That Wild Player, page 10
I freeze. What the hell? I slowly turn around, an ugly pit forming in my chest.
Sure enough, it’s Nathan—my ex. The asshole who broke up with me through email…which he CC’d to my best friends and their fiancés! I deserved at least a phone call.
And that dickhead has his hands all over Izzy’s butt, which is barely covered by something that’s only technically a skirt. Hopefully she has a decent pair of underwear on, because otherwise if she bends over…
But at the moment I don’t care about her inappropriate office attire. I’m pissed that Nathan’s here. He knows I work at Sweet Darlings. What gave him the right to date one of my coworkers and gossip about my sexuality?
As though he feels my stare, he glances over, then starts, his fingers twitching on Izzy’s ass. She turns and smiles. “Oh, hi, Michelle!”
Can she get any louder? People are staring in our direction.
“Izzy,” I say between gritted teeth.
“This is my new guy, Nathan! Nathan, meet Michelle. She’s in HR.” She giggles like it’s a joke.
“Uh…yeah. We actually know each other,” he says, his gaze rolling back and forth between me and Izzy. He’s so transparent it’s painful. It’s obvious he’s trying to figure out how much I heard.
Too much, you bastard.
“Reeeeaaaally?” Izzy says, her voice loud enough to be a PA announcement to Mars. “How did you meet?”
Nathan flushes a bit, then straightens his shoulders. “We used to date.” At least he has the decency to use his indoor voice.
Her eyes grow large, then she lets out a gasp. “You and Michelle? You seriously dated?”
My lips remain tight, but I can feel the interested gazes of people passing through the lobby.
“Oh, wait. Is she the frigid girlfriend you had to put up with?” Izzy practically screams it.
All heads seem to turn in my direction.
“Uh…” Nathan clears his throat.
Izzy’s eyes grow wide. “Oh my God!”
My face burns, and it’s all I can do to not strangle Izzy and Nathan.
“I mean, how cold do you have to be not to be affected by someone as hot as Nathan?”
“Maybe his brand of hotness doesn’t work for me. I need a bit more from a man than just a stick between his legs.” I give Izzy a stare, doing my best to hide my humiliation. But the fact is, my entire body is vacillating between hot and cold. The buzzing in my ears grows louder. And from the way my skin prickles, I know people around us are wondering, gossiping and judging. “I’m not like you.”
Of course not. I bet she isn’t an OrGin.
Ugh. Why is my subconscious talking to me when I need to focus?
You know it’s true.
Of course it’s true. It’s obviously true. Just look at her—those bright eyes, those flushed cheeks, that shallow breathing. Maybe she wants as many men as possible—regardless of relationship status—because she ends on a high note every friggin’ time.
Since absolutely nothing good can come of my being here and engaging with Izzy and Nathan, I grit my teeth, make a sharp one-eighty and walk away.
Nathan’s in the rearview mirror, and I have things to do. So what if he thinks I’m frigid? It’s his lack of skills.
Except none of your exes could do it either.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I drive home. God. I’m the common denominator in all this!
Wait. I shouldn’t think like that. CJ made me come over the phone. That proves it’s not me. It’s them.
But technically you were masturbating…just while listening to him. So that doesn’t really count.
Fuck you, Voice of Negativity.
Still, the demoralizing thought circles my head as I walk into my closet and change into a skin-tight dress in bright scarlet. The bra I have pushes my girls up until they form an eye-popping stack. But that doesn’t do a thing to bolster my confidence as I check my reflection.
My hair tumbles down in perfect waves, and my makeup is impeccable. I think I look all right facially, and my body has an hourglass figure, thanks to yoga and a little diet discipline. But maybe there’s something about me that makes men kind of…unable to fulfill their potential in bed.
Is this the truth the fortune cookie was talking about? If so, I don’t want it.
Come on, Michelle. I lightly slap my cheeks a few times. It’s game time. You got a cheater to catch.
The wife—that’s our client—found out her husband ordered a call girl by snooping around his assistant’s calendar and call log. It’s amazing, but apparently this guy can’t even arrange for his own side fun. Maybe when you have a yacht and a mansion, you start delegating sexting and clandestine rendezvous arrangements. I’ll never know, since I’ll never own a yacht or a mansion, or ever even consider sexting or screwing around behind my man’s back.
I meet Dick at a small café a few blocks away from the hotel in Tysons Corner. The area doesn’t have the nicest view, but makes up for it with great shopping. He hands me a small recording device, a small can of Mace and a panic button. I take them all, no comment or explanation needed. This isn’t my first rodeo.
“The john left a key card for you in reception. Tell them you’re Charity Brown for Mr. Smith, and they’ll give it to you. The presidential suite on the top floor.”
“Got it.”
I drive over to the hotel and hand my keys to a valet. The check-in clerk is nauseatingly polite as I give him the name. I seriously want to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of the setup and the weird voice of anxiety telling me maybe I should just bail. What other horrible truth will reveal itself?
Yeah, hiding in my bedroom isn’t going to make things better. This will end in half an hour, max. Then I can go home and have a nice, hot bath, because it’s been that kind of day.
Just as I step out of the elevator on the top floor, I get a text.
