Nicholas

 

 

My cock is a bastard. Normally, I'd never think that. It's served me well. It's also served the women I've fucked well. Very well, in fact. 

I love sex. I crave it. I'm aching to have it.

The last time I did was five days before I met Sophia. I went to a club in midtown and picked up a woman who had no idea who the fuck I am. She liked my face she said and an hour later in the cramped bedroom of her tiny walk-up in Hell's Kitchen, she screamed that she loved my cock as I was barrelling into her from behind.  Natasha was the name she gave me. Apparently, it was part of the fantasy for her.

I saw her mail piled up on a small table next to the apartment door when I went to leave after she'd fallen asleep. Every envelope was addressed to the same person. Sherry Sinclair.

She'd dropped her clutch, phone, and keys on the table when we first walked in. Her hands were too busy trying to unbuckle my belt for her to notice the symphony of chimes that were signaling missed messages.

As I stood next to the table, I ordered an Uber to take me home and my eyes dropped to her phone as another chime filled the air.

The message that flashed across the screen was simple.

How was he, Sherry?

I smiled as I quietly exited the apartment I'd never set foot in again. If she answered whoever sent the message, truthfully she'd tell them the fuck was mind blowing. It was for her. It was at best average for me.

Average. It's always been average except for the first two times I made love. That was a lifetime ago and nothing's compared to that since.

I adjust my erection as I slide the zipper of the black trousers I'm wearing up. It's media day for me today. Cheyenne booked me a sit down with the host of one of the lifestyle shows that shoots in New York. She's taking a few weeks off which means she's pre-taping segments that will air during the month when Action's Cause is set to release.

After choosing a light blue sweater, I run some product through my hair. I glance down at my glasses on the bathroom counter but push them aside. I'm wearing contact lenses today, my preference most of the time, but too much time spent staring at the screen of my laptop tends to dictate that decision for me.

Not today though. I know how I want to look during the segment and I've nailed it. My hair is a deliberately styled mess, I haven't shaved in two days and the sweater matches my eye color. The majority of my fans are female. I give them what they want and that's the person I see reflected back in the mirror.

I'll turn on the charm for the interview, compliment the female host and by the time the segment does air, my book should be sitting pretty at the top of the charts.

 

***

 

"You're an incredible writer, Nicholas." Pamela, the host of the lifestyle show, touches my forearm with a little too much force. "Do you ever offer private readings? I bet if you did, the demand would be high."

Judging by the look in her eye, private readings is a euphemism for private fuck.

"I don't." I tug my arm free of her death grip. I had to do the same with my knee in the middle of our interview. "Once the book is released I'll be hosting public readings at several bookstores in the city. My publicist is the go-to for that."

Cheyenne waves as I turn to look at her.

"I've always wanted to write a book." Pamela wags her finger at me. "You'd be an incredible teacher. Will you mentor me?"

There's no way in hell that's going to happen. I can handle myself with virtually every woman I've ever met, but this one looks ready to pounce. She reminds me of my older sister, so that makes her completely off-limits.

"I don't offer mentorship." I smile as I scan the sparsely furnished studio space. There are bleachers that I assume are for the audience that typically views the taping of the show. Today, those are empty. "You're killing it at this job, Pam. This is a much better fit for you than the morning show."

"You remember me from Rise and Shine?" Her eyes widen. "I didn't realize that you were a fan, Nick."

I'm not. On the ride over, Cheyenne handed me a sheet of paper with ten pointers about Pamela. It's my publicist's way of breaking the ice. If I go into an interview prepared, I have more control. Today was no exception. I asked Pamela about her time spent in London where my first book was set and that helped her loosen up.

"I caught the show a few times," I segue smoothly. "I remember you had a great rapport with Cadence Sutton, the chef."

"Cadence?" She straightens her stance. "You're probably thinking of the connection between her fiancé, Tyler Monroe, and me. He had no problem teaching me a few things in the kitchen."

I squeeze my eyes shut to ward off the image of Pamela nude next to a hot stove.

"Cadence is a friend of a friend."

"Ah," she says on a sigh. "She's on set today. You should stop by and say hi, or I can introduce you."

I like food. I love meeting beautiful women. What possible harm can come from a simple introduction between Sophia's best friend and me?