Page 1 of Text Me A Kiss

Chapter One

Graham

In my experience, I found that there were two ways to break a sweat. I could go to the gym and work out, or… well, I could bring home a girl and put my toned body to work in a very different way.

I stretched, letting the rippling muscles in my shoulders and arched back tug against the bedsheets. Then, I reached down and removed a soft, feminine hand with chipped pink nails from my thigh. Another set of fingers sported lengthy nails painted with that deep red color that screamed “fuck me”. I only found that one after I levered my body into a sitting position.

One night, two women. Not uncommon for me, but unexpected last night in particular. The woman with the pink nails (why couldn’t I remember her name?) had seemed so demure at first, claiming to have come to the club only to socialize with her two friends with no interest in flirting.

I’d changed her mind with my confidence, winning smile, and easy conversation. Of the two women, despite her initial hesitation, she’d been wilder in bed—explaining the chipped nails.

And now, it was time for both to leave.

“Hey,” I said. Neither woman stirred. “Hey,” I repeated, raising the volume of my voice.

The red nails twitched, and the pink dragged against the blankets. “Oh,” Charlotte said sleepily through a yawn. I watched her eyes roam up and down my naked body, lingering on the blanket that lay across my lap. “Is it time to wake up?”

Abruptly standing as she leaned on one arm to reach for the edge of the blanket, I made a show of checking the phone I’d left on the nightstand. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

Weight fell on my shoulders as delicate arms wrapped around my neck and sharp nails dragged teasingly across my chest. “Go?” Charlotte breathed into my ear, sending a lustful shiver ghosting through my muscles. “Are you sure you want that?” Her teeth just caught on the soft, sensitive skin of my earlobe.

I stepped away from her. “I’m sure.” She probably intended the tiny pout that crossed her face to be cute, but I merely frowned in irritation.

Sensing my mood, Pink Nails had already slipped out of my king-sized bed and begun gathering her clothes from their various locations across my massive bedroom. When it became clear I was more interested in scrolling through my phone than reaching for the naked breasts before me, Charlotte turned away with a shrug. Shortly, both sets of pink and red nails vanished through the bedroom door.

Finally.I plugged my phone into its charger, since I’d been a little too preoccupied last night for that, rubbed at a long, thin, red scratch on my wrist, and headed into the bathroom.

I used to let them stay. As long as the women I brought home realized that this was a one-time thing, I had no problem whipping up a breakfast of pancakes—accompanied, of course, with a complimentary dessert of strawberries, whipped cream, and my tongue on their bodies.

I’d made my stance on last night so clear to Pink Nails and Charlotte that I couldn’t have written a document that stated it better. Beautiful, curvaceous, and successful as they were, they knew they had no chance with the billionaire CEO of the well-known brokerage company Midwest.

So, why hadn’t I let them stay?

Sending one last glance in the mirror to check my back for scratches, I twisted a few knobs and stepped into the steaming shower. Really, I had a simple answer to that question.

I hadn’t felt like it. Even now, I could feel the stickiness of dried sweat on my skin as my fingers helped the water wash it away. The fingers had a coating of their own, but I knew what that was and it wasn’t sweat. My hair stuck up at odd angles, resisting gravity until steaming streams of water plastered the dark brown strands flat.

Eat breakfast looking like a homeless man and smelling like sweat and pussy? The thought just didn’t appeal to me and hadn’t in months. No matter the symmetrical quality of my cheekbones and physical musculature, I couldn’t find it within myself to feel handsome and desirable when I woke up sticking to my own body.

Frowning as I turned off the water and reached for a towel, I wished I could at least remember Pink Nails’ name. I didn’t usually just forget the names of the women that moaned mine late into the night.

Shrugging the vague discomfort away, I wrapped a towel around my waist and searched the room for my favorite watch, impatience quickly replacing any last vestiges of the feeling as the watch eluded my efforts. Finally, I found it—under the bottom sheet. How the hell?

Dressing in the shortest amount of time I could while still sacrificing nothing professional clothes-wise, I headed out of my penthouse to the car I knew would be waiting for me, warmed up and ready to protect me from the chill of a late February morning in Chicago.

Twenty minutes later, I stepped briskly through the glass doors of Midwest’s headquarters, and two minutes after that, I stood gazing out of my expansive office window at the bustling metropolis of Chicago.

This view never wore on me, no matter how many times a day I came and went from this office. The way I saw it, the lofty floor from which I reigned over Midwest as CEO reminded me of how far I had risen to get here. All the things I had given up, all the work I had put into fine-tuning my natural affinity for numbers—all of it had brought me here, and I deserved to look down on the everyday activity of Chicago and take a moment to reflect.

“Mr. Emerson?”

For a moment, anyway; that was all I could spare most days. I turned from the window, tightening my watch one more clasp as I did so. “Good morning, Tracy,” I greeted my administrative assistant. “What have you got for me?”

She handed me two reports from two different departments located in this building.

I glanced over them. “I thought there were supposed to be three of these.”

“There are. Human Resource Management was supposed to leave one in my office last night.”