–Sammi: How did Izzy figure out your OrGin status?
I stare at the screen, one of my heels tilting to the side like I’m a newborn colt on unsteady legs. I clench and unclench my hand a few times, then manage a four-letter response.
–Michelle: What?
–Sammi: That bitch sent a company-wide email about it.
Kill me now. The ground underneath my feet can’t open up and swallow me fast enough.
–Jan: She probably decided to do that because she’s still blocked from the intranet.
Damn it!
–Sammi: Sorry. I should’ve blocked her from accessing the company directory, too. It’s not like she works anyway.
Sammi couldn’t—shouldn’t. It’s not her fault Izzy is a loose-tongued bitch, and Nathan couldn’t keep his mouth shut about me.
–Michelle: Which list did she send it to?
–Sammi: SDI-All.
I close my eyes. Fucking Izzy. That one hits the inbox of everyone from Alexandra to our interns. I stare at the double door to the suite where my target is. The last thing I want to do now is go into the suite and make him get stupid over my body. I’d rather turn back and get under the covers in my own bed with the largest tub of ice cream I can find.
But it’s not my PI boss’s fault, and I’ll be damned if I let Izzy screw with my head any more than she already has. I take some pride in my professionalism.
So I drop my phone back into my purse and take a deep breath. I can do this. I’m a sexy, beautiful, smart young woman. Any man would be lucky to have me.
People say, “It’s not you, it’s me”…but it really is you.
No, no. Nathan’s stupid breakup email isn’t going to derail me. I am a goddess.
The Goddess of OrGinity.
Shut up, shut up. I want to drop everything and start meditating—or drinking—but work comes first.
Work’s the only thing that comes…
Argh! I take a deep breath, consciously relax my shoulders and just as consciously smile. It’s amazing how your mind will follow your body. The outside controls the inside.
Okay. No more negative thoughts. I do the shoulders and smiling exercise again. And a third time. Then I whisper a yoga sutra a few times to really center myself.
Now. The pathetic male cheater on the other side of these doors is going to be knocked out by my body, my smoldering eyes, the way my hips move. He will not sense anything…else about me.
I swipe the key card over the reader.
This man has no chance.
The light flickers green.
I am sex incarnate.
I turn the handle and step inside…
…and there is CJ.
Chapter Eighteen
Michelle
I blink. CJ looks unjustly hot—a crisp cream-colored shirt with the collar undone and sleeves rolled up, nice black slacks—yeah…a totally aphrodisiac look. It makes me want to reach out and undo the rest of the buttons and pull the shirt off him—just to see if what’s underneath is just as delicious as the small glimpse of his body.
He looks up from a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket and shoots me a dazzling smile.
“Hey.”
“You’re married?” I blurt out.
He shudders. “Perish the thought.”
All right, then. Maybe the hotel switched rooms. It’s possible. In fact, it happened to Sammi once. The benefit to her was finding the love of her life. Me? I need to go find the cheating husband.
“I gotta go,” I say, turning away. Dick really needs to check these things more carefully. I could’ve walked into a suite where a drug deal was going on. Or into the middle of a Mafia war. It happens all the time on TV.
“Hold on.” CJ is up and putting a hand on my elbow. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not even supposed to be here. They sent me to the wrong room.” I scowl, looking at the champagne. “Sorry about crashing your…celebration…or whatever.”
“You’re in the right room.”
That makes me stop. “I am?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How do you know?”
“Because”—he shrugs—“I hired you.”
“What?” My voice is so shrill, I wince a bit inwardly.
He comes around, puts his hands on my shoulders and then pushes me toward the seating area. “I wanted some uninterrupted time with you, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen while you were at the office, so I figured, why not? You get paid, and I get a few hours with you.”
I cross my arms with a scowl. “I’m not a hooker.”
He frowns. “And I’m pretty certain your boss isn’t a pimp. He’s a licensed and very upstanding PI.”
“Hold on. Who called the agency?” I ask, still eyeing him with suspicion.
“Olivia. Matt’s sister.”
Oh, geez. “I thought she was too sensible to lie.”
He shrugs, totally unrepentant.
For a second, I can’t help but wonder if he’s slept with Olivia, too. But that can’t be right. Don’t guys have a special code or something? No screwing your best friend’s siblings?
CJ peers at me. “You look like you could use a drink.”
That bad, huh? Well, you’ve been triple-punched since leaving your desk, so…
I plop down on a couch. “Something stiff.”
“Champagne good enough?”
“It’ll do.” Anything will, at the moment. He hands me a flute, and I take off my shoes and rest my feet on the edge of the low coffee table before emptying the glass.
“Whoa, slow down,” he says.
“Give me another.” I arch an eyebrow. “It’s the least you owe me for bringing me here under false pretenses.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He refills my glass. “Don’t have too much. I don’t like drunk women.”
“In that case, I shall endeavor to get completely soused.” I drain half the glass, then stop. To be honest, being shit-faced drunk isn’t really much fun. And I have to drive home…plus I’m going to need one hundred percent of my brain power to deal with CJ. “So what’s all this about? Don’t you have other, more receptive women dying to bask in your company?” The question comes out a lot more sarcastic than I’d like. Crap.
