Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
When I get home and shed my shirt and jeans, I flip over the band of my tight boxer briefs, running my thumb along the designer label.
Rafe Rodman.
I turn to the mirror, studying my reflection and the way I look in these midnight-blue briefs, which hug my cock and make my ass look high and tight. Are Rafe of the club and Rafe the designer of my boxer briefs the same man? Is he the billionaire Brit who made a mint on Wall Street before turning to his passion—making men’s clothes even sexier? And now he rakes in the dough peddling the kind of underwear I want to rip off for the right guy.
For my British mystery man.
A minute later, Google gives me the answer.
Yep, that’s my man.
Rafe Rodman, eat your heart out. This guy knows how to play ball, and I intend to throw him a pitch he can’t lay off.
The next morning, I get out of the shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and head to the bedroom to consider my choices. I lay out the options on my king-size bed, a vast array of temptations.
I consider the briefs with the cute cartoon hearts. Nah, I don’t feel cutesy today, though I do like the cheek.
My gaze drifts to the next pair, bright pink and sporting a flamingo down the front.
I laugh. I dig an animal print, but flamingos are too pretty.
I pick up a purple pair. How about a dragon?
But that’s the team I play third base for. So maybe that’s a little too on the nose. I want something that could tell a man what was on my mind and in my libido. Something to reel him in before the weekend.
Even if I’m wildly inexperienced in bed, I know how to play games. Flirting is my second-best skill after playing baseball.
I grab a pair of fire-engine-red boxer briefs, pull them on, then check out my reflection in the mirror.
“Damn.” I whistle. I make these look fine.
I park myself in a leather chair, lean back, and spread my legs, all relaxed and casual and fuckable.
Then, I snap a pic.
On Instagram, I add a sticker over the outline of my dick. It’s a rooster on my cock.
I pause. Am I pursuing that sexy-ass man on social media? Rafe Rodman is all man, all experience, and all hot. What would he say if he knew I’d never been with a guy? Would he want a virgin?
Deep breath. In, out. Another one.
I look at the image. My finger hovers over it. There’s only one way to find out.
Screw these nerves. I post the pic, tagging him and adding a throwdown: “How about a new design, Rafe? Here you go.”
Come and get me, Rafe Rodman.
4
THE FIRST MOVE IN THE GAME
Rafe
In the morning at the gym, I run through my workday agenda. When it comes to business, I’m usually a one-track-minded machine, so while I lift weights, I focus on the pressing things I need to do—not the man I saw once.
Well, technically it was twice. But who’s counting?
I can’t let distractions get the better of me. I have too much to accomplish and too many people who rely on me—like those I work with.
After my workout, I settle in at my desk and review the new fabric samples that have come in. One is a pure but simple turquoise color, and the other has little pictures of a devil on it.
So much for not thinking of the man I danced with last night.
Chuckling, I email the manufacturer and request he run with the Lucifer design—so long as he can make it bigger. I’m about to move onto some phone calls when Theresa knocks at my open office door.
She seems relaxed, but I frown upon seeing her. “I thought I told you not to come in today.”
“Yes, but Dad’s fine now. The fall looked worse than it was, and the staff thought it better to be cautious.”
“Are you sure? Do you need anything?” I ask, still concerned.
“I’m positive, Rafe. He’s bruised but unbroken.” She nears the desk and sinks into the leather chair opposite me with a contrite sigh but a playful smile. “And I feel absolutely awful for pulling you away from that delicious man.”
“Don’t think twice about it,” I say, waving off her unspoken apology.
“But I do.” She leans in and says in a quieter voice, “It was the most relaxed I’ve seen you in a long time.”
I laugh, reclining in my leather chair. “Relaxed? Is that the word you’d use?”
She laughs. “Fine. You weren’t relaxed. More like . . . energized?”
The way she says the word is flirty and coy, but she’s not flirting with me. It’s more like she’s acknowledging the flirt potential she observed last night.
I admit nothing. “It was more important to me to make sure you were okay. I told him where I’d be tomorrow, and I’ll see him if he chooses to show up.”