Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
It comes out casual and cool, but that’s not how I feel.
I feel hungry. I feel pent-up.
I have no time for relationships for so many reasons. Work is my one true romance, and I won’t ever be sidetracked by love again.
Love only hurts.
But desire? That’s a different story.
Desire winds me up, and I want to race the clock till tomorrow night, then discover him waiting for me at Edge, dancing for me, seducing me with that rock-hard body.
Theresa and I return to work, and after meeting with the PR team, I close the door to my office so I can focus on those new design plans in private.
I give them my undivided attention because that’s what my business deserves. That’s what these people who work with me deserve, because they rely on my company’s success to pay their bills.
Three hours later, Theresa rings through from her own office.
“What’s going on, love?” I ask.
“Sales for the last few hours are through the roof. A huge uptick, even for a Friday morning.”
“Hmm. That’s interesting. We’re not having a promo on the site that would drive it.” But every now and then, a prominent celebrity will post a sexy video while wearing a pair of Rafe Rodmans, and sales will jump. I’m certainly not complaining, I simply like to keep my finger on the pulse of social media. “Is it a TikTok video?”
“Sort of,” she says playfully. “It seems that your Prince Charming is a bit of a showboat.”
I sit up, my interest piqued. “Is that so?”
“Your secret admirer is the third baseman for the San Francisco Dragons.”
I blink in surprise. “I don't follow baseball. I had no idea he was a ballplayer,” I tell Theresa.
“Well, I do. And lots of other people follow the players on social. He posted a picture this morning on Instagram of him wearing one of your designs.”
My fingers tingle. I did say the business would get my undivided attention. But this I have to see. And it’s work related, in a way.
I click over to Instagram and scroll through our mentions to find the shot. There’s no missing it, but this image I need to enjoy alone.
“I have to go,” I tell Theresa, then hang up.
Need a minute to myself with this shot.
I stare at the screen, taking it all in from his cocky smile to his fuck me eyes. The man is stunning, and judging by his caption, he seems to like a game of cat and mouse.
How about a new design, Rafe? Here you go.
Well, Gunnar. Two can play. If he’s going to throw down publicly, I’ll do the same.
Let the dirty games begin.
5
YOUR FIRST ORDER
Rafe
I swivel in my leather chair, surveying my office as I fashion a reply to Gunnar’s throwdown on Instagram. The walls feature framed designs and awards alongside black and white images of my hometown—the River Thames, Cecil Court, Notting Hill. London is scarcely a village, but it’s part of who I am.
I’m a visual man, and I briefly picture Gunnar strutting into my office and stalking to my desk. The filthy images that flicker in my imagination spur me on, and I hit reply on his post.
Rafe: Thanks for the design tip. I do wonder one thing though.
Gunnar: I’m listening.
Rafe: If I could just move that sticker around a bit. Imagine how the rooster might look in other . . . areas.
Gunnar: Ah, well, if you ask nicely, I might be able to help you with that. But I’d like to ask you a question in return.
Rafe: Such as?
Gunnar: Where do you want the rooster, exactly?
In my mouth. In my hand. Against my cock. Deep and far down my throat. But I won’t say that publicly. In fact, this cock-and-rooster game has already veered into terrain too dangerous for public media.
Still, I take one more risk, tapping a final comment.
Rafe: I have some ideas . . .
The post is at the threshold of “too risqué for social media.” While I peddle sexy underwear, the world doesn’t need to witness my flirtations. And I would like to take this flirtation a lot further.
Gunnar must recognize the invitation because a few seconds later, my DMs light up.
Gunnar: I wonder if your ideas might match mine.
Rafe: Hard to say unless you tell me yours.
Gunnar: I could tell you or I could show you.
Dear God, this man is going to give me more erections than should be legal. At my desk, I stroke the outline of my cock. How far am I going to take this? My dick thumps against my pants, and there’s my answer—as far as I possibly can. I was ready to take Gunnar home from the club. I’m sure as hell going to indulge right fucking now.
This is my game. My rules.
Rafe: Show me your look without a sticker.
I suspect—no, I know from the way he danced with me that he likes taking orders. It’s clear in the way he rubbed against my cock and in the way he texts.