What can I say? I’m a guy who loves women.
Lucky for me, women usually love me too. And why wouldn’t they? I’m charming, young, good-looking, smart. Decent at my job, despite what Hudson tells anyone. Oh, and let’s not forget, filthy rich. I’m shower masturbation material come to life.
Most impressive, though, is my bedroom portfolio—it’s not a secret that I’m a giver. Swear on the Pierce family name, I do not let a woman leave my sheets before she’s received at least two orgasms. The goal is always three, but I’m willing to concede that there are sometimes other factors besides me contributing to that outcome. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe her head’s too into it. Maybe she’s not good at relaxing. Whatever, I get it. But she’s getting two O’s regardless.
Before I start sounding too noble, let me clarify—the orgasms are for me. There’s nothing like the feel of a pussy clenching around your cock, milking you to your own climax—that’s got to be the best definition of heaven around.
But the biggest reason I deliver is because of the cost-benefit ratio. I’m a firm believer in what goes around, comes around. The happier she is, the happier she’ll want to make me. I’m talking Happy with a capital “H.” And while I’m a one-night-only kind of guy—a fact I always make clear from the beginning—I’ve done really well with referrals. Call it a successful “business” model.
Sometimes too successful, considering the way some of the ladies are eyeing me as I glance around the museum.
It only takes one sweep of my gaze to know tonight is not going to create any problems for my brother. The room is filled with the kinds of women I’m one hundred percent not attracted to. Trophy wives looking for a distraction. Cougars who sit on the boards—and the faces—of whatever-and-whoever-is-in-this-week. Rich dames with so much Botox and spandex their bodies don’t even jiggle when they’re supposed to—and if she’s lying underneath me, it’s supposed to.
That just leaves the women I’ve already been with, and I don’t do repeats.
Well then, let’s make this trip an easy in and out, just like I like it. This time when I glance around, I look for the quickest opportunities to achieve the “make a good impression” edict that Hudson has given me. I make a plan. Mingle with the execs from my father’s country club, say hello to Warren Werner who I’ve just spotted by the fondue station, and then put in a bid at the auction in the adjoining room to make sure the Pierce presence is duly noticed.
But first, I need a drink.
A waitress passes by with a tray of caviar. “Excuse me. Is there a bar somewhere?”
She tilts her lip into a flirtatious grin as she checks me out. Now this woman might be an option…
But she’s working, and I’ll have to stick around until she gets off before I’ll have any chance of getting off myself, and I can already tell this thing is going to be a snooze-fest.
Especially when she answers. “There’s champagne floating around. And some punch that should be spiked if it hasn’t been already.”
“Well, shit. I should have brought my flask.” Though, if I had, it would have been filled with a single-malt scotch and not something I’d ever mix, let alone with fruit punch. I wink. “But thanks for the heads-up.”
I can tell she wouldn’t mind more cozy conversation, but I slip away before she gets any ideas, and after a quick chat with some men I’ve done business with in the past, I run smack into Warren.
“Chandler! I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Where’s Hudson?” The man is practically a father to me, or rather, he was around while I was growing up about as much as my own dad was, which is to say, not much. In other words, I have to talk to him, but it’s going to be boring as hell.
I put on my friendliest grin. “Alayna had her babies early. He’s taking some time ‘off.’” I use air quotes around the word off because Warren and I both know my brother works in his sleep.
“Oh, yes. I recall hearing that.” He goes on to deliver heartfelt congratulations and the like before moving to the obligatory inquiries about the rest of my family, which I give, dutifully.
This kind of small talk is the worst. I’m dying inside with every polite word. I only manage to tolerate it by dreaming about the real drink I’ll get later at The Sky Launch or another one of the nightclubs where hooking up is practically an item on the drink menu.
Eventually, after Warren’s told me all about his upcoming plans to retire, I courteously ask about his daughter, Celia—Hudson’s childhood peer/possible lover/almost-baby-mama/part-of-a-complicated-friendship-that-I’ve-never-understood.
Though Warren’s expression remains warm, his eyes harden, and I sense he’d prefer not to talk about her with me. While I was too young to be privy to the rift that happened between our once-close families, I have a feeling most of the bad blood has to do with Hudson not marrying Warren’s daughter.
“Celia’s good,” he says curtly. “She’s in town at the moment. In fact, she was supposed to be here tonight but ended up canceling because of a headache.” Or because she was afraid she’d run into Hudson. “You know she’s married now, and her husband—”
His sentence is cut off by a younger gentleman tapping on his shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Fasbender is looking for you.”
Fasbender. I recognize that name. He’s the owner of Accelecom and probably one of the people that Hudson would most prefer I be seen with tonight.