The Virgin Society Collection

12. My Proposal

12

MY PROPOSAL

Nick

Some women are just irresistible.

On my way to a meeting in Kensington a few days after I make the profile on The Makeover, I indulge in another hit of Lola as I step onto the Tube. Once the doors close, I click on her latest social media post—a how-to video on fixing a makeup mistake like smeared eyeliner. I watch it, then I leave a heart.

But I swear that red emoticon mocks me.

As well it should.

I roll my eyes at myself. I’m not a teenager. I’m not a fucking twentysomething. Yet here I am, posting goddamn emoticons for a woman.

I don’t even like social media. I only got an account to flirt with her. Since, well, I fucking love flirting with her.

Still, this heart shit has to stop.

Except, algorithms love engagement. I ought to know. I made the money to start my VC firm with an app I created—an app fueled by a sorting algorithm. I went on to sell it for many, many figures.

Engagement matters in this digital world, and Lola’s vying not just for relevance, but dominance. With some reluctance that it’s come to this, I add a smiley face to the heart.

But that’s enough.

A pack of men in suits march onto the train at the next stop, while I click over to DM her. It’s become our thing these last few days.

DistractibleGuy: Hey, you…I’m on the tube surrounded by bankers. I know they’re bankers because they’re wearing navy.

She’s a busy woman, so I don’t expect her to reply right away. I toggle to my email and check some contracts Kyle just forwarded to me. But as the train rattles underground, a notification from her pops up.

Lola: What are YOU wearing, though?

DistractibleGuy: Is that your shameless attempt to get me to send a selfie?

Lola: Is that an option?

DistractibleGuy: Probably not, but points to you for effort.

Lola: I want more than points.

DistractibleGuy: I’ll give you a visual instead.

I peer down at my get-up and tap out another message.

DistractibleGuy: Charcoal slacks, a dark green shirt, a light blue tie.

Lola: Mmm. I do like a sharp-dressed man.

DistractibleGuy: Lola. There seem to be a few typos in your last DM.

Lola: Well, I don’t know if I’d like you sharp-dressed, Nick. I didn’t see you in clothes very much.

She makes an excellent point. And I’m not sure I want to rectify that no-clothes situation with her.

A few weeks later, as I’m boarding a flight to Vienna to meet with a former colleague of mine who I often trade ideas with—a scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours deal—my phone pings with a very welcome notification.

Lola: I’m leaving Krav Maga, wearing pink workout pants and a sports bra.

Damn, that’s sexy, taking a bad-ass self-defense class. And wearing pink while you land punches.

I focus on the pink, though, not the punches. The way the fabric hugs her curves…I’m already assembling an image. Savoring it. Planning to use it later.

Lola likes to play.

I do, too, and write back:

DistractibleGuy: I don’t believe you.

Lola: Why would I lie?

DistractibleGuy: Maybe you’re home wearing nothing.

Lola: I’m walking past construction workers. I’m definitely not wearing nothing.

DistractibleGuy: Prove it.

The proof arrives one minute later. A photo lands of men in hard hats. I laugh, then I reply in kind.

DistractibleGuy: I’m on the plane, sitting in first class, wearing a tailored suit.

Lola: Pics or it didn’t happen.

I give her a shot of the galley, then put the phone away, my smile a little wistful. Lola is addictive. Such a damn shame about the whole “Atlantic Ocean between us” thing.

We flirt across the ocean for the next month. In July I catch up with Finn while he’s in town. We’re having dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant when my phone pings with the chime I’ve assigned to Lola. My dick jumps like the fucker’s been trained. Pavlov’s dick.

I hit ignore so I can give my brother my entire focus. “Have you thought any more about my proposal?” he asks, just as I take a bite of the eggplant bharta.

He has to wait while I chew. Finally, I answer, “I have.”

“And?”

Setting down the fork, I take a beat, exhale. “It’s tempting.”

He grins. It’s a precursor-type smile, one that says he likes where this is going. “It’s always been your goal, Nick.”

“It has.” His proposal aligns with my big plans. Not much holds me back, but I like to do my research.

“So? What do you think?” he prompts, picking up his fork to snag a bite of chana masala.

My phone pings again before I can answer.

Finn arches a brow, glancing at the device. “That’s definitely a hookup.”

