Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1) Page 3

  My eyebrows arch against my will, overly excited to realize that this god and I will be in the same city at the same time. Maybe I’ll accidentally trip on the Champs Elysées and fall on his dick.

  Stop thinking about his dick.

  Show him that you’re not interested, even if you do want to run your tongue down his thighs. Be a strong woman. Resist.

  “Headed to Paris, you are?” I say. Great, I’ve turned into Yoda. “I see.” I stir my drink and take a sip, my eyes fixing on the golf match. Riveting stuff. Some man is smashing his club into the ground so hard that it bounces off in the other direction and nearly takes out a spectator. Awesome.

  “I was only asking because it’s miserable being tucked away in airports alone, and I reckoned you might like some company,” he adds.

  I swivel around to face Mr. Sexy again, levelling him with my best attempt at a look of disdain. “It’s so kind of you to grace me with your presence,” I say, “but I’m fine on my own, actually, and not looking for anyone’s company, particularly that of a man who’s just been on the phone talking about someone called—let’s see if I get this right—‘Big Tits Brit’?”

  Bull’s eye. Nailed him. I can see his chest clench and his mouth open slightly as he tries to come up with some kind of excuse, but nothing emerges from between those gorgeous lips of his.

  As I stare at his mouth, I wonder all of a sudden why the hell I shut him down like that. The guy is beyond super-sexy. His accent melts me like soft butter. He’s got a low, rich baritone voice. He sounds intelligent and seductive at once. And despite all of that, I’m turning him down before he’s even propositioned me. I must be insane.

  No, not insane. I know exactly why I’m doing it. I don’t care about his boob talk. I’m pretty sure he was kidding around with someone on the other end of the phone, anyhow. He doesn’t strike me as lecherous.

  But he does strike me as dangerous, which is only one reason for my swift rejection of Mr. Sexy.

  I’m trying to prove to myself that I don’t need anyone, even the sexiest man in the world. That he’s nothing special, for all his hotness. He’s just another guy who would probably have little to offer me other than a quick roll in the hay and possible herpes.

  The last man I allowed near me stole years of my life away, or maybe the more charitable way of putting it would be to say that I squandered the years away in his company. I felt like once I’d committed I had to stick around or fail, and failure is not an option, not for me. It’s far easier just to stay single and unattached than to let myself fall into old patterns again.

  Yup, my rejection of Mr. Sexy is self-preservation, or fear, or both. I’m scared of men like this, because someone who’s charming and intelligent and handsome could convince me to fall for him. Then it would break my heart to realize he’s not as great as he seems. I’m not interested in a soul-sucking vampire-man, even if he doesn’t have long canines.

  Admittedly, it’s possible that I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. He hasn’t asked me out or tried to kiss me. All the poor guy did was talk to me, and here I am, predicting our entire failed relationship.

  Holy schnikes, Jen’s right. I need a shrink.

  Mr. Sexy, on the other hand, has gotten my very strong, very neurotic hint and has just stood up to leave when the screen on my phone lights up again. This time it’s a photo of an almost naked dude wearing a leather thong, his man-bits just barely coated in something that looks an awful lot like an elephant’s trunk. Large ears cover the tops of his thighs.

  His neatly trimmed pubes make the elephant look like it’s wearing a little toupée.

  Shit, shit, shit. Why, Jen? Why?

  “Nice photo,” Mr. Sexy says. No doubt this is karma’s punishment for my unrelentingly cold rejection. “I have a pair of those shaped like a long-tailed lemur.”

  I feel myself turn fifty shades of scarlet and then three more before grabbing my phone and shoving it into a pocket.

  “Right, then,” he says, swigging the last of his drink and throwing a few dollar bills onto the bar even as a smile forms on his lips, “I’ll be off. Have a nice flight, and a nice time in Paris.” He shoots me one final, amused look as he turns away. His eyes are so gorgeous that I want to weep.

  “You too.”

  I mutter the words to his back, accidentally letting remorse colour my voice. I want to tell him to stay, that I’m sorry I was rude. But it’s too late; he’s gone now.

