Total pages in book: 3
Estimated words: 2208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 11(@200wpm)___ 9(@250wpm)___ 7(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 2208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 11(@200wpm)___ 9(@250wpm)___ 7(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Blanche
* * *
I wasn’t always a purveyor of my own pleasure.
Indeed, Before Bliss—a time I like to refer to as BB—I would be too caught up in the mechanics to truly let myself go. I’d worry when it would happen, how it would happen, or if it’d already happened and I’d missed it—ha! As if one could.
But here in my hotel room, as I slick on Orgasm Red lipstick, I can’t help but smile. I’m not that way anymore.
Now, I indulge in my wildest fantasies. Alone in the shower a little while ago, I daydreamed up a mysterious man in a three-piece suit. I imagined him taking off his tie, pinning my wrists above my head, and teasing me, tempting me, taking me to the brink of orgasm—then letting me fall free.
I adjust the strap of my black lace demi bra, then stand at the floor-to-ceiling mirror in my suite and survey the matching lingerie I’m wearing. If all goes well, a man like the one in my fantasies will be taking this lingerie off later tonight.
Slowly.
With his teeth.
And it’s all thanks to the advice of a certain ex-employee-turned-business-genius I know.
I slide on a silk dress, slip on some shoes, and grab my phone from the coffee table before tapping out a text to the woman to whom I owe oh-so-many Os.
* * *
Blanche: Confession: I loved your Virgin Club piece today. The idea of not knowing all the details in a sexy rendezvous is kind of thrilling.
* * *
Seconds later, my phone dings with a reply.
* * *
Veronica: Mystery is an aphrodisiac, and it seems people are loving it. Sales of this month’s box are up, up, up!
* * *
I grin as I slide my cell into my clutch and head to the door. Investing in Date Night for One has been a profitable exercise with multiple dividends on all fronts. I’m trying new things and the ROI has been better than predicted.
And I do love people who over deliver.
As I walk into the elevator, I spy the poster on the wall advertising the event that’s brought me to this Los Angeles hotel.
* * *
Children’s Book Fair
Meet Ten of the country’s most exciting kid-lit authors, all in one place!
* * *
A who’s who of the genre follows, prompting a surge of pride inside me. McGee Whitney Books publishes five of them—five. And I can’t deny a little spike of pleasure when I see Agnes Millicent’s name isn’t on the list. I don’t wish her ill—I’m not that kind of person—but the way she went public with what was a very trivial email mishap was far from professional. Besides, who has time for sex-negative people? Not this editor, that’s for sure.
And especially not tonight as I head into the hotel bar. In the corner, a man croons a song about luck being a lady. Luck sure is, and her name is Blanche. Because tonight, I plan to get lucky.
I settle onto a stool at the bar next to a couple who stare at each other with naughty thoughts in their eyes, as if they’re imagining stripping, touching, fucking each other right here in this room.
I want someone to look at me like that.
When I catch the bartender’s attention to order a drink, he mouths be there in a few before turning to a gaggle of women at the other end of the bar. I use the time to survey the room—the gentle hum of conversation and the golden glow of intimate lighting send a thrum of anticipation through me.
In one corner is a group of guys, talking and laughing too loudly, but none of them pique my interest. There’s nothing wrong with any of them—but there’s nothing right either.
There’s a man sitting by himself, nursing a beer. His eyes lift, catch mine, and he gives me a timid wave, but his wedding ring glints in the light as he does, and I quickly look away. No, thank you.
I conduct one final sweep of the room, attempt one last search for Mister Right Now—and then my pulse stutters. Stops. Beats double time.
A man in a three-piece suit walks into the bar. But even though that sounds like the start of a joke, I’m far from laughing.
The suit frames his body like it was made for him, highlighting the broad sweep of his shoulders then narrowing in at his torso. As he turns the other way, perhaps searching for someone, I catch a glimpse of his ass in those pants, and dear God, it’s round, and it’s firm, and it’s entirely too tempting. His body could belong to a superhero. He could be a superhero—this is LA, after all. Maybe he’s a stunt double for a movie star.
As he turns back to the bar, his dark brown eyes connect with mine, and for a beat I’m tempted to look away, search my clutch for something unimportant, but I don’t. I’m a woman alone at a bar in a city far from home, and the man of my fantasies has just walked in. It’s time to do what I read about in the latest Virgin Club column. Embrace mystery.