The Virgin Society Collection

4. Ladies Choice

4

LADIES CHOICE

Nick

There’s a first time for everything.

Like watching makeup videos, evidently.

But I need to know why the hell this woman made me throw out my no-dating-on-work-trips rule. Maybe the answer lies in the videos she makes—videos with tons of views.

As I brush my teeth in my suite, I am transfixed by the woman on the screen, swiping a pink pencil thingy precisely across her eyebrow.

“This step is for creating depth,” Lola says, and I don’t give two fucks about how to fill in a brow but Lola commands my attention with her confident yet accessible style.

I watch till the end. I barely blink.

“And that’s how you blend in your brow, my pets.” When she’s done, she picks up a lipstick, slicks on some red gloss, then blows a seductive kiss to the camera.

Fuck me. I’m aroused from a makeup video.

I spit out the toothpaste and gargle some water.

But that barely douses my semi. As I move around my suite getting ready to see her, I start the next video and I don’t stop watching. This is binge-worthy content right here in my hand. From my suitcase, I grab a pair of charcoal slacks with my free hand, then a tailored, black short-sleeve shirt. Perfect for a sultry evening out.

Setting down the phone on the bureau, I get dressed as I watch. I button up my shirt and hit play on another video. I don’t need to know how to put on eyeliner, but I need more of her.

The blonde beauty I’m taking out tonight wears a tank top that shows off that stunning flower tattoo, the color of sapphire. She brandishes a makeup brush and a pot of blue shiny something or other. “Once upon a time, blue eye shadow was a joke,” she says, and okay, that pot is eyeshadow. Cool, cool. “Now it’s a must-have. So let’s enjoy the blues together, my pets.”

I tuck in my shirt as I learn how to make a midnight shade work for you. Who knew what blue could do for an eye?

Once I’m dressed, I hit stop on Lola. Reluctantly .

This woman could make me a video addict.

There’s something in her that’s impossible to look away from, both in person and online. She’s got charisma, shine, chutzpah. Hell, she approached me after the show, ready to ask me out.

That’s why I’m breaking my rule.

At a quarter to seven, I pocket my phone and head downstairs. The L Bar is already filled with the young, the beautiful and the nearly naked. Guys doused in cologne and baring wolfish grins are out in full force on a Friday night.

They’re hunting.

The joint is teaming with the fairer sex too, with svelte and curvy bodies alike poured into tight dresses or bikinis, sky-high heels all around. South Beach is such a fiesta of flesh.

I say hello to the hostess then grab two stools at the sleek, silver counter, scanning the room in case Lola’s an early bird. I don’t spot her, and I’m glad she’s not here yet.

A man should wait for a woman, not the other way around.

I turn to the clean-shaven man behind the bar who looks like he’d be carded in any establishment. He’s probably my son’s age—twenty-one. “How’s it going, Enrique?” I ask, quickly reading his name tag.

“It’s going well. What can I get you, sir?”

Sir. I’m not even forty, but I’ll always be a sir to guys like him. But I wouldn’t trade a thing to be young again. Those years were hard as hell.

“Whiskey, neat,” I say.

“Coming right up.”

I take in the lay of the land as I wait, reviewing the entrances—one from inside the hotel, where I came in, and an open-air one from the pool. A warm evening breeze wafts in.

“Here you go,” the bartender says. I thank him, then slap down a bill.

I knock back some of the drink. It’s ten minutes till seven, but I don’t screw around on my phone. It’s a special moment to witness a woman arriving for a date with you.

I take another drink, then inhale the scent of the ocean.

When the clock hits seven, a vision in red steps through the doorway leading to the hotel.

My skin heats and a rumble threatens to escape my lips as I drink her in from a distance. A red dress with white polka dots hugs her curves. Flouncy material hits at her knees. Perfect. The fabric looks easy to push up. All that lush blonde hair is swept up in some kind of clip that invites me to undo it later tonight, to watch her tresses fall, rope my fingers through those strands and then kiss the fuck out of her as she begs me for more.

Her fingers are covered in skull rings, an interesting contrast to her perky dress.

Before she turns to the bar, the hostess asks her a question, drawing her attention. A table full of young guys all swivel their heads toward Lola, and one with too much gel in his hair not-so-subtly points to her and mouths, “I call dibs.”

I burn inside.

I stand, weave through the tables in the bar and push past them, making sure they see me heading straight for the woman in red. When I reach her, she swings her gaze slowly toward me, excitement flaring in her gorgeous, bright blue eyes.

“Hi, Lola. You look incredible,” I say. Then I set a hand on her arm—possessively and obviously. I dip my face closer to hers, brushing a kiss across her soft cheek, savoring the way her breath catches.