I do my best to keep a straight face as I silence my alerts. “It’s nothing.”

He snorts. “Bullshit.”

But I don’t want to give him an opening into the topic of Lola. Not now. Not when the ammunition is too good—me unable to stop thinking about a woman I saw once.

Ha. You’re doing more than thinking. You’re texting with her. A LOT.

“It’s nothing,” I say crisply, shutting him down with the tone our dad used to end a conversation when we were kids. The one my brother and I both use in business now.

Finn acquiesces with a nod. “Fair enough. We’ll stick to the proposal.”

I focus on a particularly appealing aspect. “I think I could convince my son to work with us,” I say. “I’ve been talking to him about doing some marketing for the firm.”

Finn’s green eyes spark with intrigue. “Oh yeah? What does he say?”

I scratch my jaw, hopeful but cautious. “He seems…open to it.”

With a gregarious grin—that’s Finn’s go-to smile—he leans back in the chair and stretches out his arms wide as if embracing the idea. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Let me think about it tonight,” I say, as if my answer wasn’t always going to be yes.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

I enjoy his frustration and finish my eggplant bharta.

We finish dinner and say goodnight. Back at my flat, I jump on my texts as soon as the door swings closed. We switched from DM to text recently, and I’m dying to know what Lola’s double pings were about.

Lola: I know you’ve been wanting to see my exercise clothes. Thought you’d enjoy.

There’s a shot of her folded laundry stacked on her bed next to pillows in silver, gold, and sapphire blue. I’m dying for a shot of her, but I haven’t asked. The delayed gratification game is too fun.

Nick: Nice pillows.

Lola: You like my pillows?

Nick: I really do.

Lola: The color?

I unknot my tie as I type with one thumb. It’s hot in here now. Tropical levels.

Nick: No, Lola. Not the color.

Lola: Then what, Nick?

Nick: I like imagining you lying on them tonight. How your hair would look spilled out across them. How your face would look blissed out.

Lola: Is that something you want to see?

Nick: Very much.

I set the phone on my bare coffee table, trading it for my laptop. I take the computer out to the balcony and park my ass at the little table overlooking the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge six floors below.

There, I review Finn’s proposal. I’ve got to focus on these terms and not let anything cloud my decision-making.

Not a photo of Lola that, god willing, might arrive soon.

Not on those convos.

Not on my own wild thoughts of that woman.

I spend thirty minutes reading the terms again, but when my son’s ringtone trills from inside, I jump up and rush to answer.

“Hey there, kiddo. What’s going on?”

“Hey, Dad. Not much. Just trying to unpack.”

I return to the balcony, phone pressed to my ear. “You hate unpacking.”

“With a passion,” he says.

I smile, remembering how he’d live out of boxes for weeks whenever we moved. Which was a lot.

“So I’m your procrastination?”

“Lucky you,” he deadpans.

“Lucky me, indeed.”

I hear him shuffle around the apartment he’s subletting for the month and picture him opening boxes. I want to ask if he’s thought more about my offer, but he does best when he comes to me. I have to be strategic and wait for my pitch.

Instead, we chat about baseball, and whether the New York Comets can beat the San Francisco Cougars until, finally, he says, “I think I’m in. Like, on a trial basis, if that’s okay?”

I punch the sky. “That’s great.”

Later—much later—as I’m reading a book on my phone in the dark, a text arrives with a picture attached.

I suck in a breath through my teeth as I slide open the message.

It’s only the side of her face, barely even a profile shot. But it’s clear what she’s doing.

She understood the assignment perfectly, and I don’t look away for a good, long, satisfying time.

A few weeks later—after a signature from me and a signature from my brother—I send a very direct text to Lola.

No flirting, no teasing, no pics. Just a request.

Nick: Can I call you?

Lola: Of course.

My wingtips echo in my nearly empty flat as I pace, waiting for her to pick up my call. I’ve got a meeting to attend in an hour, so I’m still dressed for business.

“Hey,” she says, and her voice is like dopamine. I’m feeling good everywhere from that sensual, feminine sound.

“Hey, beautiful,” I say.

“Hey, you,” she says, then laughs, embarrassed. “I guess I said that already.”

Ah, hell, she’s so endearing when she’s a bit awkward. “Yeah, but I like hearing your voice.”

