The O Intention

  Jesus, can this woman be any more confusing? She’s practically an open book and yet I lack the experience to read her.

  “Then what do you want?”

  Her shoulders relax, her eyes soften, and her playful smile returns. “Two lunches.”

  I nod. “Done.”

  “Oh, I’m not finished. Two lunches, two dinners and one orgasm.”

  Instantly, I feel my cheeks heat up and I hate it. Unashamedly, I snort and shake my head. “No.”

  “What’s wrong? Not feeling up to the task? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I glance around a practically empty bar. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation right now. Of course she’d want to make this as complicated as she can, but I’m not about to jump back into the water with her. No way. My inability to keep it in my pants last night is the thing that started this whole predicament, and I’m a man who learns from his mistakes.

  “Two lunches and two dinners. That’s all I’m offering.”

  Alix inches closer and the hints of her perfume begin to wash over me—vanilla and fig—if I’m not mistaken. “You got yours, now I want mine. Two lunches, two dinners and one orgasm; or nothing at all.”

  She can’t be serious? I eye her closely. This is her ultimatum. If I walk away, who knows what can of worms it’ll open up? And if I accept, I’ll have the same problem.

  “I think it’s unwise for us to have sex again.”

  “Who said we have to have sex?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “Believe it or not, Mr. Sophisticated Caveman, missionary isn’t the be all and end all of intimacy.”

  “Fine,” I hiss, completely offended by her remarks. Despite my reservations, I reach into my jacket and pull out one of my business cards. Underneath the logo and title, it has my name and private line. I hold it out to her. “There’s my number. Don’t text me, but call tomorrow, only to confirm a time for lunch.”

  She opens her mouth and I assume it’s to say something snarky and completely out of line. Before she gets the chance, I step around her and march right out of the bar area. Unable to stop my legs, I storm through the lounge and into the elevator. Once inside, I hit the button and slump against the wall. God! What did I just do? That woman is the most obnoxious person I have ever met. Some people say they’re born without a filter, but I think she ripped her own out for fun and games. I can’t stand her, and I’m sure as hell she can’t stand me either. I have no idea how we’re going to pull this off without one of us losing something… or everything.

  I can only hope it goes quickly and it all goes back to normal once it’s over.

  Chapter Four

  Alix

  My sneakers scuff over the concrete as I juggle bags in my hands. I shouldn’t have gone shopping, but it was the only thing I could think of to ease the tension in my tummy. When I woke up this morning and trudged to the kitchen to feed Four, it hit me. I’m forcing my boss into a situation that I’m certain he’s not comfortable with. Is that illegal? Probably. I just want an adventure, dammit, like the women in my books—with the exception of Juliette Portland. She can keep her adventure, and Dornan Ross, to her damn self.

  I extended Jesse’s lunch offer to two (plus two dinners), so I can take my time and understand him more. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who needs an existing connection in order to perform better. If I’m only getting one last go at this, I want it to be worth the effort, and if I want him to be on the same par as me, I want him to understand me, too. I want him to know what I like and don’t like; and I guess I want him to see that I’m not crazy or obsessed with sex… or maybe I am crazy, but I’m just trying to find a decent reason to hide it behind.

  On a different note, it wouldn’t hurt Jesse to open his mind a little. Who knows, I might be able to teach him a few things about women I’m sure his future wife will appreciate.

  “Oh my gosh! The pink ones are really cute.” A girl exclaims to her friend as she pushes in front of me, pulling me from my thoughts.

  I clench my jaw and slow my steps so that I don’t stand on the back of their freakishly tall heels. Almost in unison, they flick their platinum blonde locks over their shoulder and lower their sunglasses to their face. Immediately, they fall into conversation about sushi and frozen yogurt and I lose interest. My stare falls onto the pink bags in their hands… Victoria’s Secret. I halt in my steps. I’ve never shopped at VS before. I’ve thought about it, but have never gone through with it. If I’m going to be seeing Jesse, albeit briefly, I should have nice underwear… or panties that match my bra at least.

