Just Toying Around.... Rhonda Nelson
done it. She hadn’t been able to resist.
The compensation had turned out to be incredible, and the extra cash would put her that much closer to her lifelong dream of attending Pierre’s Culinary Arts School in Paris. She’d been saving for almost two years, but this job with Foreplay would make that dream a reality as early as next summer.
But for every perk, there was always a drawback and Meg’s had turned out to be a doozy.
For reasons which escaped her, Meg’s Desiree Moon persona had reached semistardom on the Internet through her reviews. She knew her neighbors suspected her of having an affair with the deliveryman—she got bombarded with plain-packaged boxes every day. It seemed as though every adult-toy company across America wanted her to critique their product.
Quite frankly, Meg didn’t have a clue why.
As with everything else in her life, when she did something she wanted to do it well. This job had been no different. Each time she critiqued a product, she did so to the absolute best of her ability and she was frank. After all, these were sex toys. Mincing words would hardly benefit anyone. Being honest meant speaking plainly. If a toy didn’t stimulate her, if it didn’t facilitate orgasm, she said so. Likewise, if it made her come, she said that, too.
As for the toys which required a partner…Meg winged it, BS’ed her way through it. She had to because, ironically, other than one sad, completely unsatisfying experience back in college which had lasted a grand total of two minutes—and had cost her a very lucrative scholarship—Meg had no firsthand experience and wasn’t inclined to go to the trouble to get any.
The one and only time Meg had dropped her guard and trusted a man enough to sleep with him, he’d bragged about nailing the Ice Queen—her nickname, she’d found out later—to every jerk in possession of a Y chromosome. Including one of the professors who happened to be on the scholarship board. The scholarship Meg had been all but assured, had worked so hard for, was suddenly snatched out of her reach as a result of a morals clause. That momentary lapse in judgment had wrecked the hell out of her five-year plan. It would never happen again.
Meg sighed. The mind was willing, but the flesh was weak, and growing weaker by the day.
To her eternal frustration, Meg had been cursed with an extremely hyper libido and, sadly, due to the scholarship fiasco, a mistrustful nature. The latter was not conducive to the former.
Which resulted in perpetual sexual frustration.
How she ended up with such a strong sex drive Meg would never know. She was the only child of a set of aging parents whom she’d never seen display any sort of sexual interest in each other. In fact, her parents seemed to be completely asexual and Meg considered it nothing short of a miracle that she even existed. How her mother had ever dragged her father away from the television—which stayed perpetually tuned to a football game—to get the business done, Meg would never know. If she had to guess, Meg imagined she’d most likely been conceived in the recliner, probably during the half-time show.
At any rate, when Meg critiqued the partner-oriented toys, she gleaned information from magazines, co-workers and close friends who were sexually active. Then she’d invented a partner whom she’d dubbed “Antonio” after a popular Latin superstar to complete the ruse. Meg grinned. What the hell. It was her fantasy. She might as well make it real for herself.
If the editors at Foreplay ever found out, or heaven forbid, any of the toy companies discovered the true extent of her sexual experience, she’d be ruined as a critic. She’d lose her job. Going to Paris next summer would be out of the question.
Meg shoved the disturbing thought aside, chastising herself for worrying needlessly. Short of her admitting her lack of experience, how could they find her out? They couldn’t, Meg assured herself. She had nothing to be concerned about.
Meg simply loved the freedom her online persona gave her. Online she wasn’t just plain old single Meg Sugarbaker, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, whose life was about as exciting as a pound cake. She was the mysterious Desiree Moon. She was hot. Sexy. People respected her opinion. The power she had was addictive. In that protected forum, she could give voice to some of her most scandalous thoughts. Things she couldn’t share with even her closest friends. Things she’d never dream of sharing without complete anonymity.
Meg boarded the elevator, dragging her wheeled garment bag behind her. The doors had almost closed when a large male hand suddenly thrust between them and halted the process.
The body that belonged to the man was proportionate to the hand. The guy was enormous, built on a monumental scale, easily six-six. He was lean like an athlete, yet heavily muscled.
Meg pushed her floppy hat back and craned her head so that she could get a better look at him.
She felt her eyes go wide and her knees go weak. She smothered a moan.
In addition to owning the most devastatingly perfect male form Meg had ever had the pleasure to gaze upon, the guy was gorgeous. Epitomized sexy. To her near slack-jawed amazement, need broadsided her. Her womb flooded with heat and she immediately cast him as the lead in each and every one of her future sex-with-a-complete-stranger fantasies.
Adios Antonio.
Equally bewildered and intrigued by her instantaneous physical attraction to him, Meg continued her rapt perusal.
Pale tawny locks capped his head and she imagined the same golden shade lightly dusted his muscular chest, legs and forearms beneath his fashionable suit. He was lean cheeked, with a hard, uncompromising jaw. His eyes were slumberous, a rich golden brown, almost caramel, with a hint of sin and mischief thrown in for good measure.
He smiled at her, and an endearing dimple winked in his left cheek. She reciprocated the gesture and melted against the wall for support. This man was art in motion, would make Michelangelo’s David weep with shame.
“What floor?” he asked.
Who cares? Meg thought. This floor, that floor. The wall, the shower. Didn’t matter to her. Until reason returned, she was open to any and all possibilities.
Looking somewhat bemused, he lightly shrugged and pressed a button on the control panel. “I’m on five,” he told her.
What floor? Feeling ridiculous, Meg squirmed as a blush warmed her cheeks. She cleared her throat, drew her shoulders back and tilted her jaw to its most flattering angle, vainly making a belated attempt to look cool and sophisticated. Which was ridiculous when she looked like the proverbial mobster’s widow. What on earth had possessed her to wear this? “I’m, er, on five as well. Here for the trade show?” she ventured. Would that she could be so lucky.
“No.” He winked conspiratorially. “But I am here on business.”
Damn. It figured. Meg absently chewed her bottom lip and did a quick inspection of his left hand. No ring. No visible shadow of a ring. Probably never married. Which would lead a sensible, less horny woman to conclude he was either A) Possessed of some hideous character flaw. Or B) He was gay. Good-looking professionals such as this did not remain single otherwise. Meg heaved an internal sigh. He was probably gay.
The elevator glided to a smooth stop and the doors opened with a hydraulic whoosh. He allowed her to exit first. Meg murmured a thanks, then said, “Hope you enjoy your stay.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
Hope you enjoy your stay? What was she? The damned concierge?
Mentally cursing her own stupidity, Meg started down the hall in search of her room. Gay or no, he’d already made this trip even more interesting than it had promised to be. Meg sighed and mentally ticked off what would be required of her during this trade show. She’d meet the editors of Foreplay as well as the vendors of the products she critiqued. She’d been asked to give a Q&A workshop. She’d be busy, she realized, totally engrossed in the trade show and probably wouldn’t even have time to fantasize about Mr. Perfect from the elevator, much less pursue anything else with him.
Meg battled a wave