Peter
Islept like shit.
After a night like the one I just had, you’d think I’d sleep like a baby, my head filled with sweet thoughts of that damn stripper. Yeah, no such luck. I spent the night tossing and turning, kicking at the bedsheets as if they were trying to strangle me. Sure, the sweet thoughts were there, but they had the sharpness of a knife.
“What’s your fucking problem, Peter?” I ask myself, my voice echoing through the vastness of my bedroom. I swing my legs off the bed, pull the curtains open, and pad onto the balcony. Down below, the streets and avenues of New York stretch as far as the eye can see, like some frenetic web of roads. That’s one of the best things about owning a penthouse—the view.
I take a deep breath, praying the fresh air will help me relax, but it doesn’t work. No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about that woman. The way she appeared out of nowhere and sauntered toward us, purring like a kitten and moving like a panther...just thinking of it is enough to make me hard.
I rake one hand over my face.
When was the last time I felt like this? I can’t even remember. Work has always been my mistress, and I never paid much attention to dating. You don’t get to be a billionaire if you’re spending half your time between someone’s legs. Unless you’re Darian Strong, that is, but I rather not talk about that asshole.
Not wanting to feel like a miserable asshole all morning, I put on a suit and head to work. Again, you’d think that the sight of my headquarters, and the polite ‘good morning’ of a dozen of my loyal employees would be enough to lift my spirits...but no. That stripper remains lodged in my mind like a fucking splinter, and everytime I try to remove her she just digs in deeper.
I spend the better part of an hour trying to focus on the projection costs for a warehouse I’m planning on Jersey, but it’s useless. Before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed my phone and summoned my army of lawyers. Like suited-up vampires, they’re in my office five minutes later, desperate to hear who I want them to bleed dry.
“As you’re aware, I’m trying to purchase Wiggle Jiggle from Max Kleeberger.” I lean back on my seat, not truly believing what I’m about to say. “The bastard is demanding a seat at the board if he’s to sell, and I want to know if—”
“A seat at the board?” Johnson squeaks. He’s a tall bastard, but he’s so thin that I’m actually surprised a breeze hasn’t carried him away from New York. He’s the most cautious of the bunch, so I can’t say his fearful squeaks are a surprise “No, that’s a terrible idea. Anyone with access to the board of directors will also have unprecedented access to the entire company. We don’t want to grant powers like that to a strip-club owner, especially one with Mr. Kleeberger’s reputation.”
I keep my mouth shut, but when the rest of my lawyers start nodding their agreement...well, that’s when I know I’m truly losing the plot. Am I really considering giving Max Kleeberger a seat at the table just because a woman told me to? I’venevermade a decision with my dick before. As well-endowed as I might be, I pride myself in having an even more powerful brain.
Up until now, that is. My brain has waved a white flag, and my cock has proudly assumed the throne.
“Alright, back to work.” I wave my lawyers away and, once I’m alone, I pace my corner office like a caged beast. It’s actually surprising that I’m able to pace, given that I have a fucking boner right now. Yeah, as unprofessional as it might be, I’m lusting for that woman right now, and I’m lusting so fucking bad I can’t even think straight.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, but that just makes it worse. The moment I’m staring at the back of my eyelids, I’m back at Wiggle Jiggle, and those long and delicate fingers are pressing down on my cock. And then there are her legs, smooth as cotton candy, and that sweet scent of sin. Let’s not even get started on her breasts, or on her ass, or on...fuck, why doeseverythingabout that woman has to be so damn perfect?
Another deep breath and I’m back on my desk.
“Annie, get me the Chief of Police.” I slam the phone back on its cradle and wait as my secretary makes the connection. Once there’s a flashing red light, I pick the phone back up. “I need a favor.”
“Is that how you talk to old friends?” Chief Anderson laughs so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. He’s a good and loyal friend but, damn, the man doesn’t know how to turn it down. “What is this time, Silver?”
“It’s a simple favor,” I reply. “I need to know the name and address of a stripper.”
“A stripper?” Again, that booming laughter. Jesus. “What in the world has gotten into you? You’re not the kind of guy to go chasing after women, let alone strippers.”
“Never mind that. I just need you to get me that name and address. She works at Wiggle Jiggle and—”
“That’s probably Becky Brash you’re talking about. Great hair, looks like sin, and purrs like a kitten?” When I don’t say anything, Chief Anderson laughs again. “What? A Chief of Police needs to inspect these joints from time to time. And Becky...well, she’s something, isn’t she? No wonder you’re smitten. Everyone who goes there ends up just like you.”
“I’mnotsmitten.” It’s a bald-faced lie, but whatever. “Just get me that address, will ya?”
“Sure, just gimme a second.” I hear the clatter of his keyboard for a couple of seconds and then he clears his throat. “Alright, here it is. I’m texting it to you. She lives in Greenwich Village.”
“Thanks, Chief, I owe you one.” No more than a second later and I’m already heading for the door. I text the driver to pull my limo around and, by the time I get to the ground floor, the car’s already waiting for me on the curb.
Let’s be honest here, I have no idea what I’m doing.
All I know is that I need to see this woman—Becky Brash. I have no idea if she’ll be happy to see me, sure, but I still gotta risk it. It’s either that or go batshit crazy. I mean, I was considering giving Max fucking Kleeberger a seat on the board. It doesn’t get any crazier than that.
“It’s here,” I tell the driver once I spot the right house, and I’m out of the car in the blink of an eye. I stand there for a moment, under the dappled shadow of the trees, and stare at the door like a teenage boy before prom. Thankfully, I’m a grown-ass man, and I’m used to getting what I want.
I climb the steps two at a time and rap my knuckles against the door. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I wait, and wait, and wait…
I knock again, suddenly afraid she’s not home, and that’s when I hear soft footsteps on the other side of the door. Then I hear the lock turning, the door swings open, and there she is.
Becky Brash.
Or, rather, anhalf-nakedBecky Brash.