You ever had those moments when you just look back on shit and know that you’re fucking happy?

Like you can feel that yes, you are in fact really happy.

Well, as I leave work, that’s the kind of feeling I'm having. As in even navigating from the heart of Times Square isn’t enough to sour my fucking mood. I mean, you’re talking to the guy who usually has his car come and pick him up so he doesn’t have to walk past the teeming throngs of idiots who think this is some sort of holy fucking shrine to come visit and stand in the middle of the sidewalk as they take pictures of overpriced fucking food carts.

Yeah, that wasn’t me tonight.

Tonight I waved to the security guy outside of Illicit Entertainment and walked with a brisk step uptown up 7^th Avenue.

Want to know the really best part about One57? The corner gourmet grocery store that sits right as you walk into the lobby. Seriously, I mean I’m talking fucking grocery store right underneath my apartment.

I pause and pick up some vegetables and a few steaks.

What?

Don’t give me that look. I can cook. Did you really think there was nothing I couldn’t do? I went to fucking UCLA and made myself a billionaire fucking smut lord. I can do any fucking thing I set my mind to.

It’s true, I usually eat out. Or I have my chef prepare my meals. But given the opportunity to, you’d be surprised what I can whip together.

Like today. I’m going to grill some steak and then slice them real thin, and maybe sauté some vegetables and some couscous on the side. I ordered a cake for dessert, but it should be a perfect dinner for two.

That’s right. I said two.

As in Brittney is coming over for dinner.

I know, I know. You’re either squealing in delight because you think she’s going to come over and we’re going to have dinner together, and then fucking cuddle, and then make sweet tender love. Or you’re rolling your eyes and wondering how I went from being the baddest motherfucking CEO in the country to some sort of fucking pussy.

Well, it’s neither.

Sure, I totally acknowledge that Brittney is coming over, and I’m excited to see her. It’s been a long fucking day. And she’s fucking gorgeous. Those tits. So fucking perky. That cute as a button face. That slender body. Oh my God, that ass. I want to rub my cock between those ass cheeks and then cum all over that tight fucking ass.

Try it. Have some guy you know cum on the small of your back. I fucking guarantee you that you will love it, babe.

And don’t look away or wonder who I’m talking to. I’m talking to you. If you have the opportunity to get someone to cum on the small of your back, then do it. Because literally every single girl I’ve ever done that to has cooed and told me the feeling of warm, thick, jizz right there in a sensitive spot has been one of the most pleasurable fucking experiences that they’ve ever felt.

I get out of the elevator and walk to my door. My apartment is the only one on this floor and as usual, it's fucking immaculate. The building has a maid service that usually comes in and cleans once a day—or more—if I need them.

Anyways, what was I even talking about? I was so focused on cumming on ass cheeks. Oh, right. Brittney.

Yeah, she’s coming over for some dinner. Yeah, I’m probably going to fuck the shit out of her. But something about her, I really want to make dinner.

There’s a ring on the doorbell and I open the door. The attendant from the downstairs gourmet food store has all my groceries and I let him in. He proceeds to the kitchen to unpack my purchases.

I mean, sure, I rarely invite girls over to cook dinner for them.

Okay, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked dinner for one girl before. There was one time I invited three girls over and I made some food and fed them while they took turns sucking my cock, individually and then all together. But that was work. We were fucking rehearsing, okay?

I’ve invited girls for a drink before. One, maybe two glasses of wine before the dress is on the fucking floor and I’m ripping the panties.

But dinner?

Fuck.

This is going to be a first for me.

The attendant comes out after loading my kitchen up and nods to me. I tip him as he leaves and pour myself a scotch.

All of a sudden, I’m thinking whether I should just take Brittney to dinner instead. Maybe I’m not ready to cook this girl dinner.

But then, I think of her wide, innocent but sexy looking eyes. How they look, looking up at me. Shit, everything about her face is fucking beautiful. Even her neck is sexy. I just want to fucking kiss it and nibble on it until she’s squirmy.

