“Thank you, but, no, I’d prefer no interruptions tonight.”
She blushes. “Oh. Of course.” She clears her throat. “Uh, looks like your guests have already checked into the suite with no problem—it’s the penthouse, as you know—and all catering and amenities requested have already been sent up.”
“Excellent,” I say, my heart clanging with anticipation. “The bar is stocked with Gran Patron, right?”
“Um, actually, it looks like they broughtRocaPatron to the suite. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes, fabulous. Either one. Thank you.”
The desk clerk smiles at me and, suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with a crazy feeling ofdéjà fucking vu. How many times have I checked into a hotel while my “guests” awaited me upstairs, an odd mixture of sexual anticipation and self-loathing coursing through my veins? And yet, today feels totally different than all those other times in The Club. Today, for the first time ever, I feel only sexualanticipationpumping through me, not tainted whatsoever by rampant self-loathing. Because today, unlike all the times that have come before, the hottest woman alive is waiting for me upstairs, not some random hooker I don’t know or give a shit about—and not only is she hot, she’s sweet and funny and smart, too.Andin a twist of awesomeness I never could have predicted (or even hoped for), the hottest woman alive doesn’t give a shit if I’m a sick fuck. In fact, she actuallylikesmy sick-fuckedness. It’s an incredible feeling.
The clerk hands me my key-card. “Do you know how to get to the penthouse suite, Mr. Faraday?”
“I sure do,” I say. “Thanks.”
I head toward the elevator bank at the far end of the lobby. My heart’s beating wildly. Holy shit, I’m gonna see Kat in a matter of minutes.
Kat.
I would have preferred to personally pick Kat up from the airport this afternoon and bring her to my house for our first night together, rather than meeting her here at the hotel—I hate that I haven’t even had a chance to hug her and say hello to her yet, just me and her—and I told Kat as much on the phone last night. But my little terrorist insisted we jump right into fantasy-fulfillment, first thing, before seeing each other in “real life.”
“First off, we don’t have a choice in the matter,” she said. “Bridgette’s only gonna be in L.A. Thursday night, right?”
“Yeah, but we don’t have to do the Bridgette thing this trip,” I said. “We can do it during your next trip.”
“No, we gotta do it,” Kat insisted. “We’re kicking off our fantasy-fulfillment extravaganza with the stuff in your application, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So that means whenever Bridgette can fit us in, that’s when we gotta do it. Plus,” she continued, “I wouldn’t want to come to your house the first night, anyway, babe. That wouldn’t bevery call-girlish, now would it?” I could practically hear her licking her lips at that last statement. “Not seeing you beforehand will make me feel even more like a call girl. It’s perfect.”
The elevator reaches the top floor and I practically sprint down the long hallway toward the room, grinning from ear to ear. Kat talked a good game about wanting to fulfillmyfantasies during this trip, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she was actually chomping at the bit to fulfill her own high-priced-call-girl fantasy. When I texted Kat this afternoon to find out if she’d landed safely and connected with the driver I’d sent, she sent me a reply that made me laugh out loud:
“How the heck did you get my phone number, sir? My name isn’t Kat, it’s Heidi Kumquat (though, in light of my profession, I never reveal my real name). I’m a world-class call girl, sir, sought after by sheiks, kings, and presidents, working under the code name Party Girl with the Hyphen. I’ve just landed (safely) in Los Angeles to meet a very sexy but incredibly demanding client (whom I’d very much like to thank for flying me first-class, by the way), and, yes, his driver picked me up exactly according to plan (thank you!), and now I’m headed to my client’s ritzy hotel.
“Please don’t text me again, sir. My client has paid a pretty penny to have my undivided attention for the whole night, starting RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, and he’d be positively enraged if he found out I was texting with another man duringhispurchased time. I’ve been bought and paid for tonight, mind, body, and soul—which means I’m duty-bound to think of absolutely nothing but fulfilling my client’s sexual desires all night long, LITERALLY NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
I must say, that was a sexy goddamned text. If there’s one thing Kat Morgan knows how to do, it’s turn a man on.
I’ve reached the door to the penthouse suite.
Oh my God, I’ve got so much adrenaline coursing through me, I’m shaking.
I take a deep breath and rap twice on the door to signal I’m here and coming in, exactly the way I did before entering each new hotel room during my month in The Club—and just like I said I’d do when I replied to Kat’s awesome email from “The KUM Club.” And then I swipe the key and open the door.
22
JOSH
When I enter the suite, I stop just inside the door, paralyzed by the incomprehensible sight of Kat and Bridgette in the same room together. Talk about two worlds colliding. My brain can’t process what I’m seeing—though, apparently, my body sure can. Hello, instant hard-on.
The women are sitting in side-by-side armchairs, sipping what looks like cranberry-vodkas, giggling happily like they’re longtime friends. Kat looks like a million bucks (appropriately) in the Prada dress and heels I bought her in Las Vegas, her long, toned legs crossed demurely, while Bridgette’s wearing a simple black tank top, jeans, and flip-flops, her blonde hair tied into a knot on top of her gorgeous head, her legs spread like she’s a dude talking football in a sports bar. Talk about two women monopolizing the entire planet’s supply of physical perfection all at once. Holy motherfucking shit. Seeing these two women together would almost certainly make a weaker man stroke-out.
“Kat,” I blurt, my heart leaping out of my chest. I begin crossing the room to greet her, to take her into my arms and kiss the holy motherfucking shit out of her—has it only been a week since I last saw her, because it feels like a year?—but Kat puts up her hand sharply and shoots me a smoldering look that stops me dead in my tracks.
“So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Faraday,” she says smoothly.
Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I come to a complete halt.
“You’re even handsomer than in your photos,” she purrs. She sits up straight, arches her back, and folds her hands primly in her lap.
“So are you,” I say. My heart is pounding in my ears.