  With my already overburdened haul of heavy bags, I turn and enter the shop. Inside, I’m bombarded with scraps of lace, satin and cotton—all beautiful and each one expensive. I lower my bags to the floor and step towards the closest table. My attention zeros in on a small pile of pink lace V-string panties. Ninety-five percent of my underwear is pink. I love the color and as much as it kills me to even think it; I’m going to have to go with sexier colors today—like black or red. Jesse looks like the kind of guy that enjoys black or red.

  I ignore the way the shop assistants stare and eye me suspiciously. Clearly, I’m out of my zone. I glance around and take in all of the other customers— young women in fancy dresses accompanied by old men in business suits… Gold Digger by Kanye West and Jamie Foxx springs to mind, and I even hum a snippet of the tune. In all seriousness, I contemplate leaving the store, until a girl in yoga pants and a tank top jogs through the door. With her pink headphones in her ears, she ignores everyone else and searches through racks of underwear with a smile on her face. Well, now I don’t feel so out of place in my jean shorts and loose tee that proudly states ‘I’m a Kellan Kyle groupie’. I try not to wear my book themed shirts out, but I’m particularly fond of this one; so fond, in fact, it’s fading terribly.

  On a rack in the far corner, I see a sexy pair of strappy black panties with matching bra. Without a thought, I saunter over to them, and the first thing I touch is the price tag. Surprisingly, they’re not that expensive—easily affordable with a pay check like mine. The bigger problem lies with the red pair on the rack next to it. I look between them, trying to decide on a color. Red or black? Black or red? Despite Jesse’s warning: “There’s my number. Don’t text me but call tomorrow only to confirm a time for lunch.” I open up messages and start a new conversation with him.

  To: Jesse. Time: 9:00 a.m.

  Red or black?

  He texts back almost immediately.

  From: Jesse. Time 9:01 a.m.

  I thought I told you not to text me.

  I blow air out of my cheeks and take a slight step back to rest against a table.

  “Can I help you with anything?” a friendly staff member asks.

  Her high pitched voice pulls my attention from my phone and I look up at her. Holy hell. She looks more like she should be on the label, modeling the clothes, rather than working inside the store. She’s gorgeous—tall and sexy—with bright blue eyes. If the owner of Victoria’s Secret knew they had such a beauty working for them, Candice Swanepoel would be out of a job.

  “Just trying to choose a color,” I tell her, feeling rather deflated.

  She smiles, and god dammit, it’s one of those smiles that make you smile too. I hate those. “What’s the occasion?”

  I frown. “You need an occasion to wear underwear?”

  The woman giggles and flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Not necessarily. But most of our customers buy the strappy cheekinis when they’re trying to win someone over. Who is he?”

  “My bos—” I jolt from the table. “—sy. Bossy. My bossy boyfriend.”

  I really, really want to punch myself in the face.

  “Well, the cheekinis are a very good choice. It’ll turn any bossy boyfriend into a compliant lover.”

  I stare at her. That’s totally a weird thing to say, right? “Okay…”

  “And I prefer the black. It’s slimming.” With a smirk, she strolls away,
leaving me staring after her.

  I don’t get it. How can something that barely covers your ass, is cut into pieces and is so obviously transparent make you look slimmer? Where’s the logic in that? Wait. Scratch that. I suppose the people who work in this industry aren’t paid for their smarts. As the thought finishes, my phone beeps.

  From: Jesse. Time 9:05 a.m.

  I don’t know why you’re asking but I don’t like red OR black. I prefer blue.

  I cringe. Blue underwear? Really? I scan down the racks until I find a blue version of the black and red ‘cheekinis’. Sure enough, the blue comes in two shades; a dark royal blue they refer to as ‘amour sapphire’ and a lighter, more baby blue they call ‘carnival’. I don’t like either of them, but I’m not the one I’m trying to impress, so I grab the lighter blue. It’ll match the pinks in my drawer better. Feeling absolutely exhausted, I grab the panties in my size and head to the counter. Once I’ve paid and retrieved my bags, I head back outside. The sun is warm on my face and I welcome it. Good weather means I can wear a nice dress, and since he prefers blue, I have the perfect dress to wear.