But it’s not just a kiss I’m leaving—it’s a claim, letting everyone here tonight know she’s with me and only with me.

I inhale some kind of jasmine scent on her neck, or maybe in her hair, and it is intoxicating, like everything else about her.

When I pull back, she looks a little woozy.

“Hi, Nick.” She’s breathless and it’s beautiful to see.

“I got us seats at the bar. Come with me.”

“I’m there,” she says.

Yeah, same here.

I set a hand on her back, my eyes only on her as we return to the silver counter, passing the table full of dudes who wanted the woman by my side. You don’t get to call dibs, fuckers. She already called them.

Ladies choice, and all.

At the bar, I ask her, “What can I get for you?”

She’s decisive as she holds my gaze and says, “Normally I’m a mojito gal, but I think I’ll do a French 75… with you .”

Those last two words linger seductively—with you. She’s making an exception and I want to ask more about that. But first, a drink. I turn to the bartender, lift a finger, catch his eye, and then say, “A French 75 for the lady.”

“Will do,” the baby-faced man says, then grabs the bottle of champagne. As he pours, I return all my focus to Lola.

“A mojito’s your favorite?”

“Most of the time.”

“Then why not get it tonight?”

“That’s what I get with my friends,” she says, coy, like a cat.

I like where this is going, and I like to play too. “You don’t feel friendly with me?”

“Not really, Nick.”

The way she says Nick—I want her to say it in other ways. Late at night. “You weren’t very friendly during my keynote either.”

“I wasn’t?” she asks in mock surprise, then she flicks the ends of her blonde hair, just like she did this afternoon when I was onstage.

That move is just one of many that made today’s speech the toughest ever. I’d gritted my teeth, white knuckling my way through my outline, hoping I wouldn’t sport wood onstage. “You were having a good time in the front row, weren’t you?”

“Did I seem like I was having a good time?”

“The best time. Is there a reason you were trying to distract me?”

She doesn’t answer me directly. Instead, she crosses her legs, drawing my attention to them. Then she nibbles on the corner of her lips, bringing my eyes right back to that gorgeous mouth of hers. “It worked, didn’t it?” she asks.

“How do you know it worked earlier?” I counter.

She gives a coy shrug, then gestures to me, her fingers dangerously, distractingly close to my chest before she sets them in her lap. “Well, you’re here.”

I growl and it turns into a sigh of longing and lust. The bartender returns with a distraction and our drinks—a fresh whiskey for me as well as her drink. I peel off a few more crisp bills, and tell him to keep the change.

“Thanks, sir,” he says.

I wish he wouldn’t call me that in front of her, but c’est la vie.

“You’re welcome,” I say, then add, “sir.”

I can be a dick too.

He heads off to the other end of the bar, and Lola tilts her head, her eyes locked on me. “So, you really were distracted by me during your talk?”

The question comes out innocently. Because I pulled off the speech. I didn’t reveal to the audience that I wanted to stride off the stage, march over to her, and ask her to spend the night with me. “You tell me,” I ask, picking up my glass of whiskey.

“Honestly, you seemed…in charge, and on top of everything. Like you knew exactly what you were doing.” Her words come out full of innuendo. Everything that falls from those lips has a double meaning.

I lean a little closer, catching a whiff of her heady scent. “I’m glad no one could tell how hard it was for me. Didn’t want to let on to a single soul that I just couldn’t stop thinking of this woman in the front row.”

She sits higher, almost preening, and lifts her champagne flute. “We should toast then. To distractions.”

I clink my tumbler against hers. “To very worthy distractions and the opportunities they bring.”

Then she takes a sip and I watch as the glass hits her lips. I’m jealous of that glass, but I try to console myself. I’ll be kissing that lipstick off her by the end of the night.

I lift my whiskey, take another drink, then set it down. “So, Lola, I took the liberty of making a dinner reservation.”

“Oh? You did?”

Yeah, that definitely surprised her. Maybe she’s not used to a man who knows how to plan a date.

“I did. I want to get to know you better. There’s this great place on the beach called Catalina’s. It’s fusion cuisine, Miami meets Cuban, with vegetarian, meat, whatever works for you. Can I take you to dinner?”

Her smile is a little like the sunrise. It dawns slow and easy, then spreads all at once. “I love that you ask. But you should know—the answer has been yes all day long.”

I want to make sure the answer will be yes all night long too.

When we leave, I set a hand on her back, marking her as mine, since she seems to like that.

And I want to grab this chance to give her everything she wants because tomorrow, I’ll be an ocean away.