Her body is out of this world.

Fuck.

There is something fucking wrong here. But one thing I know is not wrong at all.

Making her dinner. It feels like the most right thing in the world.

I start preparing the food. It’s not that hard, really. Chopping vegetables isn’t that big of a deal when you can ask the chef at the store to pre chop it for you so it’s ready. The meat is already marinated and ready to go so I get those ready. The couscous is set to boil.

I put the vegetables on a pan with some olive oil and I turn on the stove.

I have another scotch and think back to how I would have probably fucking kicked myself in the nuts if I ever go back in time and tell myself what I’m doing now.

But fuck it, I have bigger plans.

Bigger goals.

I’d tell you what they are but my doorbell rings again.

That’s odd. It’s a bit early for Brittney to be coming already.

I’m still wearing the apron I put on while cooking and I go to the door.

Yes, I was wearing an apron, okay? I just didn’t fucking tell you because…I mean, it’s not important, is it? I still got the abs underneath. I still got the fucking cock.

And no, I am not fucking taking off the apron to open the door. Not even if it’s…

Cheryl.

She raises her eyebrows at me as she sees me holding a cooking spoon with an apron.

“Do I even want to know what kind of weird sex game you’ve got going on?” Cheryl asks as she walks in. I turn around to give her room and she looks around as she comes inside.

She sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” Cheryl asks me, turning to me and narrowing her eyes.

I shrug.

“Are you cooking?” she asks me.

“So what if I fucking am?” I snap back to her.

Cheryl smiles. “I’m just asking Ethan, it’s okay,” she tells me and takes a step over. “Expecting guests?”

I nod as I close the door and head to the kitchen. I need my scotch.

“Who?” Cheryl asks, as she follows me.

“Just someone I know,” I reply, not sure how to answer.

Okay, I’m going to be honest with you, okay?

It’s not that I don’t know how to say Brittney is coming over.

It’s that I’m not sure why all of a sudden it’s that I don’t want to say Brittney is coming over. I’m a bit worried about…what?

But Cheryl must fucking read my mind or something.

“Is it someone you work with perhaps, hmm?” Cheryl asks, taking a step closer to me. “Someone maybe you hired to be the face for Illicit Entertainment?”

I look toward Cheryl.

“You have Brittney coming over, don’t you?” Cheryl asks me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re cooking dinner for that woman.”

“Does it matter?” I ask with a sigh and turn to face Cheryl. I’m not sure if what I’m doing is the best course of action, but I’m sure as fuck not embarrassed about it. But enough is enough.

“Do you know anything about that woman, Ethan?” Cheryl asks me sharply. “Do you know anything about what you look like when you’re around her?”

I stare at Cheryl as she continues.

“She’s changing you right in front of my eyes,” Cheryl says. “You used to be an asshole, now look at yourself. Cooking dinner.”

“I can still take care of things that need to be done,” I tell Cheryl and take off my apron and grab my glass of scotch and walk out of the kitchen.

Fuck, did you just hear what that sounded like? Did I just fucking say take off my apron?

And I’m supposed to be the bad boy? Jesus fucking Christ.

“You can’t walk away from this Ethan,” Cheryl says, following me out. “There are thousands of employees who depend on your leadership, and if you’re placing it in danger by falling for that woman it’s my job to look out for you…and them,” Cheryl tells me as she follows me out.

“I’m not walking away from it, Cheryl,” I tell her coldly as I go toward the door, open it, and turn to her. “I’m showing you out so I can enjoy my evening in peace.”

Cheryl looks at me and pauses. Finally she sighs.

“I can only try to keep warning you, Ethan,” she tells me. “You may think you’re following your heart, but you could just as easily be getting played. Don’t forget how you know her in the first place.”

And with that piece of profound advice, Cheryl turns around and walks into the open elevator as the doors close.

Fuck.

I know she’s right. I should probably be a bit more careful.

If only I could stop thinking about Brittney for a moment, I might have a chance to listen to my fucking brain.