Page 40 of The Price of Forever

His sarcastic cackle told me that this was not the right answer. “Not unless you want to lose the assignment. But you do need to get laid. When was the last time you got some action?”

I groaned. “Nothing since coming to New York.”

“Well, start there. You just need to let off some steam. That’s all. Once you get your clarity back, you’ll be able to handle the day-to-day a lot better. No matter how glorious her tits are or whatever this stripper has that’s got you in a chokehold.”

“She’s smart as hell. She’s funny. She’s incredibly fit—you have no idea.”

“Stop right there. She’s your assignment. I don’t want to hear how you two are meant for each other.”

I smirked as I glanced back at the doors of Black & Brewtiful. “I never said that.”

“Well you were heading there. Just go get laid, okay? Or I’m gonna have to come there myself and make sure you find a girl to take your mind off the assignment.”

“Aww, you would do that for me?”

“I’ve got some PTO coming up, and Manhattan seems like as good a place as any to visit. Besides, I miss my Sevvy.”

I laughed at the ridiculous nickname. “Don’t fucking start. I’ll punch you as soon as you get off the plane if you call me that again.”

“See you soon, Sevvy.”

The line went dead, and I pocketed my phone, laughing to myself. I loved that fucker—he knew how to help whenever I was feeling lost. And if he was serious about the visit, it couldn’t have come at a better time.

Just go get laid.

It seemed easy enough. There were a million apps for this sort of thing. I could have a hot blonde in my lap by the end of the day.

So why was I only able to think about the blonde inside the coffee shop?

CHAPTER NINE

JORDAN

I woke up humping my pillow again the next morning.

I wasn’t proud of it. I sure as fuck didn’t do it on purpose. But my subconscious had a funny way of reminding me I was hung up on Seven.

Every morning, I woke up horny as hell. My pussy dripping. Clit throbbing. Humping a spare pillow like some sort of hormone-flooded teenager. This morning in my dreams, he had me cornered in a VIP room at work, his fingers dancing beneath the wet strip of fabric that covered my pussy. He had me backed up against a wall as he rubbed and teased and nipped at my clit. I’d been seconds away from coming before I woke up—only to find myself stuck in reality, which included a total lack of being fingered by Seven.

This job needed finished, and fast. I rolled onto my side and rummaged in the nightstand drawer. Of course, it was filled with my vibrator collection. I was an expert in self-pleasure, because so few men were granted access to my peace, my space, or my body. A small, quiet vibe would do the trick, since I was so close to the edge. I turned it on and slipped it into my panties. My hips bucked instantly, and I buried my face in my pillow before the groan escaped.

The orgasm hit like a tornado. It swept through me from head to toe, making every inch of my body quiver. When my leg stopped jerking, I turned off the vibe and took a few moments to recover, breathing heavily into my pillow.

Fuck. I needed this man. But he was immune to sexual advances.

Maybe you just need to lay it out more clearly for him.

I’d done my best so far. I’d played dumb in the bathroom more times than a functional adult human should. Other than a few glares, I got nothing from him.

Seven was either actually a robot, or he had no interest in me.

And I couldn’t bear the second conclusion. In fact, it would be far preferable to find out that Seven really was part AI and wore a human suit over his mechanical skeleton.

What does it matter if he’s interested in you? He’s your bodyguard. You’ll be moving out soon. You don’t even want to get close to anyone.

Even I didn’t know what I was after. A good dicking down? It’d been so long since I had sex and enjoyed it that the concept seemed like something out of a fantasy novel. I could count on zero hands how many times I’d climaxed during sex. I’d need both my hands and the hands of several strangers to count how many times I’d had sex and detested it.

My chest tightened at the onslaught of faceless yet painful memories. My adolescence and young adulthood felt like one huge block of heaviness whenever I recalled them. It could choke the life out of me on a bad day, send me into a spiral and panic attack. But still, I held out hope that someone, somewhere, might actually make sex feel like romance novels said it could be. So far, it had been something I begrudgingly tolerated, or, in the worst moments, fought against.

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