SEXT Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Sext

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Pool Boy

  Vera

  James

  Excerpt of Get Me Off

  Sext

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  Sext

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Pool Boy

  1. Vera

  2. Vera

  3. James

  4. Vera

  5. Vera

  6. James

  7. Vera

  8. Vera

  9. James

  10. Vera

  11. Vera

  12. James

  13. Vera

  14. Vera

  15. James

  16. Vera

  17. Vera

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of Get Me Off

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Sext

  Copyright © 2017 by Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Filthy Boss

  Her Dad’s Friend

  Rockstars F#*k Harder

  The Virgin Intern

  Her Dirty Professor

  The Pool Boy

  Get Me Off

  Caught Together

  Selling Out to the Billionaire

  Falling for the Babysitter

  Lip Service

  Full Service

  Expert Service

  The Billionaire’s Virgin

  The Billionaire’s Secret Babies

  Her Best Friend’s Dad

  Own Me

  The Billionaire’s Gamble

  Seven Days With Her Boss

  Virgin in the Middle

  The Virgin Promise

  First and Last

  Tease

  Spread

  Bang

  Second Chance Stepbrother

  Dirty Promise

  1

  I take a deep breath and study myself in the mirror behind the bar. Okay, so he’s 30 minutes late already. That’s not necessarily a deal-breaker. The MTA has been a shitshow lately. Maybe his train got stuck. Maybe he got held up at work. Maybe…

  Maybe he’s not like every other asshole you’ve been out with this week?

  I sigh and pull out my phone to scroll through his profile again.

  “Rich, aka Dick,” I read, scrolling through his photos. There’s the obligatory bathroom mirror selfie, complete with chiseled abs (albeit a really bad choice since you can see the tile mold on the wall behind him from this angle), one of him and some friends, who all have the same buzz cut, so it’s honestly pretty hard to tell which one is even him, and then the usual headshot. In that one, he’s holding a pint of beer and grinning slyly at the camera, like he wants to fuck it.

  The profile itself isn’t exactly a winner. Gym, tan, and pay for someone else to do my laundry, it reads, with a little winking face.

  So, okay, maybe I only swiped right because of that grin. Sue me. This new app has been bringing in the same undateable guys as all the others I’ve tried—despite the fact that at least four of my coworkers raved about how different this one was, how the guys were such high quality. I figured if I had to go on another bad date, at least it could be with a hottie.

  But now karma’s being a bitch, and it looks like I’m about to get stood up. Again.

  I slide my drink across the bar and sigh at my reflection as the bartender refills my glass. I look smoking hot tonight. All that effort for nothing.

  I review my recent candidates. There was the programmer last month who told me in great detail about how he “games the game.” In this case, what he meant was he hacked the codes behind the app and programmed it to send him pictures of only the most popular chicks. I guess I should be flattered that I was included, but I was mostly creeped out by his obsession with algorithms and finding the hottest (mathematically proven, of course) girlfriend. “It’s why I always end up dating chicks way out of my league,” he explained with a wink. Then he proceeded to show me photos of his most recent ex.

  “She is very hot,” I agreed, silently adding, and how on earth did she decide to sleep with you?

  After that date, there was the professional body-builder who spent most of the date trying to sell me into his protein-smoothie pyramid scheme. Did I mention said date was a happy hour for his protein-smoothie business? Then came the insurance salesman who got a little too detailed talking about life insurance schemes—Double Indemnity red flags, much?

  There was the finance bro who bought me one drink, then invited me back to his place… And when I declined, he complained so loudly about the expense of the drink he’d bought me that I frog-marched him to the nearest ATM, took out cash, and threw a twenty in his face. I mean, first of all, do I look like a hooker? And second of all, if I were a hooker, I would cost a lot more than one crappy martini at a Wall Street after-work bar.

  Which brings me here. Tonight. Waiting on yet another guy who will…

  “Miss?”

  I look up to find the bartender returning my card. “What’s wrong, was it declined?” Shit. I paid this one off last month. It definitely still has room on the balance.

  “No, miss. It’s just that the gentleman on the far end has covered your tab.”

  I glance down the bar to find Mr. Shirtless Bathroom Selfie himself lifting a glass in my direction.

  Okay, so maybe he’s not the worst. There could still be hope.

  I pick up my drink and head down the bar to meet him. “Rich?”

  He leans in for the cheek kiss/one-armed hug and I awkwardly shuffle my drink to avoid spilling it down his shirt front. “It’s Dick, actually. Rich was my dad’s name.”

  Probably should have stuck with it anyway, I think unfairly, as I take the bar stool beside him. “Dick. I’m Clove.” Not like I have room to talk anyway.

