I Hate Him, but My Hooha Disagrees

 

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

This becomes my new mantra as the days pass. Brent Oliver is driving me crazy. He fights me on everything. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is when he goes up against me, I secretly love it. His obstinacy gets me all hot and bothered. And because of this I find myself doing everything I can to make him angry and rile him up.

Like right now—I’m pouring all his booze down the kitchen sink. It needs to be done, anyway—out of sight, out of mind, and all that—but he sure is going to be pissed.

No matter. I have a legitimate reason for doing what I’m doing—it’s my job. My client was so hungover this morning that when his new team-appointed trainer arrived bright and early, he could barely get out of bed.

That is unacceptable.

Conclusion—he’s not going to stop drinking as long as his beloved Grey Goose is around. So, here I am.

Reaching for what feels like the umpteenth bottle of booze, I let out a long sigh. Brent has so many fifths that need emptying that I’m starting to feel like I’m re-enacting the Boston Tea Party, only with Grey Goose instead of Earl Grey. Or whatever the hell kind of tea they drank back then.

I purposely chose this time of the night to complete my task. Here’s where the riling him up part comes in. This is when my adversary usually heads down from his bedroom to raid the fridge. Tonight his little snack will have to be a banana, or another piece of fresh fruit, just like it was last night, courtesy of my most recent trip to the organic market.

The first night I spent in the house, Brent came down looking for potato chips. I know this because he was mumbling something about salt and vinegar as he entered the kitchen. Too bad for him I’d already found and discarded all the bags of his preferred snack.

He actually caught me as I was in the midst of changing out all the junk food he’d had someone—probably that smug agent—stock the fridge and pantry with. I’ve since replaced every bad thing with a healthy alternative. But that night I was only halfway through with the task. I heard Brent literally skid to a stop behind me, so I spun around, smile on my face and a nice healthy peach in one hand.

The sought-after salt and vinegar bags were sticking out of the top of the trash, and with his eyes glued in that direction, he asked tightly, “Why are all the potato chips in the garbage?”

It took me a full minute to formulate a coherent response. I was caught off-guard by his buff body. Seemed he’d forgotten to put on a shirt, and the baggy gray shorts he had on were doing a bang-up job of showing off how muscular his legs are.

All those bulging muscles, right there in front of me, made my head as fuzzy as the peach I was pretty much squeezing to death by then. I swear there’s not an ounce of fat on that man, in spite of his junk food and vodka addictions.

Every inch of him is so firm and smooth that my hooha perked to attention immediately. I insisted she calm down, seeing as we despise Brent Oliver. She complied, after calling me out as a delusional liar and after I promised her some relief.

Not with Brent Oliver, just with my hand.

B-o-r-i-n-g, I imagined her spewing, along with a yawn. But then that graphic image disturbed me so greatly that I couldn’t help but make a please-bleach-my-brain-now face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brent asked, snorting. “You’re not the one whose babysitter is throwing away all the good stuff in the house.”

Pointing at him, I replied, “I am not your babysitter. I’m your life coach.”

He shrugged. “Semantics.”

“I didn’t know hockey players knew such fancy words.”

“You obviously don’t know much about us at all, do you?”

“Pfft,” I snorted. “Let’s be sure we keep it that way, Oliver.”

“You got it, Shelburne.”

My lady bits got all excited from the lively exchange. So much so that I completely misunderstood when he said, “You’re dripping, by the way.”

“Huh? What?” I wasn’t that excited, was I? Good God, I hoped not. Because, if so, how mortifying!

I stared down at my short shorts. Could you see through them? They were kind of thin. Could I be that freaking wet?

Brent, clearly confused, said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m checking to make sure, uh…” Suddenly, I remembered the peach I was squeezing like crazy.

Oops.

“Aubrey?” He quirked a brow, like he was catching on to me.

Think fast!

“I thought I felt something on my leg,” I said in a rush. “A bug, maybe.” Nodding down to my sticky forearm, I hastily added, “But yes, I see what you mean. Damn peaches. They’re just so overly ripe.”

“Sure they are,” he murmured.

When I dared to look over at him, it was clear he knew precisely what I’d originally thought—that he’d aroused me. He had, of course, but there was no need to confirm it for him. In fact, I quickly went to work on making him think I hated him.

’Cause I do, right?

Right? Right?

Crap, I don’t know anymore.

Icily, I asked, “Are we done here? I’m trying to do my job, which happens to involve buying fruit for you, a food that’s on your approved list by the way.”

Yes, it was in his file. And since he hates the idea of a babysitter, which I sometimes kind of am, I knew that would chase him away. And so help me God, I needed him gone. He was turning me into a horny, confused mess.

