Page 18 of Naughty Nelle

CHAPTER 8

Zoey

The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!

I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.

Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

Did u say u give massages?

I reply.

Yes.

He responds.

I want one now.

Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

Well…???

In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

Do I need to fire u?

GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.

FINE.Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!

“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

“I don’t do underwear.”

My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”

“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.

His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”

A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

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