“Do you still like it? Being walked on a leash?” she says, egging me on.
“Is this your way of asking me to participate in kinky, dirty things?”
“No. It’s my way of asking how far this fantastic story extends so that if I want to mention it while we’re at the bar, or out with Nick or Kristen, or your sister, that I get it right,” she says, miming walking a dog.
But that’s not how I see things going. Not at all. Just so she knows how I like these scenarios to play out, I lean in closer, brush her hair away from her shoulder, and whisper, “If anyone’s getting tied up, it’s you. And it won’t be with a leash. It’ll be with a scarf, or stockings, or that black hot-as-fuck thong you put on because I made you so wet you had to change. I’d wrap it around your wrists, nice and tight, then pin them behind your back until you beg me to touch you.”
Her breath catches.
She trembles, and a shiver runs through her body. She grips the front of my shirt, her fingertips curling around a button. And holy fuck… she likes the idea of being tied up. I can feel it in the air. In the way protons and electrons are buzzing. In the sexual energy that’s radiating off her body.
I inhale.
It smells like chemistry.
And I have no clue what to make of it.
I don’t even know why I just said that, since I’m not supposed to be thinking about screwing her, let alone tying her up.
Good thing Nina returns moments later with the ring. “A rush sizing job for my most special customers,” she says with a smile. Charlotte holds out her hand, and I slide the diamond onto her ring finger, meeting her eyes for a second. I try to read them, to see if she thinks this is as surreal as I do—me, the New York City playboy, putting a ring on it.
Even a temporary one.
Maybe this is weird for her too.
As I study her face, I can’t tell at first from her serious expression how she’s feeling to wear an engagement ring for the first time. Then I see it in her big, brown eyes, as a flicker of sadness passes over them. My heart lurches, and I figure she’s remembering that ten months ago she was about to be engaged to a man who wound up breaking her heart.
Good thing I won’t be the one making her look that way ever. I don’t have the power to hurt her like that.
I drop a quick kiss on her cheek, then hand over my platinum card and spend close to ten thousand dollars on a ring. When we go to work that night, she doesn’t wear it.
CHAPTER TEN
The next afternoon, I’m watching as a little white ball soars high in the air, then lands with a plunk on fake grass about fifteen feet away.
“Dude, you suck,” I tell Nick.
“Well aware of that.”
He grabs another ball, sets it down on the tee, and swings his club. When he makes contact, the ball sails so damn high, it nearly hits the top of the black net, then smacks the long path of green that extends below like a dock over the Hudson River. Two white dinner cruise ships are moored next to the driving range, and nothing but blue skies stretch above us. We’re at Chelsea Piers, where he’s working on his golf game.
“Hate to break it to you, but I doubt your new boss is going to be terribly impressed with your swing. Maybe you can convince him to play softball with us instead.”
He scoffs. “Not likely. The man is obsessed with golf, and word is he plays favorites and gives better time slots to the showrunners who keep up with him on the course.”
“That’s insane. But if that’s true, you need less shoulder. More hips,” I tell him, since I dabbled in golf in high school. I don’t talk about it much. Makes me sound too snooty. Or too old. But if it helps my buddy, I’ll call up the old golf skill book for him.
Nick raises his face and stares at me through his black hipster glasses, his brown hair flopping down on his forehead. “Don’t you dare put your hands on my hips to show me.”
I crack up, holding up my hands in surrender. “You can count on that never happening,” I say, as I move out of the way of his next attempt.
He does better this time, and the ball arcs neatly over the grass.
“There you go,” I say. “Write that into your next episode. Mr. Orgasm’s buddy saves his ass from embarrassing himself with his golf swing in front of the new boss.”
Nick Hammer is a rock star in the TV world. Back in high school, he was the quiet geek bent over his notebook sketching dirty comic strips that he posted online. Ten years later, he turned his talent and his concept into an animated TV show—The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm, a hilarious and filthy show that airs late at night on the cable network Comedy Nation. The hero is an animated caped crusader who bestows orgasmic pleasure on womankind. Pretty sure it was wish fulfillment for Nick back in high school. Now, art imitates life and vice versa. He’s still got a quiet side, but women notice him. He’s hit the weights since our teenage days, inked up his arms with tattoos he designed himself, and found the guts to finally start talking to the opposite sex. The result? Pure magic. The man’s a total tomcat, and I suspect the glasses and unassuming I-once-was-a-geek-now-I’m-a-star persona helps his cause with the ladies.
“And how exactly does the coming come into play in this storyline you propose?” he asks dryly.
I shrug and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t know. That’s why you, my man, are the writer. It’s your job to figure out how the Os fit into the show. Speaking of storylines, I need a little help with something,” I say, getting to the heart of this quick detour I’ve made to see him this afternoon.