At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“You already listed that in the mortifying column.”

“It deserves to be in both the mortifying column and the kick-ass column. And honestly, those things are only mortifying to you. I think it’s all awesome, but especially the topless make-out business. That was hot to watch.”

She lets out a dreamy sigh and I start to get lost in a daydream, remembering how it felt when PJ kissed me. How he held my face in his hands, how my lips felt bruised for hours after he left, and how I could still taste him on my tongue even after I drank two more glasses of wine while we burned shit.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Ariel’s voice through the line makes me jump, and I quickly drop my hand from my mouth, realizing I was tracing my fingers over my lips while I thought about PJ’s kiss. “If this at-home stripper party business doesn’t take off, you could bake in the nude. Ooooooh, you could call it Baking in the Buff! Your menu items could include Nipple Nut Clusters and Pecan Pussy Pudding.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I tell her as the doorbell rings and I stand up.

“Just think about it. Imagine a guy sitting in your kitchen chair, beating off while you beat egg whites. That sounds like a gold mine to me.”

“Good-bye, Ariel.”

I end the call as I open the door, wondering if I’ll ever stop having butterflies in my stomach when I see PJ. He looks as good as he always does in jeans and a fitted, light gray sweater, and I have to press my hand to my stomach to try to subdue the butterflies when I look at his face. Or, more accurately, his lips. No matter how much wine I had to drink yesterday, I’ll never be able to get the image of kissing him out of my mind. Combine that with all the flirty texts he’s sent me in the last week, the way he stared at me after our kiss and softly told me that he saw me and heard me, and I suddenly feel like I’ve turned into a nymphomaniac who can’t stop thinking about sex. Particularly sex with this man.

“Good morning, Cin.” PJ greets me with a smile, the nickname sounding entirely too dirty this early in the day.

Since I can’t seem to take my eyes off his lips as they move, I notice the scruff around his mouth, and it suddenly occurs to me that I didn’t feel it scratching me when we locked lips. He must have shaved yesterday, and now that I see him with a five o’clock shadow again, it’s all I can do not to stand here rubbing my legs together to get rid of the ache between them, thinking about that stubble scratching all over my body.

This is not a date, this is not a date, this is not a date.

That kiss yesterday was a fluke. It was a product of all the wine I drank and balls I grew, nothing else. He probably flirts with every woman he comes in contact with. I don’t know if he kisses every woman, but I’m just going to assume he does and pretend he’s a manwhore that I’m only using for my own benefit , letting him give me as much business knowledge and help as he can. That will help calm my nerves and put an end to any more all-night bake-a-thons.

“I hope you don’t mind or think this is weird, but I got a little something for your daughter. My mom taught me good manners, so I figured she deserved a present for letting me steal her mother away today,” PJ says, handing me a box with a pink bow on it.

Luckily the present gives me something to look at other than this man’s mouth, but it doesn’t help very much with the this is not a date mantra I’ve been chanting in my head, because it’s the sweetest thing ever, and I almost want to sit down and cry at his thoughtfulness.

But I don’t. Because when I see the present he got Anastasia, I kind of want to laugh, which would be very rude.

“Yo, mamacita. Who’s he? Oh my God, do you have a date?”

I turn to see my daughter come down the stairs and walk over to me, looking PJ up and down as she moves.

“What? No! No, it’s not a date,” I laugh nervously, looking back and forth between my daughter, who leans against the open doorjamb, and PJ who stares at my thirteen-year-old like she might suddenly sprout horns and a tail.

Which wouldn’t be completely out of the question with a teenage girl.

Anastasia grabs the box out of my hands and raises her eyebrows.

“Is he a door-to-door salesman for baby toys or something?” she asks.