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“My time’s tight today,” I say, “so if you don’t mind, I’ll start.”
No answer, but I hear, above the sound of traffic swishing through the wet street from the rain earlier, water running.
“Four weeks. I need you to turn me into a boring, solid pillar of fucking society.”
Boring. That’s the word.
“I’ve heard you’re the best. And that’s what I need. It has to seem natural, like I’m on a path of self-discovery or growth or whatever floats their boat.” I check the time on my phone. “I just need to look good, and then we can go pick up chicks to celebrate when those four weeks are done.”
Seriously, I don’t know why I say this. I’ve never met this guy. I don’t know if I want to hang with him after four weeks of keeping me on the straight and narrow and away from pussy, of making me shine. I don’t even know if he’s married or got a piece or what.
I’m just irritated he’s not here, facing me, so I’m pushing buttons.
I’m also irritated I can’t tap the receptionist, who’s about a mile above most I meet. And I’m even more annoyed that I can’t fuck the blonde babe I met right after I got the rude and unnecessary hauling over the coals. Not the first one, the last one, that came with the letter from dear old dead Dad.
Last night.
I’m hung over, grumpy, and don’t want to be here, so acting like some small child.
But I also want this, so pissed off or not, here I am. Trying to figure out if this Elliot Perry is worth my time or if I should see what else is out there.
What am I thinking? This isn’t exactly a service provided on LinkedIn. At least not one that provides what I want.
And time is of the essence. I’m here. I need this guy to be what I need.
“Picking up chicks, as you so charmingly put it, really isn’t my jam, Sinclair.”
The voice, rich with a hint of smoke and spice rolls through me.
Two things are immediately apparent by the voice.
One—Elliot Perry’s got attitude.
Two—Elliot Perry is most certainly not male.
Three—I didn’t do my homework.
Yeah. Make that three.
“That’s either Mr. Sinclair,” I say, keeping my tone casual, confident and laid back, the one that has panties dropping in a half-mile radius. “Or Ryder. I’d suggest some kind of pet name, but I don’t think we’re going to have that kind of relationship.”
Heels click on the floor as the merest hint of gardenias floats about me. “I’m not sure we’ll be having any relationship at all.”
“Why?” I don’t turn. I don’t do the sort of thing like handing people like her all the power. That’s what turning around will do, and since she’s going to be guiding me in my life, exactly where I don’t want outsiders, even ones I hire, I’m not giving everything up. “Not enough money?”
“I’m not sure I have enough to work with.”
I smile. She sounds tall and willowy, with the kind of breasts a man can lose himself in. And long legs. I’m picturing a smoldering beauty, dressed to match this place, dressed like elegant sex, a hot woman who can get real dirty when she’s played just right. I’m seeing long black hair, loose, and—
“Interesting. Why are you smiling?”
My imagination is a little too free and easy.
“Because you sound like you’re testing me.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m highly discreet, I’m top of my game, and I take on clients of my choosing. You’re lucky I let you in.”
She leans against the desk and crosses her arms over her tits. My imagination got those spot on. Lush and full. Like her body. Some might say plump, but I don’t mind that. I like them all shapes, all sizes, as long as the woman is beautiful and willing and knows my game.
