chewing on the exoskeleton of a king shrimp. I rip away my blindfold and covertly spit into a napkin.

“You win, Miss Bryant, but the blindfold stays off. I’ll be on my best behavior. I must say that I find your methods of interrogation very edgy. Have you considered a career with the FBI?”

She shakes her head and I continue. “In all seriousness, if you need to tie me up and continue with the questioning, I’d be completely down with that.”

Ella forces a smile. “It says on your advert that you’re a qualified pastry chef. Is that true?”

I shrug and take a swig of wine. “It’s true. I took evening classes, and I’m qualified enough to know that you’d look fantastic in a whipped-cream bikini.”

She shoots me a don’t-mess-with-me stare, and my cock stiffens. It’s sexy as hell. I’m just about to pour another glass of wine when my cell buzzes. It’s Raj.

“I have to get this,” I tell her, apologetically.

“Petie’s new cage arrived,” he tells me. “Where should I put it?”

“The cock cage? How big is it?”

“Thirty-six inches.”

“Thirty-six inches? That’s pretty wide. Put it in my bedroom. I’ll sort it later.”

I hang up and look over to Ella. Her eyes are wide and she’s frantically tapping away on her phone.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize.

Her eyes meet mine. “No problem. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than be here interviewing you, anyway.”

Yeah, right.
Look at the twinkle in her eyes; that’s the green light I needed to make my move. I put my glass on the table. Drawing small circles on the back of her hand, I tell her. “You’re right. Let’s forget this whole charade, grab the bill, and head back to my place. There are much
easier
ways to get to know each other. I have a Dom Pérignon chilling in the refrigerator.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t go all shy on me.”

Ella stands up, her body rigid with rage. Was it something I said?

“You’re unbelievable!”

I smile. “Believe it or not, you are not the first woman to tell me that.”

Yep, now she’s breathing through her teeth like a bison in mating season. And it’s sexy as hell. And I’m hard,
again
. Nothing gives me wood like a beautiful woman filled with angst and rage.

My father was right: I am a masochist.

Most men tuck tail and run at the first sight of an angry woman. Not me. It’s a huge turn on. I like them volcanic, and if we don’t head to my apartment soon, there’s going to be one hell of an explosion.

There are only three reasons as to why a woman could be this angry on a first date. Firstly, she feels like she doesn’t stand a chance with the guy. I think that I’ve made it pretty clear I’d love to do the horizontal hoopla with her.

Secondly, she feels as though the man doesn’t care. Wrong again. I care enough to sit here looking like the fucking Hamburglar while chewing on the brain matter of a goddamn shrimp.

Lastly, she’s horny.

This is it. This is the reason.

Women hate to say it out loud on a first date. They think it makes them seem promiscuous or easy. She’s playing the ‘Little Miss Reluctant’ act. I’ve seen it a thousand times over. Let’s get real here, under that flimsy dress, Ella Bryant is creaming up like the topping on a cherry sundae.

“You’re very combative this evening, Miss Bryant. I have just the remedy for aggression …”

“And what would that be?” Her eyes fall to my crotch. “Thirty-six inches?”

Looking straight into those hazel eyes, I reply. “Better. A Slade special.”

She throws a few bills on the table and I follow her outside onto the busy street. As Ella attempts to flag down a cab, I can’t resist one last dig. “You get all dressed up for me and now you high-tail it out of here. What gives?”

She spins around in full-out combat mode. “You think I dressed up for you? If you must know, I’m going on a real date with a real man.”

I take a step back and yell through gritted teeth. “Well good luck to him!”

He’s going to damn well need it.

I stand on the sidewalk, mulling over plan B.

I’m done with crazies. I’ll head home, speed dial one of my Sladies, and give her the ride of her life. Perhaps Sabrina can cover the Friday shift until I find a replacement; that girl has the stamina of a herd of oxen.

Ella has one delicious leg inside the cab when her cell phone rings. The scowl on her face tells me that she doesn’t like what she just heard. She slams the door shut and the cab pulls away.

This is not over yet.

Have I told you all about plan B?

Plan B is blackmail.

I have a second wind in my sails; I just need to change tack. Hell will freeze over before I let this hottie slip through my net.

Just you watch.

With both hands in my pockets, I casually stroll over toward Ella. “Something the matter, Miss Bryant? Date cancel?”

Ella bites her lip and eyeballs me. She’s trying to maintain a steely composure, but I can tell she wants to kick my ass from here to Seattle.

“Listen, we both know that you need this interview. Here’s my proposal. Let’s start again. I know a great bar near here. No games. No blindfolds. I promise I’ll return you home, unmolested, before midnight.”

She looks up at me and I smile.

“Well, what do you say Cinderella?”

***

“Seriously, that’s your favorite pick-up line?”

“Would it work on you?”

Ella shakes her head. “You’re nuts. And no it wouldn’t.”

“I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I can make your Bedrock. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong? The fact you even have to ask.”