  A massive exhale shoots out from between my lips. Part of me is proud for sending him on his way. But the other part wants to slap myself across the face and scream, “What have you done, woman?”

  He had a gorgeous face, incredible eyes, muscular legs. Everything that could possibly turn me on, all rolled up into one delicious package. And for all his semblance of grumpiness, he actually had a sense of humour. He was charming, even.

  But none of it matters now. Even if I hadn’t pushed him away, super-sexy man saw the photo that Jen sent me. He now thinks I like photos of men with animal cocks. He thinks I’m a freak.

  Well, it’s not like I wanted him, anyhow.

  Okay, I totally wanted him. So badly that I could taste him. But I’m not supposed to be vulnerable to the charms of walking gods; I’m supposed to be Independent Adriana. Strong, mighty and powerful against the wiles of males. This trip is supposed to be a celebration of my solitude, my strength, my ability to function as an autonomous creature. I’m not supposed to become a drooling mess in the presence of the first man I meet.

  Nevertheless, I currently have a burning desire to slip down off this stool, chase Mr. Sexy down and bury my face in his crotch in some form of sexual supplication. And I hate him for it.

  But I hate myself even more.

  The worst part of all is that he’s going to Paris, so we might see each other again on the plane. Unlikely, though. My flight’s not for hours yet and there must be, like, 4,000 flights from JFK to Paris every day; no way is he on the same one. Besides which, with clothes like his he’s probably flying First Class with the big boys. I’ll be crammed at the back of the plane with some old lady talking my ear off about her dog’s medication, or her replacement hip, or something. Which sounds pretty good right about now, when I think about it.

  I spend the next twenty minutes nursing my drink, pay the tab and head out to check the electronic screens to see if my gate number has been called yet.

  And there it is.

  C-34. The reverse of my bra size. Looking around, I see that I’m standing next to C-7.

  Gah.

  Like a zombie I start walking, an unblinking, emotionless being. And before I know it, I’m getting there. C-28…C-31. Ah, there it is: C-34.

  There are a few empty seats so I ease down into one, trying to keep my hand luggage between my feet so that I don’t trip too many strangers or elicit dirty looks.

  I pull out my laptop, determined to distract myself. I’ve still got over an hour to go before my flight. May as well get some work done, right? I promised myself I’d write a book during the month that I’m gone, and damn it, the stupid thing won’t write itself. I can probably write at least five hundred words in an hour.

  I open up the word processing program and stare at a blank page.

  Oh, God. I just realized. I don’t know to write a book.

  Just let go, I tell myself, and my fingers begin their dance over the keyboard.

  Once upon a time…

  Delete.

  Not very original, is it?

  Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away…

  Um, that one’s also been used before.

  Delete.

  My name is Adriana Stevenson. I’m sitting in an airport, regretting the fact that I sent a very, very hot man away instead of getting to know him. Because I’m a fucking COWARD.

  Better.

  Just as I’m about to tackle the next sentence, my phone vibrates inside my purse. I extract it, grateful for any excuse to procrastinate. There’s Jen’s
name, lighting up the screen, her text yelling at me silently.

  “Call me. Your flight hasn’t left yet.

  I KNOW BECAUSE I’M PSYCHIC.”

  I chuckle and dial her number. She picks up within two seconds.

  “Hey!” she shouts. “You excited?”

  “You sent me an elephant man thong.” I’m using my most reproachful tone of voice, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing it wrong.

  “Oh, yeah I did. Did you like it?”

  “I might’ve, if not for the fact that Mr. Sexy saw it.”

  “Mr. Sexy?”

  “The hot English guy who hit on me in the bar.”

  “You got hit on by a hot English guy?” Her excitement is palpable. As far as she’s concerned, I’m a little closer to getting laid at last, the drought between my legs almost at an end. In her mind, my trip is going perfectly before I’ve even gotten on the plane.

  I almost hate to let her down with the bad news. Her monogamous loins were counting on me to offer some excitement.

