“So says the publicist.” Vive huffed. “You can be such a hypocrite sometimes.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“My stories don’t detract.” She wouldn’t drop it. Vive glanced around for management. “I wonder who I need to speak with to land a photo shoot here for Debauchery.”
The main room featured a bar in the center with two side areas of smaller service stations. Couples chatted in French and English, laughed, kissed and danced.
Wait a sec… “Do you see what I see?” Taddy’s vision refocused from the space’s far corners. She could’ve sworn she’d observed shadowed bodies screwing. Sex oozed in Privé Extreme’satmosphere.
“I smell Ssss…” Vive waited for Taddy to spell it out.
“E.”
“X!” Vive finished and then kissed her on the cheek. “I see some hunks. I’m hittin’ the dance floor. Check ya later, girlie.”
“Text me if you leave to hook up.”
“Ditto.” Vive strutted off toward two men who were waving her over. As a Swedish blonde, Vive always secured first looks, even in the dark.
Alone, Taddy felt tonight stood to get ten times hotter. Maybe better than what she’d planned for Algarve, Portugal. Please sweet Jesus gumdrop—anytime you wanna bring me a man, I’m ready.
* * * * *
Moonlit ocean views glowed behind the wine bottles as she walked over to the main bar. Taddy studied the champagne menu. It listed over fifty varying bubbles from France’s champagne houses along with brands she’d tasted from media parties in years past such as Bollinger, Moët & Chandon and Piper Heidsieck. However, this place had even stocked the unique and unfamiliar from Italy and California.
“Pouvez-vous m’aider?” Impressed with the menu, she secured the champagne sommelier’s attention. “I’m hoping for a suggestion from your overwhelming menu.”
“Talk to him, mademoiselle,” the tuxedo-wearing server shouted over the loud music, pointing to a far corner.
Her eyes followed his direction. Men dressed in their best linen suits and women in lavish cocktail attire. The patrons seemed relaxed yet elegant, possibly homeowners living on the island for the season. She could tell by how at ease people mingled with one another. As if they’d been friends for years. One tall stud stood out from the rest.
Huh?
Taddy was shocked to see what appeared to be a Midwesterner from the Buckeye State. How did he beat the in-the-know system? Oh my god. It’s my NFL quarterback Brayden Brooks. Pussy creaming while standing, she held on to the bar as if an Ohio tornado swept her right off her Casadei alligator-embossed platform pumps. She studied his backside. He had to e bat least six-foot-five. Yummers.
His legs appeared thick, like great oak trees. She imagined herself as Red Riding Hood ready to walk through his forest under those trees. And his back, Holy Mary mother of…
Certain heaven had gifted her with an NFL player as a royal payment for the Birdie hell Lex and she had endured, Taddy reminded herself of the $175,253.84 she’d paid. She waved the server off with a graceful smile. Taddy stepped closer for a better view.
Dear baby Jesus,
Hold your gumdrops. You just had your holiday. Now let me have mine. I’ve waited a long time to kiss those full lips…to feel his NFL-playing fifty-something-inch chest meshin’ against my nipples…to have his long, thick cock slamming into me. I know I must sound shallow. But let me have just a few hours of fun.
Tonight is going to be the best. Better than wearing Chanel. Better than living in NYC.
Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. After the week in Vancouver, I hoped, I prayed you’d pay me back. I didn’t expect anything as magnificent as this.
Holy shiiit.
Sorry. I mean, Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
Amen.
Hot men who stood at Brayden’s size gave off a wholesome scent in the air that her Manhattanite edge could easily sink her teeth into. Do you remember the first time I noticed you, Brayden? Five years ago, New Yorker Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. The weather was in the high nineties. Blake had attempted to secure a new athletic footwear account for the lifestyle division….
* * * * *
“You have to go to this New Yorker football game with me.” Blake batted his puppy dog eyes, which came out when he wanted something.
“I don’t understand anything about football, Blake.” She didn’t know much about sports in general.
“Ummm and I do, boo?” Blake air-jacked a cock to his mouth signifying “Dah!”
“I’ve never hung out in Joisey.” She glanced out her Times Square window from the forty-eighth floor overlooking the Hudson River at The Garden State. “We have to go over there.”
“We must win the Vuma sneaker account,” he tried again.
“No.” She rested her weight on one stiletto and focused her attention on her cuticles. Taddy didn’t do the boroughs let alone New Jersey.
“We’re up against four other agencies. It’s vital to the Brill girls. I can’t do this without you.”
“It’s crucial to your commission check, darling.” She’d pay his inflated salary, but she didn’t want to go to some ball game.
“The editor-in-chief at Athletica magazine gave us two media passes.” Blake fanned the ticket stubs in his hands. He tested her easiness for anything exclusive. “These are VIP packages with all the fixings.”
“How much is the Vuma account?” she asked, weighing her options. Her schedule was booked this season. “Ballpark figure please.”
Blake jotted the digits on a Post-it and held it up, “$1,000,000.00.” With his palm, he then rubbed the note over the polo emblem on his Ralph Lauren shirt and enthusiastically cheered, “Cha-ching!” For a final Mr. Morgan dramatic effect, he twisted his right nipple in mockery followed by a slow trace of his tongue over his lips.
One million dollars? Her jaw dropped and then her breasts hardened. Money always turned her on. Not other people’s cash, just hers, and it was all Brill, Inc.’s. On that seven-figure note, she jumped into the NFL world to win the footwear industry, but not wearing Vuma. Taddy sported Christian Louboutin jeweled stilettos.
Do you remember what you wore, Brayden Brooks? She’d gone to the wrong team’s side, not the New Yorkers but the Devil Browns and walked right in and there he stood…in his jockstrap. You are the most attractive hunkadoris I’ve ever seen. Who else could bench press two hundred twenty-four pounds in twenty-four reps and squat five hundred pounds? Total hunkadoris.