Chapter 11
eleven
Juliet Rivera kissed me.
And I’m starting to suspect I’ll have to undergo some sort of shock therapy to get rid of my hard-on.
My cock throbs through two endless meetings back at Everett Alexander. Three trips in traffic. And spending an hour in the weight room at my gym does nothing but encourage it.
Back at my place, after my workout, I jack off twice to the memory of her wet, glorious heat—once in the shower. Then when the scent of jasmine clinging to the files I brought home gets me hard all over again.
Disgusted with myself, I pour a smooth glass of Pinot Noir and chug it before refilling the crystal with a second serving. I need to mellow out enough to get through my damn work.
I can’t show up for our next meeting unprepared. I won’t give her the satisfaction.
I wander over to my record table and put on my favorite bossa nova album. The quiet strains of acoustic bass echo off the exposed brick walls and up into the high ceiling.
When I purchased this loft, I expected the fashionable Lower East Side loft to feel homier over time. I carefully selected pieces from my favorite artists to grace the walls, and invested tons into a surround sound system that catered to my record collection and cache of digital music.
None of that helped, so I hired a decorator to furnish it. She did a decent job of capturing my eclectic tastes and penchant for color. Gave decent head, too. But, alas, the furniture and rugs and blow jobs didn’t fill the emptiness, either.
My kitchen serves as a monument to the idea of cooking. I got a wild yen one month and convinced myself I would learn how to prepare gourmet meals. On impulse, I ordered thousands of dollars of five-star equipment. The rack of untouched cookware hanging over my island now mocks me on a daily basis.
It doesn’t seem to matter what I do to this place. I don’t like being here.
Maybe I’ll talk to that Beatrice chick , I tell myself, carrying my work over to the sitting area in the living room. She’s a realtor. She’s hot. I could ask her about putting this place on the market and take her out…
I know I’m only fooling myself. Moving to another over-priced apartment won’t squelch the cool solitude of my existence any more than fucking Beatrice What’s-Her-Face will slake my desire for Miss Rivera.
Who I hate .
Passionately.
Too damn passionately.
Flopping back onto my sofa with my wine, I will myself to focus. Originally, I planned to spend the evening going through her objections to the Everett Alexander document and combating them. But I find myself reaching for her proposed contract instead.
By the time I finish reading it, I’m half-hard all over again.
Goddamn this woman .
Her contract is good. It’s great , actually. And I find that possessing such deep—albeit begrudging—respect for the woman I lust after does strange things to me.
I briefly entertain the thought of hiring her away from Stryker. I’ll need a lawyer to form my contracts for future clients. Obviously, Everett Alexander’s are out of date. Never mind the fact that I’m technically operating on my own at the moment.
The truth makes my stomach twist… and nausea reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since Juliet’s delicious sandwich.
My cock twitches in my sweats.
Graham Everett . Hard over a fucking sandwich .
One kiss—and the woman has utterly ruined me.