  “Never mind. I rejected him.”

  Silence.

  “So, you’re saying he was a total loser,” she says at last, her tone hopeful. “Please tell me he’s a loser so I don’t have to drive up there and throttle you.”

  “Not exactly,” I chirp, confident that she’d never make it past the security gates with the look of murder in her eyes. “He was the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Then what are you doing talking to me when you should tucked into a dark corner, doing the nasty with him?”

  “I’ve got no time for men. I’m going to Paris, damn it.”

  “Uh, correction, foolish woman,” Jen spews. “You have nothing but time. You’re telling me the hottest man ever just came up and chatted with you and you told him to fuck off? What happened to having fun, doing things for yourself, enjoying life?”

  “I didn’t quite tell him to fuck off, though I’ll admit I wasn’t super-friendly. I’m not sure it matters, anyhow. To be fair, your text came through and I’m pretty sure that’s when he decided he was well and truly out of there.”

  “Oh, shit. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s all right; I’d already given him the very cold shoulder. Though now I’m second guessing myself for it, thanks very much. And here I was sort of proud of myself for being so assertive.”

  “Was he nice?”

  “I don’t really know. He had a nice voice. Nice eyes. Nice lips. Nice legs. Nice shoulders. Nice…”

  Jen lets out a massive sigh. “Silly girl. You’re supposed to be letting your hair down, not being an anal retentive stick in the mud. Next time a man-god approaches you, just say yes.”

  “Hmm. And here I thought the saying was Just say No.”

  “That’s for drugs, not sexy hot men who want to slip their peckers into your special place.”

  “Oh, right. Well then, I’ll keep your excellent advice in mind for next time. I promise I’ll have sex with every man I see in Paris.”

  “Good.” I’m pretty sure Jen hasn’t thought this through. “Remember—I’m living vicariously through you. Your hooha is my hooha. And my hooha needs satisfaction. And details of any and all sexual encounters.”

  “I’m pretty sure our hoohas aren’t affiliated in any way, actually.”

  She lets out another pained sigh. “Just indulge a married woman’s fantasies and go fuck a guy you barely know then tell me all about it, would you?”

  “Fine. I’ll strongly consider it. For the Sisterhood, which is an ancient, sacred organization that I just made up.”

  “Excellent. So aside from your sexual slip-up, how’s it going, nerd?”

  “Well, I’m through security, so clearly they didn’t find the copious amounts of cocaine or mega-set of contraband dildos in my luggage. So basically great.”

  “And are you excited? Please tell me you’re excited.”

  “Insanely excited,” I say as I sink deep into the hard plastic seat. “I feel like I’m living in a dream, and I’m not even there yet.”

  “My dream, you evil bitch. I’m so jealous I could strangle you, steal your ticket and have sex with Mr. English Sexypants myself.”

  “Too late. This is my life now. And to think I’m not even surrounded by baguettes yet.” I moan with pleasure.

  “Are you having an orgasm on a bar stool? Because if you are, I want the make and model.”

  “No such luck, I left the bar ages ago. Now I’m just wallowing in the bliss of my Parisian dream in the waiting area.”

  “Mmmm.” I can all but hear the smile on Jen’s face. For all her pretence at being grumpy, she’s an old softy.

  “Well, I know I’m a jerk about it, but I’m really glad you’re going. Just don’t do something stupid like fall madly in love and desert me forever.”

  “I could never do such a thing.”

  “Desert me, or fall in love?”

  “The love thing,” I assure her. “My heart’s made of ice-cold adamantium now. I’m like Wolverine without the healing powers. Or muscles. Or awesome hair.”

  “Okay, number one: that’s a lie. You have a big heart that needs to open itself to the possibility that not every man is an ass-hat. And number two: You’re more like Wonder Woman than Wolverine any day, but without the awesome shiny bustier and sexy boots.”

  “I resent that. At the very least I totally have the giant ugly panties.” I shudder at my own utterance of the word. “I also own an invisible jet. You just don’t know because you can’t see it.”

  “Also because if you had a jet, you could fly it to Paris.”