“Receptive?” He shrugs. “Doesn’t necessarily mean I reciprocate.” CJ sips his champagne, showing me what a sensible pace of drinking looks like.
I take a couple more swallows anyway. “Did Alexandra give you an email address on our server?”
“No. Was she supposed to?”
“No.” Thank God. That means he won’t see Izzy’s email.
Yeah, except when he stops by the office, that’s what all the gossip will be about. And he’s friends with the Darlings…and Matt…so he’s definitely going to hear about it one way or another.
Sometimes I really hate the voice of realistic expectations in my head. It’s incredibly rude and obnoxious. And it’s always great at pointing out stuff I’d rather not acknowledge.
I drink more of the bubbly, then deflate. Maybe the truth the fortune cookie foretold is that I’m doomed to be alone, because no matter how good I am at putting on makeup, no matter how toned I get from yoga, the plain fact is: I’m messed up. Mentally fucked. Or worse. “Do I seem frigid to you?” I blurt out.
CJ spits his drink and gapes at me. “What?”
“I said…” I swallow, then tighten my grip around the stem, because my hand is suddenly sweaty and I’m afraid I’m going to drop the glass. “Do I seem frigid?”
“No. I think you’re hot as hell.”
“My ex broke up with me, saying I was frigid. Via email, which apparently made it more personal than texting.”
CJ stares at me like I’m crazy. And maybe I am. Right now, I’m not feeling very sane or rational.
“He’s an idiot,” CJ says finally. “Blaming you for his shitty skills in the sack.”
“He might be right, though.” I’m sounding super morose, which isn’t like me at all. Nope. But there’s something really depressing about my status. “I’ve had five serious boyfriends, and I’m still an OrGin.”
“What’s an OrGin?”
I knock back my drink because I don’t think I can say it otherwise. I inhale deeply. “An orgasm virgin.”
Chapter Nineteen
Michelle
CJ’s mouth slowly parts, and he gives me a look reserved for a problem not even a supercomputer could solve.
He’s probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me and is going to kick me out. I eye the dark green champagne bottle. Can I have another glass before I go? I really feel like I deserve one after that confession.
“Just so I’m clear… You’ve never had an orgasm…?” he asks.
“No.”
His eyebrows jump a notch. “But after Starbucks, when we were on the phone—”
“I mean, okay, yeah, I have.” I correct myself because saying I’ve never had one isn’t quite accurate, and he’s right to point out that time.
Now his eyebrows pinch together.
Shit, I’m screwing this up. “I can do it. With a vibrator and stuff. Just not from what a guy does to me. You know…in person.”
I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. I don’t need CJ’s pity or confusion. Even Sammi and Jan looked at me like I was panhandling in Latin when I told them. Not that I blame them. It’s weird. I admit it.
“Holy fuck. Your exes committed a crime against humanity,” CJ finally says. “And your last one is a special kind of asshole for blaming you when it’s clearly his fault.”
“Yes, he’s a special kind of asshole, but not for the reasons you think. He—”
CJ raises a finger. “If you were frigid, you wouldn’t have responded to my kiss outside Starbucks…or squirming afterward. And you definitely wouldn’t have come in your room, making those sounds you made.”
My face warms. That kiss was hot. The hottest, actually, even if it was in a parking lot, and I wasn’t in the most receptive of moods. And what came afterward? Oh. My. God. Just thinking about it makes me shift, trying to ease the beginning of an ache between my thighs.
“What you need is a high-performance man between your legs, capable of giving you what you need while you scream his name as you come.”
I almost choke on my champagne. The image he portrays is erotic, and it does affect me. But the problem isn’t that I can’t get turned on—it’s that I can’t finish. Sort of like a guy who can get it up, but then…kind of botches the rest that comes after rising to the occasion.
And suddenly I can’t bear it. Why am I even talking about this with CJ? It’s weird. He’s going to think there’s something seriously wrong with me, not that anyone could blame him. I mean… I don’t know him that well, and marketing campaign aside, he’s going to be at Matt and Jan’s wedding, so we’re going to be seeing more of each other. I should just…get up and leave while I’m ahead.
Yeah, because you’re just so far ahead.
Ugh. Ahead enough. That’s what matters. I stand up and start to slip my feet back into my stilettos.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going home.”
“Why?”
“Because this is stupid.” I serve myself another drink and knock it back fast because I need—no, deserve—it after that embarrassing conversation. Then I place the empty flute on the table and grab my purse. “I’m not sure what I was thinking, but this”—I sweep my hand around the suite—“the whole thing with me talking is dumb. TMI. If Matt were here, he would’ve advised me to plead the fifth.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Venture Capital.”
I start walking toward the door, my step sure and steady despite the alcohol. I’ve had a lot of practice. My hand has just touched the doorknob when CJ’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.
His body heat sears my back, and I gasp at the sensation. It jolts my system like an electric shock. My nerve endings come alive, sizzling, etching the hard, unyielding planes of his torso onto my brain.
And the erection. Oh my. The thick length prods against my ass, and I swallow. It feels almost too good there, and I shiver, biting my lower lip.