Ella and I are continuing the ‘its-not-a-date-it’s-an-interview’ in the corner of a bar called Tipples near Chelsea market. It’s a cool, low-key venue with lots of brickwork and a shabby-looking dance floor.

We’ve been here for half an hour. Ella hasn’t absconded, and I haven’t been physically assaulted. I’d say we’re making progress, don’t you think? She managed to pull the bug out of her ass and she calmed down.

I’m pretty sure the wine helped. Don’t roll your eyes—I haven’t been plying her with alcohol until she drops her panties. Believe it or not, I do have a shred of pride. But if she imbibes too much liquor and insists I pleasure her sweet ass until sunrise?

Only an idiot would turn down a meal like that.

Ella is knocking back tequila like it’s going out of fashion. Yep, I can confidently I predict that we’ll be on my kitchen counter and I’ll be feasting on my dessert of crème de Ella in no time at all.

I rub my chin. “Do you mix concrete for a living? Because baby, you're making me hard.”

She shakes her head, trying to consign my words to oblivion. “Terrible.”

“Do you have a shovel?  ‘Cause I'm sure as hell digging that ass.”

More eye-rolling.

Ella holds a pleading hand out in front of her. “No! Please stop. I’m running with the Flintstones line. Do these actually work?”

I nod. “You’d be amazed, Ella. That last one got me a blowie from a nun.”

True story.

God bless you Sister Siddaway, and that hot little mouth of yours. I’ll tell you about that another time—I can’t recall the memory of that night in the cemetery without blushing.

I continue. “Of course, you’re forgetting my unique selling point, Ella. How many bachelors in New York City can truthfully say that they have two cocks?”

She pushes her lips together. “I haven’t interviewed Blake Maloney from BinaryCom yet, but I’ve heard rumors …”

So have I, and it isn’t a topic I want to dwell on.

I raise my hand in the air and summon the bartender. “Two Pink Sladies please, Jolene—easy on the ice.” She winks obligingly and sidles back to the bar. Ella shoots me a confused look.

“You have a cocktail named after you?”

I grin proudly. “Sure. Well it’s actually named after my cunnilingus skills. I’m legendary in these parts.”

Ella grins broadly and cocks her head to the side. “Is that to compensate for your penile dysfunction?”

She’s referring to that frigging advert. I form a steeple with my hands. “Yeah, about that whole impotent thing; it was a joke. I’d be more than willing to prove it to you—just say the word.”

My beauty relaxes back against her chair. “Keep trying, Slade. It’s never going to happen. You told me you’d behave, remember?” She quickly forces the next question. “What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for a woman?”

I look to the ceiling and think. “I’m nice all the time, but if I had to choose only one? The time I delivered orgasms within twenty minutes. Poor Helen was walking like John Wayne for three weeks.”

Jolene returns with our drinks. I slide a glass across the table. She eyes the pink concoction with suspicion and I encourage her to take a sip.

Oh. You want my cocktail recipe?

Here you go.

Pink Sladie

1 1/2oz vodka

3/4oz applejack

1/4oz lemon juice

2 dashes of grenadine

1 egg white

A Maraschino cherry for garnish

Mix the ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice cubes. Shake, and then strain the liquid into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with the cherry.

Enjoy. It’s lethal. You’ll be on your back in no time.

Tell your husband he may thank me later.

“Not bad at all,” Ella concedes with a wry smile.

“If you think that tastes good, wait until you’re on the receiving end of a …”

Thwack.

I hold my wrist in my hand. It stings. “Finish that sentence and I’m out of here.”

***

Our conversation has drifted onto the topic of books. Ella just asked me to name my favorite author.

“Hemingway. He gets straight to the point.”

She nods. “I can see why. He reminds me of you.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Sure. He loved alcohol, was good with words. Allegedly even better with women.”

I can’t argue with that. I stretch. “So tell me, Ella. Who’s your favorite author?”

She stirs the straw around her glass and ponders my question. I love that she reads. I dig smart women.

“I have so many favorite authors; I don’t think I could choose. Graham Green, James Joyce, Kazuo Ishiguro … Jane Austen.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Okay, okay I like
Twilight
, too. No teasing.”

That’s more like it.

But here this; when a woman tells you that she loves Jane Austen you have to read between the lines. It means she
hates
Austen. What she really wants is to be ravaged by Mr. Darcy in the green hills of merry old England. Come on, admit it ladies—it’s all about the Darcy cock.

“Mr. Darcy was a pompous asshat,” I declare, unabashedly. I know I’m on dangerous territory, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take, even if I lose a ball in the process.

Ella’s mouth falls open. “You’ve read the book? I didn’t think of you as the Austen type.”

I smirk. “I’m not, but a guy has to check out the competition.”

She smiles coyly. “Right. You think you’d be competition for Mr. Darcy?”

Let’s get something straight here: Mr. Darcy is no competition for Alexander Slade. Though confessing that you consider Mr. Darcy to be a douche of epic proportions is among the top ten truths a man should never reveal to a woman. It’s like saying. “Yes dear, your butt
does
look big in that. Now, be a sweetheart and go change those pants.’