  “Shit. Caught in my own lie.”

  “Listen—I’ve got to go live life and do important things. Have fun, will you? But not too much. I have a bad feeling about this trip of yours.”

  “What? You think the armless gynaecologist and I are actually going to find each other and run off into the sunset?”

  “I think you’ll find something, or someone, who tickles your fancy.”

  “Is fancy a euphemism for vagina or asshole? Because I’m not really into butt stuff.” The woman next to me shoots me an appalled glare and I wink at her, a giant smile on my face.

  Jen lets out a snort. “Get on that plane and dream about all the sex you’ll have with hot Frenchmen in the next month. Call me from Paris, or text, or something. Let me know you’re okay and that you’ve fallen into the clutches of some evil guy with a sexy accent, but only temporarily.”

  “I promise I won’t do that. Fall into any man’s clutches, I mean.”

  “Liar.” Jen goes silent for a moment. “I think you already have.”

  “Never. Bye, honey.”

  “Bye, liar.”

  I hang up, put the phone down and stare at my blank screen, soaking up the beginning of my adventure.

  Five

  Conlon

  C-34.

  That’s my sodding gate number, and apparently said gate is forty or so miles away. I’m now making my way down the endless expanse of waiting areas that lie between myself and my destination, smug in the knowledge that at least I won’t have to wait long before a voice announces that I can board. I’ll get to hop promptly into the efficient line, the one for fancy rich bastard-types who bypass all the tired-looking people. Those, of course, are the passengers who will no doubt resent me for being able to afford thousands more dollars to sit in a slightly larger seat with a few inches more leg room.

  I don’t blame them; I’d hate me for it too. But the truth is, at this point I don’t much care about anyone’s opinion. I’m tired. I’ve been rejected by a beautiful woman, and frankly my whole trip to New York was an abject failure. I just want to get my arse into that posh leather seat, shut my tired eyes, and ignore the universe for a few hours.

  Only I quickly learn that I can’t ignore the universe or its devious trickery. Because when I arrive at gate C-34, the first thing my eyes land on is…her.

  The sexy, golden-haired ice g
oddess is sitting in the waiting area, looking like an angel, destroyer of erections though she may be. The sex-bomb with incredible breasts is leaning over a laptop that’s currently unleashing a flattering bluish glow on her beautiful features. And because I am a weak man I stop in my tracks and simply look at her, trying to assess what it is about her face that’s so fucking exquisite. Her eyes are open wide, fixed on the screen. The slightest smirk has settled on her face, like she’s simultaneously amusing and frustrating herself as her fingers type frantically.

  Her shirt is unbuttoned a little too far down, and I’d wager she doesn’t know it. I can see a hint of cleavage peeking out above the lacy camisole she’s wearing under there.

  Something twitches in my pants.

  Oh, thank God. It’s alive.

  Again.

  Down, boy, I mumble to my cock. Don’t be an overly eager twat. She doesn’t want you, remember?

  Okay, time to assess the situation. Right. This means she’s on the same flight as I am. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, the one who shot me down like a German fighter plane, will occupy the same metal tube as I do for an entire night, and I will no doubt be very, very far away from her. Wonderful. It’s highly unlikely that we’ll have to speak to one another, so she’s spared that misery at the very least. And I’m spared the further humiliation of trying to convince her that I’m not pure evil and/or that there’s more to me than discussions of the merits of Big Tits Brit.

  “Priority boarding is beginning now for flight 874 to Paris,” croaks a garbled voice over the intercom, drawing me quickly out of my thoughts.

  Sexy blonde jerks her head up, as if that will help her to make out the jumble of cacophonous syllables that are bursting out over the loudspeakers. Her eyes meet mine for a moment. Her lower lip drops open, then she bites it—bites it! Oh, Christ. Well, that’s it; here comes another full-on erection.

  She steers her eyes quickly back to the screen before shutting the laptop entirely, as if my presence here has ruined her project. Her gaze moves to the floor and stays there, unwilling to meet mine ever again.