But I’m not fast enough.
Before I can leave, he calls out, “Oh, and Miss Zavala?”
I pause, angling my body toward him. “Yes?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Aware of my not-so-hidden disdain for Valentine’s Day, the bastard smirks. It takes everything in me not to reply with a bitchy comment, even though I desperately want to.
“It’s the merriest day of the year!” I say with fake enthusiasm.
“Pretty sure that’s Christmas.”
“Whatever,” I mumble, tossing my hair over my shoulder, resuming my exit. I swear I hear his deep baritone laughter follow me down the hallway.
CHAPTER2
HER SECRET SHOW
César
It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m sitting at home, two glasses of whiskey deep, without a woman by my side. I don’t fucking care at this point. Valentine’s Day is my favorite time of the year. An excuse to spoil my date with cheap chocolate and not-so-cheap flowers. We’d share a night of passion, because what was Valentine’s Day for if not hot, rough sex? And then we’d part ways—usually on amicable terms—and the cycle would start anew next year.
Women are my favorite indulgence. Spoiling them. Fucking them. Talking with them. It didn’t matter. My friend and firm partner, Elias, always made fun of me and called me a playboy, but that shit is the furthest thing from the truth. Playboys don’t respect women and are just there for some ass. Not me. I want every part a woman will give me. Her hopes, dreams, fears. I fucking thrive on that shit.
It’s just the commitment I’m not good at.
I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’m not that type of man. I’ve also never been with anyone long enough to cheat on them, which is what I prefer. My interests are fleeting, and no woman has ever stayed on my mind for long.
The only reason I’m not at some overpriced three Michelin star restaurant is because I’ve been working like a damn dog. My calendar is packed, filled with back-to-back meetings, since Elias decided to become a better husband and spend more time with his wife. I think that asshole is in Mexico on some beach.
Can’t help but hate him a little.
I finish my third glass of whiskey just as a notification buzzes my phone. A reminder flashes across the screen—five minutes until my show starts. If I have to miss out on my favorite holiday, then damn it, I’m going to enjoy it in other ways. I grab my personal laptop and power it on. The website is already saved in my favorites. As soon as I log in, a banner pops up across the screen, proudly declaring me CurvyBabe’s top supporter once again. Just like I’ve been for the last three months.
I loosen my tie, unbuttoning my shirt before nestling back into my couch, getting comfortable. My cock already knows what’s about to happen and twitches in my pants. It’s been too damn long since I’ve sunk myself into tight pussy, I’m certain I’m going through withdrawals. Until I get my personal life back, CurvyBabe is my only outlet.
The video feed starts up with a two-minute countdown for tonight’s live event. Before I’m too far gone in my horny thoughts, I send a generous tip, gaining the “top contributor” badge instantly. A widget in the corner of the screen counts the amount of people joining in on the live and it quickly surpasses over one thousand people. I take solace in knowing I’m not the only bastard spending Valentine’s Day alone.
Me—and probably the entire chat—watch in anticipation as the countdown gets to its last five seconds. The moment it hits one, the screen goes dark. Before disappointment can settle in, the screen flashes again, and this time,she’shere. CurvyBabe. A masquerade mask covers her face, concealing most of her identity.
She’s wearing this fiery-red lace number that barely counts as clothing. It clings to her curves like a second skin, cut low enough to showcase the swell of her breasts. A keyhole slit teases a glimpse of skin right between them. Thin straps wrap around her shoulders, delicate but firm, like the lingerie was made to be slowly undone.
My gaze dips lower. The bodysuit hugs her waist and hips like a damn dream, sheer panels and lace revealing more than they hide. There are little ruffles at her hips, and long garter straps trail down her thighs like an invitation. She’s paired it with matching red thigh-highs, and suddenly I can’t think straight.
She shifts slightly, running a hand through her hair like she owns the room—and hell, she does. My blood heats instantly. Every nerve lights up. That lingerie wasn’t made to be worn. It was made to be worshipped—just like her—and ripped off.
Fuck.
My mouth is dry. She hasn’t even said a word yet, and I already know I’m screwed. My cock swells at the sight of her. Soft, sultry music plays in the background, adding to the ambiance of her small room with nothing but a twin sized bed.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she purrs, a seductress in her own right. Her voice drips like honey. She never speaks much. She doesn’t have to. Her body does all the talking for her.
I drink her in like a fine wine. Her soft belly, wide hips, and thighs that could send a lesser man into a coma. Although most of the comments are praising and complimenting her body, there are a few unhinged ones as well.
Fattie.
Fucking gross.
No person should be that big.
