Madame Terrorist strikes again.
I glance furtively at the guy seated next to me on the plane. He’s working on his laptop, completely oblivious to the naked photo of Kat that just melted my motherfucking screen. For a long moment, I look around at the other passengers in my immediate vicinity, my heart raging, my cheeks burning, my cock twitching in my pants.
I’ve seen my share of naked-blonde-woman-photos before now, of course, but my body’s never reacted quite like this to any of them. Holy fuck, I feel like I just mainlined a cocktail of Ecstasy and Viagra. You’d think I was thirteen and sneaking my dad’s stash of porno-mags the way my body’s reacting to this photo of Kat.
But it’s not just Kat’s tits and ass making my dick so hard—it’s how much of Kat’s personality comes through in the shot. There’s a devilish smile on her lips that tells me she was as turned on snapping this photo as I am looking at it, and, shit, there’s a glint in her eye that says, “I got you right where I want you, chump,” too. The woman slays me.
I can’t believe Kat gave this photo to me, no coaxing required. I had tobegEmma to let me snap one measly naked shot of her for my birthday last year, and now Kat’s sending me this for no other reason than she likes getting me hard? She’s incredible.
What did Kat say after Sarah sent that naked photo of herself to Max and Oksana? “No matter how smart or powerful a guy might be, he’s got the same Kryptonite as every other man throughout history—naked boobs.” I close my eyes for a long beat, shaking my head. God,I hate proving Kat right, I really do, just on principle—but there’s no way around it: Kat’s naked boobs just flat-out stripped me of whatever superpowers I might have had.
And yet her naked boobs didn’t come close to slaying me the way her naked words did. I already knew she was a terrorist, but now I know she’s a fucking ninja with words, too.
I made fun of Jonas pretty relentlessly for the way he went ballistic over Sarah’s anonymous email, sight unseen, but now I get it. Shit, I might even owe Jonas an apology for the way I gave him shit about that. If Sarah’s note was even half as clever and sexy and hot as Kat’s, then it’s no wonder Jonas fell so hard for—
I jerk my head up from my screen, my heart suddenly rising into my throat. Did I just compare Kat and me to Jonas and Sarah? My chest tightens. I hear my pulse in my ears.
Yeah, I did.
I close my laptop, unlatch my seatbelt, and walk quickly into the bathroom, my head reeling. Once there, I latch the door with shaking hands, splash cold water on my face and rock-hard dick (because the idea of wacking off in an airplane bathroom is too gross even for me) and then I stare at myself in the mirror.
“Just breathe,” I say to myself out loud. Shit, I look like Jonas right now. “Don’t overthink it, bro. Just stay in the moment. Chill the fuck out.”
But the blue eyes staring back at me won’t be soothed.
How do you know?I asked Jonas.
I just know,he said.
I look at myself in the mirror for another long beat, water dripping down my cheeks and off the tip of my nose.
“She’s your Kryptonite, man,” I finally say to my reflection. “You’re totally fucked, Superman.”
21
JOSH
“Checking in, sir?” the valet attendant asks as he opens my car door.
“Yeah.”
“Need assistance with any bags?”
“Nope.” I hold up my car keys and a one-hundred-dollar bill. “No cars parked on either side of it.”
“Yes, sir.” The attendant grabs my keys and the C-note out of my hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Bring it back with no dings in the doors and I’ve got another hundred for you.”
“Thank you, sir. You got it.”
I grab the small duffel bag on my passenger seat, straighten my tie, and stride toward the front of the hotel. Holy fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this eager to see a woman. Okay, fine, I’m full of shit—I’ve never been this eager to see a woman, ever, and I know it.
This whole past week, even though I’ve been absolutely swamped with work hammering out the transition strategy for Jonas and me from Faraday & Sons, I’ve nonetheless managed to continuously count the minutes to seeing Kat again. When I haven’t been working, the only way I’ve been able to prevent my mind from spiraling into some sort of Jonas-style obsession, has been to keep myself constantly busy. I’ve gone to the gym and worked out like a motherfucker every night this week, followed by going home to my empty house and distracting myself with one of four go-to activities (all of which I performed while lying naked in my bed): 1) strategizing about how I’m gonna deliver on Kat’s crazy-ass (butawesome) fantasies; 2) reading one of the sex-books Jonas sent me (fantastic reading, I must say—I owe my brother a huge ‘thank you’);3) chatting with Kat on the phone (or on FaceTime); and 4) jerking off, an activity which, quite frequently, overlapped with activities one, two and three (but mostly activity three).
A doorman holds open the heavy glass doors of the hotel and tips his hat to me as I enter the building. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”
“Thanks,” I say, gliding into the expansive lobby.