Frustrated, I tossed the peach at him. He caught it easily and started to say something, but I turned away to face the sink. I was just so damn embarrassed by that point.

I heard him sigh as he left the room, and wouldn’t you know it, my traitorous hooha sighed right along with him, which then made me sigh. The mood was ruined for everyone, and it was an overall crappy night.

But tonight I’m ready and prepped to spar with Brent Oliver, something that is quickly becoming a highlight of my time here. Plus, if I get all worked up now, I have a new outlet.

Smiling, I pour another bottle of Grey Goose down the drain and think about my new duo of toys and how I came to acquire them.

Lainey would be so proud.

This afternoon, Brent was off meeting with team bigwigs, which meant I had a few hours to myself. The company I work for finally got around to renting me a car, so I decided to take it out for a little spin around the area. I also needed to get out of the house for a while.

Brent’s home is spacious and beautiful—it’s a huge terra-cotta villa with clay roof tiles and a lovely desert garden dominating the front and extending to the back—but I was feeling closed in.

I’ve already explored the two separate wings of his home, which included a thorough investigation of the area I share with him. That’s right. My damn bedroom is directly across from his. And all this freaking closeness is the real reason why I needed a break from Mr. Hottie’s lair today.

Like it was meant to be, as I was driving along, just aimlessly making random turns, I spotted a sex shop along the side of the road.

“Yes!” I fist-pumped the air as I eased into the lot of the aptly named Giddy-Up Adult Toys. Okay, maybe I more than eased in. There may have been a lot of spinning tire and plumes of dust, but damn it, I was in a hurry to get in that store.

I was so pumped that I started singing, making up a little jingle. Giddy-up, girl, go! Get your freak on in the desert at Giddy-Up Adult Toys.

Damn, I should do marketing on the side.

Then again, maybe not.

In any case, it was all new to me, and I was excited. I’ve never owned a sex toy, but my sister, as she likes to remind me, swears by them. It’s high time I hop on that horse and go for a ride, that’s what she’s been telling me. Well, if I can’t ride Brent—and I absolutely cannot—then the Giddy-Up sex toy store would have to provide the next best thing.

“Surely they’ll have something for me,” I told myself as I cut the ignition.

By then I was feeling a tad self-conscious after my splashy arrival, so I slid the scarf I was wearing up to cover my head. I then threw on a pair of cat-eye sunglasses, completing what was quickly becoming my fifties movie star appearance. No matter. I wanted to remain incognito and it was effective. Not that I expected to run into anyone, but with my luck it seemed a prudent move.

To my dismay, I received quite a few looks when I walked in that store. Not because I was a woman coming in to buy a sex toy—I’m sure that happened a lot—but because I kind of looked like I was about to hold up the joint.

With a nod to the scruffy surfer-looking dude manning the register, I scurried back to a wall of toys.

Damn, what I found was a dizzying array of pleasure devices, in all sorts of shapes, colors, and sizes. I peered at the packages, but it was a little hard to see with the dark glasses on.

Hastily, I grabbed two toys—one pink and one green. Yeah, color me the preppy perv. I then scampered over to the register and paid with cash, all while casting surreptitious glances left and right.

After my new purchases were placed in a bag, I grabbed the parcel and raced to the exit.

But then I heard, “Miss, you forgot your receipt.”

Damn! I ignored the clerk and kept going, intent on my escape—er, I mean departure—from the store.

The damn persistent clerk was not deterred, however. He followed me out to my car. “Please, lady, would you hold up a sec,” he called out as I hopped in what was no longer my car, but my getaway vehicle.

Removing my sunglasses, I threw the bag on the passenger seat and started up the engine. But by then there was no getting away. The surfer-dude had reached my open window.

He held out the slip detailing my purchases. “You forgot this,” he said.

Snatching the receipt from his hand, I snapped, “Why do I need a receipt, anyway? I can’t imagine you take returns.”

“We don’t,” he confirmed. “But you can always exchange unopened merchandise.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I deadpanned.

Kill me now. I can’t believe I’m talking sex toy return policies out in the parking lot.

I felt my face warm, especially when I placed the receipt he’d handed me in the plain brown bag containing my purchases. It was then I noticed exactly what I’d bought. One item was something called the DPMB. When I peered more closely, I horrifyingly realized the letters stood for Double Penetrator Mega Blaster.

O_O That was me for a good solid minute.

And why wouldn’t it be? Based on the size alone, the DPMB looked like it could cause some real damage. I pushed that one aside and saw the other toy I’d bought—a lime green vibrator with the weird name of Area 51.