  “Also a family name?” He stays standing beside me, leaning against the counter. His knee brushes mine, in a not entirely unpleasant way. At least, at first.

  “Nope, one and only.” I lift my glass in a mocking toast.

  He taps his to mine, eyes sharp and zeroed in on me. “Oh, I can see that.”

  “Should we get a table or…?”

  He shrugs and leans on the back of my stool. He’s so up in my personal space that if I try to lean backward, I’ll land in the lap of the woman beside me. It’s hard to even lift my drink to take another sip because his chest is pressed against my whole right side. I switch hands and lean on the bar instead, trying to put some breathing room between us. His knee, meanwhile, is nearly crushing my leg.

  “I’m good here,” he says. He glances over my head at the selection. “Besides, not like we’ll be here long.”

  You could say that again. I clear my throat, resist the urge to bolt off of this stool here and now. There is no man hot enough to make up for the way his breath smells either, like stal
e beer and sour cream and onion potato chips. “Busy day at the office?” I ask, following his gaze mostly so I can turn away from him.

  He leans harder against my leg. My toes tingle, starting to go numb. “Huh? No, I had the day off. Just got back from the beach. Hey, bartender?” He snaps his fingers. Actually snaps them, until the bartender glances back at us and, with an apologetic glance in my direction, heads our way.

  “One more scotch on the rocks,” Dick says, and now I can see why he prefers this version of his name. It really suits him.

  That task done with, he turns to me and brushes my hair back over my shoulder. “So, Clove…”

  Realizing that I can’t keep staring at the bar forever, I turn to face him, trying on a smile.

  “Damn you’re gorgeous. You get that often?”

  “I, uh… Thanks, I guess.”

  “How about we get out of here, huh? Enough small talk for one night, am I right?” He winks at me.

  Enough small talk being what, all five sentences we’ve exchanged? I suck in a deep breath. Mm, l’eau onions. “Listen, Dick, you seem really nice and all…”

  “Of course, so let’s skip the boring part and head straight to my place.” He downs the second scotch he ordered in one large gulp, then catches my arm.

  “It’s been a really long day for me, actually—lot going on at work. I’m just going to head home.”

  “That’s cool, we can go to yours.” He leans in, brushes my hair back from my forehead, and we’re suddenly way too close, only inches between us.

  I execute a tricky side twist off the barstool to grab my purse. “I think I’m just going to head back alone. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Seriously?” His expression shifts now. I don’t know if it’s the drink or the rejection that’s injuring his frail masculine ego, but either way, I don’t like the look in his eye. “Wait, wait, wait, Clove.” He catches my hand in his. His grip is strong. Too strong. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let me make it up to you.” With a single tug, he pulls me closer and leans over me, eyes intent on my face. “It’s just, I didn’t expect you to be so… You know. Hot. From your profile, you sounded like a book nerd, so—”

  I wrench my hand from his with effort. “Dick, I have to be honest, I’m starting to understand why you prefer that nickname.” I shoulder my purse. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t be like that! Come on, we can have some fun.”

  “Goodbye, Dick.” I stride past him, out of the bar.

  Of course he jogs after me.

  “At least let me call you a cab,” he insists.

  “I’m fine on my own, seriously.” But he ignores this and jogs ahead of me to the corner. He flags down a tax, and I watch him lean in the window talking to the guy. God only knows what he’s saying.

  He opens the back door of the cab for me, but I hesitate, looking over my shoulder.

  “You take this one, I’ll call another,” I say. But a glance up and down the street shows there won’t be another cab for quite a while—Wall Street tends to be dead at this hour.

  “I insist.” Dick holds the door open a little wider.

  With a sigh, I climb in.

  He keeps the door open, blocking it with his thigh. “You know, if we go to mine, I can fuck you properly, Clove. It’s been a long time since anyone’s bent you over, hasn’t it?” He smirks.

  It has, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks for the offer.” I yank on the door handle, trying to close it. That proves futile with him in the way, but hey, it’s worth a shot.

  “You aren’t gonna get a better one.” He leans down and I get another strong whiff of onion breath. “A girl like you should be jumping at the chance to let a guy like me bone her.”

  I cast a glance at the front of the taxi, but the driver is studiously ignoring this conversation, deeply concentrating on the one in his own wireless headset. “Again, I said thank you but no thank you.” I tug on the door, hoping against hope that Dick will finally let this drop.

  Behind us, another taxi pulls up, and to my immense relief, Dick waves at it. It pulls over and he casts me one last long, dark look.

  “You’ll regret this,” he says as he steps away from the door.

  Regret what? Missing out on a total creepiest? I don’t think so.