“You do?” She sounds delighted.

“I do,” I say, then I don’t fuck around. I go straight for the prize. “Can I take you out next week on that second date? I’m going to be in New York.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, but I can hear her breathe, and if a breath could sound excited, hers does. “But it’s our third date, Nick,” she says, all seductive and bold.

“I stand corrected.”

“And on our third date, you better take me out and then take me .”

I groan, a rumble that I feel all the way in my balls. This woman. “Count on it.”

We make plans, then my phone pings. As we talk, I open the photo and groan my approval. She’s in her apartment, stretched out on a red chaise longue, wearing a white tank top, biting the corner of her sexy lips.

“Look at you,” I rasp. “You’re a fucking goddess. I don’t know how I’m going to last through dinner with you.”

“You’ll make it through dinner because you enjoy foreplay so much.”

She knows me well already. “I really fucking do,” I say, then I amend that statement. Personalize it. “With you, beautiful. With you .”

“Same…Want to switch to FaceTime?”

I say yes so goddamn fast. Moments later, I’m lying on my bed while she asks me a crucial question: “What do you want to do to me when you see me?”

She likes it when I take my time, so I cock my head, gazing at her lush body. “Why don’t you slide your hand down your stomach and play with those pretty panties? It’ll help me think.”

She complies, her fingers teasing at the silky fabric. “Is this giving you dirty thoughts about me?”

I groan, then answer, “Filthy ones. It’s definitely helping me along. But maybe take off that tank, beautiful.”

Her white top flies off, then her bra. I hiss at the sight of her full breasts, those dusky-rose nipples already hard. “Thinking more, Nick?”

“I’d like to bite those perky nipples, then suck on them till you squirm.”

She writhes, her hand sliding into her panties. Soon, she’s putting on a show for me. Panting, moaning, begging. “More. What else, Nick?”

That’s so fucking easy. I miss her sweetness badly. “I’d pull you on top of me and tell you to sit on my face.” My cock thumps against my pants. He likes that idea.

Her carnal moan tells me she does too. “I want that,” she says, with desperation that makes my dick even harder.

“You’d grind that sweet pussy against my mouth,” I rasp as I undo my pants.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she rocks her hips faster, murmuring yes, god yes .

“I’d lick and kiss you. Devour you,” I say, gripping my cock to get some goddamn relief. I stroke as I paint a dirty picture. “I’m dying to taste you again. To hold those hips and eat you while you fuck my face.”

The pictures…Dear god, the erotic pictures flipping before me—her grinding on me in a week, and her fucking herself right now—are driving me wild. My fist is flying. “I want you to ride my face till I can’t breathe.”

“Nick,” she moans, then arches her back, crying out as I give her a fifth orgasm.

It’s breathtaking to watch.

Then, it’s mind-numbing to feel as my own arousal takes over, a climax barreling mercilessly through me.

When we’ve caught our breath, I excuse myself and go wash my hands, then I return to our FaceTime, my pants still unzipped.

“That’s one of my favorite things,” she says in a sexy confession.

“Getting off? Yeah, me too.”

With a naughty smile, she shakes her head. “My go-to is gifs of men or women touching themselves.”

That’s too hot. “Yeah?”

She nods. “I like to watch pleasure. When I watch women, I imagine it’s me and you’re doing dirty things that make me want to touch myself. When I watch men, I picture you, getting off to me.”

My throat grows dry. “I swear you’re going to make me ready to go again,” I growl.

“Good,” she says with a satisfied grin. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”

“Every night. Every morning,” I agree. I don’t know that I can survive her sensuality, but I will try. Too soon, I have to say goodbye. “I’ll see you Friday night. We’ll go to Hugo’s. I’ll make a reservation, and I’ll get a car and pick you up.”

“I can’t wait,” she says.

When I see her, I’ll tell her more about me. The things I haven’t shared yet. Things about my family. Things about my plans.

Like the fact that I’m not only coming to New York for a weekend.

I’m relocating there, merging my VC firm with my brother’s under the name Strong Ventures, and I just bought a new place in Gramercy Park—a penthouse apartment overlooking the city.

That’s where I intend to take her after our dinner. There I’ll fuck her to her sixth, seventh, eighth orgasm, and then some.