  ***

  I flatten my palms against my royal blue cocktail dress. It’s nothing fancy. It’s slim fitting, has no ruffles or tacky straps, and even covers a good portion of my cleavage—not all of it, but enough to blend into a regal restaurant such as this. I sit on a tiny mauve bench-seat with a cushion that is surprisingly more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed, waiting for him by the tall indoor plant just as he wanted me to. When we spoke on the phone and picked a time for lunch, it seemed he knew everything about the restaurant, from the menu right down to the décor. As I glance around the restaurant and then over to the front door, I see him… looking as good as ever in a striking pair of black slacks and a white formal shirt buttoned up at the elbows. That’s twice now I have to remind myself the grass is, in fact, not greener on the other side, and that a perfect face, perfect body, and perfect attitude doesn’t equal perfection where it counts. I’m not talking about cocks, either. I’m talking about intimacy. Intimacy is where it counts. Every single human on this planet needs intimacy—regardless of the length of the relationship…. and maybe those who partake in one night stands need intimacy the most.

  Jesse spots me sitting on the bench-seat and I push myself to my feet. His long legs carry him effortlessly as his leather shoes tap rhythmically against the tiles. There’s a certain air about him when he walks. He exudes confidence and class. His head remains high, his shoulders square and his posture perfect. You’d think he was the kind of man who embraces dirty sex, not run from it.

  “Alix,” he greets me, his voice surprisingly happy. “Good to see you.”

  Jesse extends his large hand to me and I look at it. Handshaking? Ookay. I place my clutch under my arm and put my empty hand in his. Instead of shaking my hand, like I expect, he tugs me in and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. Heat rises in my face as he releases me, and I take a wobbly step back.

  “Hey,” I say, sounding a hell of a lot more butch than I wanted to. I clear my throat. “You’re late.”

  “I know. I got caught up in a meeting, but I’m here now.” He gestures in front of him. “Let’s eat.”

  I step around him and walk towards the host who’s standing by a low, black podium. “Reservation?”

  I peer over my shoulder as Jesse leans forward. “O’Ryan.”

  Our host taps the screen in front of him a couple of times before beaming widely up at us. “Right this way.”

  We follow him through the busy restaurant until he leads us right to our table in the middle of it all. From our table, I can hear the classical music and soft clatter of cutlery against porcelain. It’s a beautiful noise… one I haven’t heard since my partner and I separated. Now that he’s gone, I tend to stick to takeaways and home deliveries, mostly.

  When the restaurant host leaves, Jesse reaches around me and pulls back my chair. I try hard not to stare at his lips as they pass by my face. Instead, my gaze settles on his throat… I’ve never been turned on by a throat before but now is as good a time as any. When his chocolate eyes flick to my face, I arch an eyebrow.

  “We’ve already slept together. You don’t have to pull my chair out for me.” I tell him as I lower myself into the seat anyway.

  “I’m not trying to impress you. It’s this crazy new thing I’m trying out called: ‘being polite’.” He smiles down at me, and I love his snarky side. “Not everyone is as blunt as you.”

  I bite my bottom lip, fighting my own smile. “Because that would be so bad, wouldn’t it?” Sarcasm is thick in my voice, and he picks up on it as he lowers himself into his own chair.

  “Yes. It’d be horrible.”

  He pulls his napkin from his plate and lays it on his lap. I follow his lead.

  “You know, I’m not as bad as you think.” I point out.

  His stare flicks to mine and flares. For the first time since meeting him at the bar, my throat dries and my excitement bubbles to the surface. “Neither am I.”

  His words still me. I get the feeling he’s referring to the night we slept together. How… odd. Was that his intention, or am I reading too much into it?

  “You look nice.” he says, his eyes flitting quickly to my dress.

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation is quickly heading into stilted territory, but I don’t mind. I’m immune to awkwardness. Actually, I think I thrive in awkward situations.

