Executive Engagement
And dragged me outside.
Where he threw me against the wall.
I whimpered and said, “But I’m a good girl.”
He laughed as his hands grazed over the fabric of my pink La Perla.
“You’re my personal slut now, baby,” he growled.
I buried my head into his neck and pulled him clo
ser. My hips bucked against his hands.
“Say it,” he commanded.
What the hell.
“I’m your personal slut, Daddy,” I cooed into his ear as his fingers began to work my clit.
I mean, those panties were ruined anyways, you know? Might as well take them off.
Sabrina
The best thing about working the night shift is that my sleep schedule’s totally fucked.
Okay, I know that sounds not-great. But hear me out here.
When I’m wide awake, the rest of the world is sleeping peacefully. No telemarketers, no door-to-door dildo salesmen, and next to no traffic out on the streets.
Sure, it’s left my skin alabaster pale from lack of sunlight, and it’s made dating kind of a clusterfuck…
When I was a little girl, I totally grew up dreaming about becoming a mommy someday—but that’s looking like a fat fucking chance now. The only prospective mates I’m going to meet on this schedule are night security guards, janitors, and the delivery boys at my favorite Chinese place—and let’s not kid ourselves, babes.
I’ve totally tried.
But so far, nothing’s clicked.
I guess that’s the price I have to pay for DJing NYC’s naughtiest late-night radio show.
On the bright side, Sinful Selections is a total hit with my fellow vamps working the graveyard shift here in the city. I play cool, dirty rock music from midnight to six a.m., sleep all day, and grab an order of General Tso’s at New Kum Den before I head back to work and do it all over again.
There’s another bright side to being up all night after the sun goes down, too: when I have day off, I have the laundry room of the Bradford all to myself.
So when I forget to wash clothes for two weeks, I can do laundry in just my bra and panties when I have to.
And tonight? Yeah, tonight, I don’t even have a bra or panties clean.
But hey—no one else is up at this crazy-ass hour, so it’s not like it matters. And there’s something kind of novel about doing laundry completely in the nude.
That is, until he walks through the door.
Dark brown hair. Green eyes. A nose like a Roman general and a chest like…fuck.
Have I seriously forgotten what a man’s chest actually looks like, or is it actually that good?
His shoulders are so broad beneath his lab coat that he has to turn slightly just to fit through the laundry room door, and his slacks…
Let’s just say that it’s obvious he’s got a lot going on in the pants department—and his package fucking doubles when he finally notices me.