He had a week to romance the hell out of Marjorie Ivarsson, virgin.
His cock gave an aching throb as he continued to stroke his conditioner-greased palm up and down his length. Marjorie was a virgin, and she was shy, but she was also eager. He’d seen the way she’d licked her lips and then looked back up at him. She’d wanted to keep going. He’d let her make all the first moves, of course, but until then, he had his hand.
And so he pictured Marjorie in a variety of ways. Up against the wall of the shower with him, clinging to his back as he drove into her. Under him on the bed, tall shoes making her impossibly long legs even longer. Marjorie tonguing his cock with those wet, wet lips. Marjorie’s mouth nibbling on his sac—
He shot his load in record time. But it didn’t help. When he went to bed that night, he was still semi-hard just thinking about her.
Marjorie might be dazed with the flush of infatuation, but Rob was a jaded piece of shit. He didn’t get infatuated. What he was feeling for her right now? Rob was in love. Insta-fucking-love. Who’d have thought that he’d be one to get all sappy over a chick the moment he saw her?
All he knew was that polka-dotted swimsuits had suddenly gotten extremely fucking sexy to him.
Chapter Twelve
The next day, Rob was feeling pretty damn pleased with himself, all things considered. The date had been a disaster, but afterward . . . yeah. Afterward was good. And this morning? He was feeling even fucking better. Things were looking up. He sat on the balcony of his suite, enjoying a tequila sunrise and the cool breeze that rolled off the ocean. There was breakfast on his plate, but he wasn’t hungry. Instead, like a spider, he sat in his web and managed his prey.
First on the list, a to-do left over from last night. He texted his assistant, Gortham, since he was on Rob’s shit list at the moment. His conversation with Marjorie last night had spurred more than a few thoughts, and this one was about shoes. He’d sent an assistant on the task. Have you found a maid to bribe?
@ wmn @ rm 311? Gortham sent back. U can cnt on me 2 get it, no woryrs.
Jesus fucking Christ, was that even English? He did not want this shit fucked up by some pimple-faced shithead who took a job as his assistant because he thought it got him free travel and free snatch. He texted back furiously. First of all, it’s room 301. And if you don’t start sending me texts in complete sentences, you’re fucking fired. Got it?
Got it.
Good. I want that answer from ROOM THREE OH ONE in five minutes.
Yes sir.
He gulped down his drink, impatiently waiting for an answer. Just when he was about to lose his shit, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Maid found. She went in the room. Said the woman wears a size 11 shoe.
Rob rubbed his unshaven jaw. That sounded about right. A woman as tall as Marjorie would have long feet, too. Good. Okay, he texted back. Now I want you to charter a helicopter out to the nearest designer shoe store and look for a size eleven stiletto heel. We’re talking tall. And sexy. And expensive. It needs to be all three and it needs to be back here by four o’clock this afternoon. Get me?
I’m on it, boss.
Good. One issue down. Rob mentally pictured Marjorie—tall, luscious Marjorie with the legs that went on for light-years, in a pair of strappy heels and felt the need to rub his groin. God, she’d be pretty like that. Would her eyes light up with pleasure at the sight of the shoes? His lust-filled mind provided images of him fucking Marjorie on his bed, her shoes digging into his ass, and he gave his dick another thoughtful rub. Ironic that he was so fucked-up over a freckled amazon. She did things to him that all the silicone titties in Hollywood didn’t.
Speaking of . . . he decided he’d text her, too. You awake?
The response was slow in coming. I am.
Well, he didn’t get much out of that. Not even a smiley face? You have a good night? He sent back. Sleep well?
Yes.
I thought about you last night, he sent to her. Jerked off three times.
What??
Joke.
Oh.
Okay, so much for phone flirting. Don’t suppose you want to send me a selfie to make my day better?
I don’t know how to use the camera on this thing.
How did she not know how to use the camera? He thought all girls did. Every woman he’d ever dated sent endless streams of pictures of herself. Strange. But he was starting to learn that nothing Marjorie did seemed to be like other women. Maybe that was why he was attracted to her? Her uniqueness.
So he sent back a I’m just fucking with you. Trying to make you blush.
It’s working, she sent back, accompanied with a smiley face.
Ah, his kingdom for a smiley face. Strange how one stupid emoticon could turn a man’s morning around. Smiling to himself, he held up his glass. One of his assistants plucked it from his hand and went to get him a refill as he contemplated what else to send to sweet, blushing Marjorie. He wanted in her pants before the week was out. And that’d be a long time for him, really. Normally he bedded his conquests by the end of the first date. Second, if she was holding out. Of course, he never really went back for another date. What was the point once you saw what the girl had to offer?
It was mercenary of him, but Rob didn’t normally stop to think about other people’s feelings. Hell, if he did, he’d never have a show called Tits or GTFO. Actually, most of the programming on The Man Channel would be a bust.
And Rob liked money. He liked money a lot more than he liked most people.
The assistant—Cresson—returned with his drink. Rob tasted it, grimaced at the strength of the tequila, and drank it anyway. “We hear anything from Logan Hawkings yet?”