At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“Alright, now it’s your turn. I’m pulling you out of your comfort zone. Channel that inner bad girl, Cindy. Say something flirty and hit send,” she orders.

Looking over at Belle, I see her giving me an encouraging smile and a nod and realize I’m being ridiculous. I need to stop overanalyzing things and just live a little. That’s the whole point of opening up our business and figuring out who I am anyway. I need to have a little fun, and I really need to know what it’s like to have great sex before I can even think about taking my clothes off and attempting to be sexy for money. Going by the things PJ does to my body when he’s fully clothed, I can only imagine what he could do to me naked.

I was thinking of trying on one of these instead. . . .

I quickly type my reply to PJ’s request of trying on the peach wrap dress and send the picture Ariel took before I lose my nerve. Turning the phone around so Ariel can see what I’ve done, she gives me a smile.

“Oh, you are a naughty one. So, so naughty.”

“Oh my God! That’s it!” Belle suddenly shouts. “The Naughty Princess Club! That’s what we should name our business.”

Ariel and I both laugh, but our laughter quickly dies as we toss the name around in our heads.

“Shit. That’s kind of perfect. Much better than my idea of Shut Up and Give Us Your Money,” Ariel mutters.

“I like it. I really, really like it. To the Naughty Princess Club!” I announce, holding my glass in the air as Ariel does the same and Belle smiles proudly.

“Fuck that. To Cindy learning how to flirt and ride a nonmediocre dick!”

We clink our glasses together and I stare down at my phone, hoping I didn’t completely misread PJ and make myself look like an idiot for sending that text.

Chapter 20: Tit Sweat

“Oh my God. I can’t take anymore. It’s too much.”

I grunt with exertion and a bead of sweat rolls down from my forehead, temporarily blinding me when it falls into my eye.

“It’s not too much. Take it all. Do it harder, faster!”

PJ’s face hovers over mine and I try to remember all the things I like about it, but he’s being a sadist, and I kind of hate him right now.

“Yeah, that’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs softly, his voice dripping with sex even while he tortures me.

I let out another groan, my body protesting everything he’s currently doing to it.

“It hurts. I want to stop,” I complain, gritting my teeth.

“If it’s not burning, you’re not doing it right.”

After I mutter a few more curses, PJ finally grabs the barbell from me, pulling it out of my hands and placing it in the holder attached to the weight bench I’m currently lying on.

“How do you think you’re going to handle dancing at these parties all the time if you can’t even handle an hour at the gym?”

I’m such an idiot. I never should have sent that text.

I spent the last two days since I sent that stupid lingerie photo to PJ doing everything I could to distract myself and not look at my phone for a reply every two seconds. I filed for our business license now that we settled on a name, I designed our website, I made flyers, I ordered business cards, I made eight dozen I Make Poor Choices When I’m Drunk Devil’s Food Cake Cookies, and I scrubbed every inch of my house from top to bottom, even though it was already clean, but nothing worked. I’ve looked at my phone obsessively every five minutes for the last forty-eight hours, and I even called my cell phone provider to make sure they didn’t close my account without telling me. They reassured me everything was in working order and even sent me a text message to confirm my cell still worked, while also reminding me I had three days to make a payment before my account would be closed.

I have turned into a teenage girl from the ’90s who picks up the phone every two seconds checking for a dial tone when the boy she likes hasn’t called, when what I should be worrying about is paying my damn bills.

Tequila and peer pressure have officially ruined my life. Why did I send that text? But more importantly, why didn’t he reply? Two days of radio silence that turned me more neurotic than normal, and then I get a text from him first thing this morning telling me to meet him here at the gym.

No winky emoji, no flirting, just Meet me at the gym at noon, with the address attached.

And of course, like the stupid woman I am, I show up here like he ordered, wearing a ridiculous pair of black shorts that barely cover my ass and a purple-and-black formfitting Nike tank top. When I put my outfit on this morning, knowing I would be wearing it in front of PJ and a whole gym full of strangers, it felt empowering, and I felt sexy. Now I just feel stupid and half-naked, since he hasn’t mentioned that text at all. Not one word. Not, “That was some hot lingerie you’ve got there,” or, “Couldn’t stop thinking about you in that purple-lace number.” Nothing.