Page 4 of Romeo

A smug grin trickles across Martin’s face.

“It doesn’t,” the beast continues. With it, Martin’s smile disappears behind a scowl. “Now, run along. I have business to discuss with this lovely lady.”

Business? With me? Can’t be. Father keeps me on a very short leash when it comes to business dealings, and I doubt he’d let something like this slip by unmentioned.

“I don’t recall having any meetings lined up, Mr. Whitaker. Please explain yourself,” I say, finally finding the courage to look at him.

It’s almost impossible to comprehend just how much meat can be packed in one person. More than double as broad as me and twice my height, taking all of him in is a task in itself.

I have to crane my neck to meet his face. And it’s there that my gaze lingers the longest. Golden eyes twinkle with childlike glee. Five o’clock shadow runs across his cut jawline. Combed over black hair, with a messy coif hanging over his forehead.

Handsome is an understatement.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Martin interrupts my inspection. “You’re going to entertain this fucking ape?”

“Watch your tongue.” The beast’s hand drops from his chin, and a meaty finger settles in front of Martin’s face. “Ape is a derogatory term. I prefer gorilla.”

Three times he’s made me chuckle in the span of two minutes. I don’t think I’ve laughed at a single thing Martin has said since the day we met.

Mr. Whitaker turns to me. “And as for our business, miss. It’s better suited for the bedroom. Pillow talk, they call it. Sometime between your first orgasm and getting so carried away, you see God.”

Heat rushes up to my cheeks as eager liquids soak my panties.

Don’t stop speaking, muscle man, and you just might get what you’re after.

3

ROMEO

Well, I’m here. Now what? Mr. Tweed’s fuming out the ears and ready to tear my head off. But his incredible temper doesn’t deter the Barbie-faced beauty. She can’t pick her jaw off the table, let alone chase me away.

Judging by the fact that she hasn’t told me to piss off, I’m doing something right.

“Pillow talk?” she says, and it’s like heaven’s angels sing straight into my brain. “It’s an interesting way to introduce yourself, Mr. Whitaker.”

My instincts tell me to stay focused on Mr. Tweed, but I don’t. First rule in this life? Always look out for number one. Second rule goes hand in hand with the first—never take your eyes off the enemy. But something tells me Tweed isn’t going to cause trouble. He’s far more likely to run off and cry into his pocket square rather than enact any of his half-assed threats.

“Why bother with the boring shit when we can get straight to the fun?” I ask.

The aching throb resonating from my manhood is a sour reminder that one look from across the room wasn’t enough. Because it never will be enough. I’m staring at her clearly now, and I still can’t find an end to her beauty.

Massive tits test the limits of her dress while her waist curves in and descends to the perfect peach-shaped bubble she’s sitting on. The only contrast to her snow-white skin and bleached blonde hair are the two sparkling pools of blue staring back at me.

If I were a painter, I’d immortalize this moment, plastering infinite copies across my apartment walls so I never have to look away from her again.

There’s gotta be something special about her if I’m this worked up without having heard her name.

“The boringstuff is just as important.” She crinkles her nose and lets out a soft, squeaking giggle. “If you ask me, it’s more important.”

“I see. You’d rather have me worshiping you from between your legs than jumping straight to the main event.” I let the words trail off before finishing my sentence. “I’ll have to make sure I’ve got a snorkel handy. Once I’m down there, I won’t be coming up. Not even for air.”

Redness paints her pale face, and she tries to cover it up with a flat palm. I shake my head, orderingnowithout a need to say it. She will not hide away from me. I won’t stand for it.

She listens like the good little girl she is.

“You don’t even know my name,” she says, kicking one leg over the other. I peer down, on the verge of praying to see what’s beneath her black sequined dress.

Maybe it’s to break up the mounting tension. More likely, my haphazard glance is to see what’s waiting for me. I guess the sight of her milky thighs as the dress rides higher will have to do.

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