  Before the silence extends and causes irreversible awkwardness, a waitress ambles over to us and greets us with a French accent so thick, that I have no idea what she’s saying. Jesse opens his menu and I survey him as he reads through the list. It takes him barely a second to look over the menu before he swiftly closes it.

  “I’ll have a Boeuf Bourguignon.” He looks to me. “I’m assuming you’re not the kind of girl who orders a salad?”

  I glare at him, unsure if I should take offense at his remark. I decide not to cause a scene in front of the innocent waitress, so I grit my teeth instead. “Absolutely not.”

  I open my menu and look over the meals. If Master Q was here to pronounce the titles in his sexy French tongue, then maybe I’d be more inclined to order some of the dishes. Andouillette sounds gross, and Bouillabaisse definitely sounds disgusting. Steak Frites is just about the only thing on the menu that sounds remotely close to normal, so I order it. When the waitress collects our menus and hurries off, I lean forward on the table.

  “Do you even know what you ordered?” Jesse asks with an amused smirk.

  Shit. Please don’t tell me I ordered snails.

  “Steak, I hope… if not, you just wasted a lot of money on a meal I’m not going to eat.”

  He chuckles and the sound almost mesmerizes me… such a beautiful laugh. “Luckily for you, it is steak.”

  “Good, because I skipped breakfast to fit into this dress, and I’m starving.”

  Once again, his eyes flick over me—analyzing every visible inch. “Do you go to the gym?” He asks out of nowhere.

  I snort. “Wow, you’re on a roll with the not so subtle fat hints today. Are you insinuating I lose weight?”

  “What? No. Not at all. I’m just trying to find common ground. Your body is…” His stare rakes me, and suddenly the room kicks up in temperature. His look is so smoldering and so hot, I’m certain two hobbits are going to run in any second now and throw rings at us. Jesse clears his throat and the lusty gaze is gone. “Fine.”

  “I know it is.”

  I wish I was perfect, but it’s extremely unrealistic to have the perfect body with a lifestyle like mine. I drink too much, eat takeaways too often, and I’d much rather spend my free time in bed with a book than work out at the gym. Jesse, I assume, spends a good portion of time in the gym. He doesn’t have to tell me. I’ve felt it, and it shows—even through his shirt.

  The waitress returns with water and a complimentary wine. Jesse declines the wine, telling her he
has to go straight back to work after lunch. I, on the other hand, happily accept it. I even fill it past the quarter mark which drives Jesse absolutely mad. When she leaves again, I take a long sip of the fermented grape juice and relax into my chair.

  “Can I ask you a rather forward question?”

  I nod. “Please do.”

  My curiosity piques. I wonder what kind of forward question he’s going to ask? Maybe he’ll inquire about my breasts. Real or fake? I get it all the time. They’re real, by the way.

  He leans forward on his elbows, his fingers threaded in front of his full lips. “Two lunches and two dinners… what’s your intention?”

  I tilt my head. “My intention?” Doesn’t he already know? Did I not make that clear? “An ‘O’ is my intention.”

  I almost smile at his genuine confusion. “An ‘O’?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “The big ‘O’. A fucking mind blowing, leg shaking, head spinning orgasm.”

  To my delightful surprise, Jesse’s face flushes a shade of pink and he glances around the restaurant, clearly nervous. He’s shy… how uncharacteristic for a man like him. I’m generalizing of course, but in my novels—oh, screw it. It’s apparent now that my life isn’t like the novels I read.

  “Don’t speak so loudly, Alix.”

  “Why? Are you shy?”

  His face pinches together—an expression still devastatingly handsome on him. “No.”

  “If you’re not shy, are you a prude then, Jesse?”

  The pinch develops into a scowl and he drops his hands in offense. “No, I’m not a prude. I just don’t think a woman should talk the way you do.”

  The way I do? Now it’s my turn to take offense. “Listen up, Mr. D’Arcy. It’s not the eighteenth century. I can talk however I like.”

  “But what do you get out of it? Surely saying the words ‘fuck’ and ‘cock’ aren’t the most exciting things in your life.”