  I slam the door closed between us without responding. I’ve learned by now that as fun as snappy retorts are, sometimes it’s better not to antagonize the crazy people.

  I lean up to tell the taxi driver my address, then collapse against the seat with a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh.

  Well. That was another unqualified disaster. I close my eyes for a minute, then pull out my phone to text my coworker.

  Halfway through typing a message about how she was so very wrong about this new app being better than the others, my phone begins to buzz.

  Crap. It’s Dick.

  I hit ignore, wait for it to go to voicemail, then keep typing.

  And now, on top of the last 5 disasters, I’ve got this creepy guy who told me I’d “regret” not going home with him, who’s trying to call me.

  I hit send and my phone buzzes once more. Dick. Again.

  I hit ignore again, then, on second thought, shut my phone off completely. I’ll deal with figuring out how to block his number in the morning. Not like I haven’t already done that a few times for other creeps in the last couple years I’ve been trying this online dating crap.

  Sometimes, it doesn’t seem worth it. Sometimes, I think it’d be better to just continue my life without a guy in it. After all, everything else is going great for me. I just got another promotion at work—I’m only 29 and I’m a marketing manager with five people working below me. I work at publishing house where I’ve been since I graduated college and landed my dream job. I love my team, my boss, my coworkers. I love my job, promoting great literature to avid readers. I love that I get to travel, go to conferences where I meet cool authors whose books I love, and I get to help them make those books even more successful.

  Plus, I have my friends. They keep me going through it all.

  No, on the whole, my life is pretty great.

  So why does it still feel like something is missing?

  I shake my head. Ignore it. I don’t need a guy, especially not a guy like Dick. If it’s the choice between him and staying single forever, I’ll take the latter happily.

  The taxi pulls up outside my building and I pay the driver, then push the door open. For a second, I just lean back to gaze at my building.

  I was lucky as hell to score this place a couple years ago during a slow season and a market down-turn. I got it hella cheap; rent control, too. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to afford a one-bedroom apartment by myself, and in a building with a doorman, no less.

  This is how I know I’m finally moving up in the world. Finally making something of myself. I love this building and everything that it stands for—the progress I’ve made in my life, the goals I’m achieving.

  I smile as I take a step toward the doors. Then I freeze, because I hear the most unwelcome sound possible behind me.

  “Clove!”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I turn around slowly, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, my muscles tensed.

  Dick stands on the curb, beside his taxi, which he clearly just asked to follow me all the way here. “Look, I know I came across a little strong earlier. I just wanted to say sorry and also that maybe we can try again…” He takes a step toward me, staggering a little.

  I underestimated how drunk he was. Or maybe he showed up to the bar a few drinks in and that whiskey pushed him over the edge. “Dick, listen, I’m just going to go inside now…”

  “Wait,” he says, and it comes out more of a growl than a plea. Before I can react, he launches himself across the pavement at me. I have just enough time to take a few steps backward toward my door before he catches me, one hand wrapped around my wrist, the other
on my shoulder. I try to wrench myself free, go for my phone in my purse, but I can’t. His grip is too strong.

  He pushes me against the glass beside the door of my building, his breath hot on my face. “You don’t have to be a bitch, Clove. You can be nice about this.”

  I grit my teeth and throw myself sideways. It’s not enough. He keeps his hold on my shoulder, slams me against the glass wall harder.

  “Don’t move while I’m talking. I’m talking to you bitch, you hear?”

  “Dick, please let go, you’re hurting me.”

  “I’ll let go when I know you’re going to take me seriously. I’m a fucking catch, you don’t just walk away from a fucking catch.”

  I cast a wild-eyed glance over his shoulder. But at this hour, my neighborhood is pretty quiet. That’s what I like about it. Liked, anyway. Right now, it’s working against me. There’s nobody in sight.

  “Get off of me,” I say, very slowly.

  He smirks. “Make me.”

  That’s when a heavy weight collides with us.

  I stagger against the glass, barely managing to keep myself upright by bracing on the window with both palms. I hear grunting, shouts, but all I register is the fact that there’s no one grabbing me anymore.

  I push myself upright. There’s a bruise already forming around my wrist, and from the ache in my shoulder, I’ll have another handprint-shaped bruise there too.

  When I look up, I see two figures in front of me: Dick and the back of a uniformed man. I recognize the uniform, of course. I see it every single day, at least twice a day, as I leave and come back to this building.

  My doorman.

  He throws a punch now, a mean right hook that connects squarely with Dick’s jaw. But Dick is so drunk, that even though I hear that punch land with a smack, it doesn’t slow him down. His brain probably doesn’t even register the pain.