Ride Me Dirty(4)By: Vanessa Vale
Flicking my gaze toward Mr. Hottie, it didn’t appear that he had noticed my friend's racy note. The type was small and while the seats were close together, I had to hope he was extremely nearsighted. And focused on his book.
Me: Waste of time. I have too much work to do.
Elaine: Famous last words of a woman who desperately needs an orgasm. Chad was an asshole with a pencil dick. You need to find a man to rock your world.
Elaine had no filter and that's what I loved about her. She didn't mince words. What she said about my ex's dick was probably true. Sadly, I'd only been with him so I didn't have tons of dicks for comparison but he certainly didn't know how to use it. As for having my world rocked, well, I doubted that was going to happen anytime soon. I was too busy. Work, work out, more work. Occasionally, I slept. As Chad so kindly pointed out, I hadn’t made partner. Yet. If I wanted to be one, I had to clock the hours.
Me: Sex won't get me that partnership.
Elaine: You've got warped priorities, woman, if you think you can't have both. You think Mr. Farber doesn't get laid?
I wasn't sure if I should laugh or throw up in my mouth. My boss was in his sixties and far from attractive. And a misogynistic hard ass.
Elaine: A one-night stand. I'm not saying marry the man, just fuck him. Then find another and fuck him, too.
I sighed, trying to figure out how I was going to find a guy to fuck. I wasn't exactly a model with my short stature and curvy body. And one-night stands weren’t exactly my style. How did one go about doing that? Was I supposed to just walk up to a guy at a bar and tell him I wanted to have sex? Drink and act silly until the man made a move, go home with him and sneak out as soon as we were finished? The whole thing made me uncomfortable. The thought of turning from an uptight, workaholic divorcee who’d only ever slept with one man into a sultry seductress in the wilds of Montana just didn’t seem feasible.
Me: Fine. The first man I see when I get off this plane, I'll just ask to fuck me. That should work, right?
I could have sworn I heard Mr. Hottie grumble, but when I glanced at him, he was still reading.
Elaine: It's worked for me. Seriously though, find a hot Montana cowboy and go for it.
Mr. Hottie still hadn't moved and I inwardly sighed. This conversation was not something he needed to see.
My phone chimed.
Me: Gotta go. Mr. Farber is texting.
Elaine: He can text? LOL.
I rolled my eyes and shut down the messaging window. Grabbing my phone, I read my boss's text.
Farber: Hearing date for the Marsden case changed to Tuesday. In your absence, Roberts will take over.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my hand tightened around the phone case until my knuckles were white.
I stared at the words and wanted to throw the phone across the plane. Eric Roberts was vying for the same partner spot I was and he was a total asshole. Besides having a law degree, he had a Masters in brown-nosing and a PhD in poaching cases. I'd been gone half a day and he was already taking my biggest case. I could only imagine what he'd accomplish in the week I'd be gone.
Normally, I would have smiled politely and bitten my tongue. But not today. I muttered to myself as I answered Farber’s text with a polite recommendation that he send Martinez instead. Martinez, at the very least, thought with something other than his penis. Roberts had fucked his way through the entire paralegal department and had now moved on to the receptionist in the orthopedic office on the fourth floor. “Roberts. You asshole. Think you’re going to ruin me.”
“Do you always talk to yourself?”
I turned my head and looked up at Mr. Hottie.
“I'm sorry?” I asked, confused. My brain was still processing how my career was going into the toilet at an alarming pace.
“I just wondered if you always talk to yourself this much.”
Reality crashing back in on me, I blushed hotly, then looked away, seeing the flight attendant work his way down the aisle.
“Oh, um. Only when stressed.” I laughed drily. “That means yes. I talk to myself all the time.”
A little V formed in his brow, then glanced at my computer. “Stressful job?”
The flight attendant came to our aisle. “Since we're stuck here, drinks are on us, folks. Beer, wine, liquor?”
“Liquor,” Mr. Hottie and I said it at the same time. We looked at each other and smiled.
“Name your poison then,” the flight attendant replied, pencil and paper ready, looking to me.
“Vodka tonic,” I said. “Make it a double.”
“Same,” Mr. Hottie replied.
When the flight attendant moved down the line, Mr. Hottie turned back to me. “You seem to need that drink.”
“Or ten,” I muttered.
“That bad?” he asked.