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IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar #1)
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I tell myself an unexpected night of hot as hell back-and-forth is the perfect way to blow off a little steam while I’m in New York closing an important business deal. Little do I know the man on the other end of the line is none other than Wells Grange: the most controlling, egotistical, emotionless SOB I’ve ever met.
I spend my days squaring off against Wells in the boardroom, and my nights succumbing to the sexy stranger’s commanding texts in the bedroom. Within days, I’m falling for someone I shouldn’t, and I have to remind myself that none of this is real.
I should confess. Tell the truth about who I am. Instead, I decide there’s no harm in flirting. After all, once our business is concluded, he’ll be out of my life for good.
The more I get to know Conor, however, the more I start to fall for him. Which is a problem, because I made a vow long ago to never let emotions interfere with my life, either business or personal. Except I can’t stop thinking about him night and day. If it’s only in my head, though, it doesn’t count.
After all, it’s not like we’re falling for each other in real life…
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I’d never sent a dick pic before.
Correction, I’d never intentionally sent one. I did accidentally one time send my best friend a pic of my inner thigh with a tiny slice of cock shaft in the corner, but that was because I didn’t realize the camera was open on my phone while I was quickly changing for my after-school job at Taco Bell. It had happened over ten years ago, but the asshat still brought it up whenever it was convenient.
It was frequently convenient.
But this time was intentional. Or, as intentional as you can be when you’ve had four Sex on the Beaches… Sexes on the Beach… hmm… too many somethings and are horny and hard in a hotel room hundreds of miles from home with nothing else better to do.
An hour earlier, as I’d been in the hotel bar drinking my nerves away about an upcoming business presentation, I’d gotten hit on by the bartender. The man was cute but young. A little on the skinny side, but he had a gorgeous smile. Every time he’d smiled in my direction, I’d felt my face ignite and had to look away. Unfortunately, I also had to throw back the rest of my drink and ask for another to quell my nerves. When the bill eventually came, so did his phone number.
After paying my tab and pocketing the number with an embarrassed nod, I’d run away. And spent the next forty-five minutes stroking myself to fantasies of sex with a stranger and trying to talk myself into doing something crazy for once. Hmm.
There. Anonymous dick pic. Sent.
I felt a thrill of nervous excitement. I’d actually done it. Actually hit Send. I let out an adrenaline-fueled laugh in the empty hotel room at my unusual boldness and grinned at the image on my phone. That wasn’t just a dick. It was a fabulous phallus. Tall and proud. Robust, really. Good light, healthy coloring… As long as I didn’t go back to that hotel bar all week and see the guy in person again, I was golden. I’d done it. I’d come to New York and gone a little wild.
Then the second thoughts started crowding in.
I should not have had that much to drink. I’ve never sent a dick pic before, much less to a stranger.
212-555-0160: And how much was that?
I blinked at my phone. Had I texted my thoughts…? Ah, yup. Seemed I had. My thoughts had gone right through my fingers and into the text message screen. Fuck.
Should I respond? Why the hell not? It’s not like I was going to see him again unless I went back to that bar.
I began typing.
Conor: Dude, don’t you remember? I was nervous about tomorrow’s big presentation? You’re the one who served them to me.
There were a few beats of nothing before the response came.
212-555-0160: Did I? I don’t think so.
I did a double take at the screen. He had though. The bartender had been the only one working. And he’d been the one to slide his phone number across the bar on a sticky note.
Before I had a chance to argue with him, he texted again.
212-555-0160: I’m still at work, but I certainly appreciate the eye candy you sent.
My head was fuddled from the alcohol. Of course he was still at work. I’d left him down there only an hour before, too chickenshit to take him up on his wink and offer of a late-night visit to my room.
Conor: I changed my mind. Come to my hotel room.
I blinked, surprised at how easily I’d sent that invitation. Then a slow panic began to boil in my stomach. What if he actually took me up on it? Shit, I’d never had an anonymous one-night stand. It wasn’t my style. And as much as I’d used the excuse of being a little tipsy to send the dick pic, I was sober enough to know that sex with a stranger was definitely outside of my comfort zone.
212-555-0160: Hm, now that’s a compelling offer, sexy, but I don’t know you. And it’s late.
So weird. That hadn’t been a problem only an hour before. Even though my overwhelming feeling was relief he wouldn’t be knocking on my door anytime soon, I still felt like whining. Just messaging someone a dick pic had gotten me all hot and bothered.
Conor: But I want to get off.
That didn’t sound pathetic. Did it?
Conor: You don’t have to know me. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my room. Just tell me something sexy.
A part of my brain couldn’t believe the words coming out of my fingers. But sending the photo had made me feel bold—demanding in a way I’d never felt comfortable being when I was face-to-face with a man.
Conor: Tell me what you’d do to me if you were here.
My cheeks burned with a blush, and my breathing came faster. I watched the screen, but there was nothing. I felt an odd sense of disappointment coil in my chest.