Remembering that I was in Nevada, not far from the secret government testing area where they supposedly experiment on aliens, the name suddenly made sense. In fact, the more I peered at Area 51, the more I realized the toy did indeed resemble what one might imagine an alien’s dick would look like—long and thick and florescent lime green. There was a sticker on the package that boasted that Area 51 glowed brightly when in use.

“Wow, that must be something to see,” I couldn’t help but blurt out.

Would it be like those glow sticks they sell at events?

Or, was it radioactive?

Yikes, was it even safe to use?

I’d forgotten for a second that I wasn’t alone, and when I glanced up, still kind of perplexed about that glowing part, the sales clerk was staring at Area 51 right along with me. He proceeded to casually inform me, “That there Area 51 is a really big seller around here. The ladies seem to like it a lot.” He paused and pondered, and then he added, “I’m not sure if it’s popular because the real Area 51 isn’t far from here, or if they buy it because Brent Oliver wears number 51.”

What? No! I can’t escape the damn man. “What did you just say?”

He pointed to somewhere out in the desert. “Ah, Area 51 is—”

“No, no, not that part.” I shook my head vigorously. “What were you saying about Brent Oliver?”

“Oh, he’s the star player for our hockey team, the Wolves.”

“No, no. Not that, either.” I swished my hand in the air, like maybe I could erase this whole discussion. “What were you saying about the number fifty-one?”

“Oh, that. Fifty-one is Brent Oliver’s number. And you can’t see it with the packaging in the way, but the toy has a fifty-one imprinted on it.”

“Oh, great.”

Not only had I purchased an alien dick, but the thing shared a number with Brent. Had I subconsciously grabbed this one on purpose? If so, I didn’t want to even consider what grabbing the Double Penetrator Mega Blaster might mean.

As I shuddered, another disturbing aspect of the whole mindless grabbing of the toys began to bother me. It seemed I couldn’t deny that Area 51 was a close approximation of the length and girth of Brent’s cock. Or at least what I had discerned of it beneath the comforter that fateful morning when we’d met.

The clerk, misreading my intense staring at Area 51, jerked his chin to the package. “Another great feature of that one is that it has pulsating vibrating action and a temperature sensor.”

I wanted to drive away, just get the hell out of there as fast as I could, but curiosity got the best of me. “Temperature sensor?” My inquiring mind wanted to know one thing: “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means the device glows brighter with body heat. You know, from your—”

I got the hell out of there then, leaving the clerk in a plume of dust. You bet your ass I had my passengers with me though—DPMB and Area 51.

So yeah, I haven’t tried either of them yet—and I have a feeling DPMB might never get the chance, seeing as I like my lady bits and her backdoor neighbor just as they are—but at least I have the alien dick to satisfy me next time Brent Oliver gets me all worked up.

That could be sooner than expected. I hear his smooth voice behind me now, saying, “Hey, what are you doing with the Grey Goose? That’s my special collection.”

“Speak of the devil,” I murmur, smiling deviously as I unscrew the cap on the next bottle of liquor doomed for the pipes. Peering over my shoulder, I then snipe, “What does it look like I’m doing, genius?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Turning back to the bottle and dumping its contents in the sink, I reply, “The drain is thirsty. It’s enjoying your ‘special collection.’ And better it end up here than down your throat.”

“Can you at least save back a couple? Like, for a special occasion?”

“Sorry,” I reply breezily, “but it all needs to go.”

“What if I decide to have a party?” he throws out, like that’ll work.

“No parties allowed,” I say, reciting the rules in the contract. “No alcohol, no drugs, no women—”

“Fuck that last one,” I hear Brent mumble.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. It’s all in—”

“—the contract we signed,” he finishes for me. “Yes, I know.”

I remain facing the sink, but I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. I sense he’s preparing to come up with something to return the slam.

Sure enough, he throws out an innuendo-laden, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to hold back a bottle or two?”

I stop what I’m doing and turn around. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, Aubrey, I think we both know how much you also enjoy throwing back a few from time to time?”

We haven’t discussed the night I ended up in his bed, not once. And I don’t want to bring it up now. It conjures up too many feelings—like lust, longing, and want. And there’s no point in going there. Verbally sparring with Brent is one thing—like foreplay almost—but it’s safe.

Too bad I can never actually be with him.

That’s why I bought the toys.

Frustrated at this mess I’m in, I narrow my eyes at him and say, “I’m not the one with the alcohol problem, mister.”

“Like I am?”

“Brent…” I sigh. “You may not be a raging alcoholic, but you don’t know when to stop.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” he shockingly concedes. “But I have a question for you.”

