The only guy I have ever seen tall enough to look me in the eye. Not that we have—I mean, we’ve seen each other, but since we ignore every other creature in the building, it’s not like we say hi.
He’s got a really hectic schedule. Works for some advertising agency. Hell, he has probably seen my centerfolds.
I frown, clutching my mail and heading upstairs. Wish I hadn’t thought of that.
I’m confident as hell, and I love my job. I don’t bow to anybody, and I don’t accept judgments from society about anything I do.
But that Derek. He’s hot. I heard he does four hours a day at the gym, as well as twelve-hour work days.
He will more than likely marry some picture-perfect princess who wears elegant flowery dresses and big, wide-brimmed hats, someone who smiles sweetly when random people say hi.
A guy like that doesn’t need a modeling reject. Why would he? He can see it all for free in one of my centerfolds.
Just thinking about his deep blue eyes roving over the pages of my centerfolds gets me wet.
Where does he look first? What does he want to touch the most? Even if he wouldn’t marry me, would he still fuck me?
Two
Derek
I’m late for fucking work again.
This shits me seriously. I must have slept through my alarm. I know I’ve been working too hard.
I’m so fucking pissed off with myself. So much so that I consider not going in.
I closed a sixty milli
on dollar deal yesterday. Imagine what the commission is on that.
I made a deal with myself, though. Work like a dog for five years. Then buy that yacht and sail…and sail fucking anywhere.
No more city, no more stress.
I have more than enough money now. That’s not what’s pushing me out the door. The drive is the kill, the close.
Knowing my ideas are better. My mouth is quicker. My instincts are spot on, at all times.
There’s nothing like utterly slaughtering the competition in the board room.
So I hurry. I’m on the phone as I hit the bottom of the stairs, but I’m distracted from my conversation for a few seconds when I see Allana at the mail boxes.
Even though I’m late, I slow down so my eyes can linger over her body as I go through the foyer.
Fuck me. She looks fucking incredible.
Soft white slacks that hug her just right. Long dark hair. Most women don’t wear their hair that long anymore—right down to her ass.
And what an ass she has. Her top half drapes in a soft, wavy way. It hangs off her angles and curves, accenting her instead of hiding her.
She’s looking intently at her mail, and I’m on the phone, so I just keep moving.
Who am I kidding? That’s what I always do. Talking to her would be a waste of time.
She’s obviously living the high life of a top model. At her age, she’s hitting her sexual peak and probably has armloads of toy boys. Young dicks that have nothing to do but get it up over and over again for a goddess like her.
I don’t open deals I can’t close. It’s as simple as that.