Casually, he leans his shoulder against the curved entranceway that separates the kitchen from the dining room, a move that makes him look delectable. When he crosses his arms—and, of course, he’s once again prancing around without a shirt—his chest muscles flex and his arms bulge enticingly.

It takes everything I have to force my gaze up to his face. Though that’s not helpful either, since that part of him is just as attractive.

“What do you want to know?” I murmur as I pin my eyes to the mosaic tile floor. That way I won’t stare…or drool.

“How’d you end up at a party in Minneapolis? Jock mentioned that you live in Chicago. Is that right?”

I reluctantly meet his gaze. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“So,” he prompts, pressing for an answer. “What brought you up to Minnesota that night?”

I blow out a breath. “My sister. I was visiting her. She goes to school up there.”

“Ah, got it.”

He then pins me with inquisitive eyes, and I know what the next logical question is—how’d I end up at his party. Answering that will lead to the morning I was in his freaking bed.

It’s best to nip this in the bud now.

Raising my hand, I shake my head. “No, no more. I think that’s enough talk about that night. I’d just as soon leave it where it belongs, in the past.”

He lets out a snort, and I ask, “What now?”

“It’s just… You’re funny, Aubrey.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, yeah? In what way am I funny?”

This should be good.

“You’re here to help me, but you obviously have a few issues of your own that could use some”—he rolls his eyes—“life-coaching. One of which was crystal clear that morning in my bed.”

I glare at him. We were supposed to drop this subject. Still, I can’t resist asking, “What exactly are you implying? I can’t wait to hear what issue of mine could be so freaking clear to you.”

Sensing my irritation, he waves me off. “Just never mind. It’s nothing.”

I take a step toward him, and then another, like a challenge. “No, you brought it up. I want to hear what my big issue is.”

Smirking, he says, “Okay, fine. I think you’re sexually frustrated.”

I stop in my tracks. “You did not just say that.”

I glare into his damn whiskey-colored eyes. Whiskey is dangerous. I wished they’d stayed sunflowery.

Now it’s his turn to take a step closer to me. And then another. He’s faster than me and closes the gap between us in seconds.

Touch me, Brent, just do it. Make a move. Let’s worry about the fall-out later.

He doesn’t make a move, but he does lower his voice to a soft whisper as he says, “I did just say that, and I stand by it. Plus, I have another one for you.”

“What’s that?” I squeak out.

“You’re also sexually repressed.”

“What?”

I want to push him away, but that would mean skin-to-skin contact. We’re already just about chest to chest. Mine is currently heaving under a thin tank, and his is…just so bare and in my face.

Wonder what his skin feels like? Probably all hot and—

I glance up and see the way he’s looking at me. I know then that I’m not the only sexually frustrated person in the room. Brent wants me to make the move. I see it in his expression. He’s waiting for me to do it to prove I’m not sexually repressed.

I think about going for it, but only for a few seconds. I’ve heard far too many stories of colleagues becoming involved with their clients, even though it’s expressly forbidden. There’s a reason why there’s a no-fraternization clause stipulated in the contracts we sign. Relationships started under circumstances like these rarely end well.

Still, it’s hard to resist. There’s something undeniable between us. Something that’s pushing us together, creating this friction. There’s one thing that could alleviate it.

I look into his eyes, biting my lip. “Do it, Aubrey,” he whispers.

His raspy voice makes my breath pick up. He’s so close, close enough that I can actually feel the heat emanating from his body. And his masculine scent of soap and eau de hot need assaults my nose, making me want nothing more than to lean in and just freaking inhale him.

“I, uh…”

He raises a brow, a challenge.

But I’m afraid. “I—I can’t,” I murmur.

As I take a big lunge backward, a retreat, the look in his eyes tells me he views this as his victory.

“See,” he says quietly, “I was right all along. You are sexually repressed. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe if we just say hell with it and fuck one time—”

“Stop,” I desperately plead.

Hearing him say that word out loud, in his hot-ass voice, makes me want to give in. And he knows it.

“What’s making you uncomfortable?” he whispers, baiting me. “Me saying we should fuck?”

“Yes,” I practically pant.

“So let’s do it, Aubrey. Let me fuck you, just once. I promise I’ll make it good for you.”

Before I do something really stupid, I beg him one last time, “Please, Brent, please just stop.”

He sees I’m serious and backs off, hands in the air. “Okay. But let me say just one thing. I think you want this to happen”—he motions between us—“as much as I do.”

He really wants this? It’s not just a game?

I want it too, but I can’t.

That’s what I feel like screaming at him.

But I don’t, of course.

What I do instead, the minute he’s gone, is run upstairs.

I’m going to Area 51, baby. And you bet your ass I’m about to light up the sky with the glow.