Home > Nights with Him (Seductive Nights #4)

Nights with Him (Seductive Nights #4)
Author: Lauren Blakely



First Impressions

Pleasure, beyond her wildest fantasies.

“That’s a helluva promise to make. Because some people have pretty wild fantasies,” Jack said as he rattled off the tagline attached to the tall purple device that boasted twelve different settings designed to serve up “exquisite stimulation.”

“That’s exactly why we’re making that promise,” Casey replied as she hopped up on the edge of his desk and crossed her legs, absently kicking a high-heeled foot back and forth like a pendulum. “Because this bad boy can de-li-ver. Stories, I can tell you,” she said, and Jack quickly held up a hand as a stop sign.

“I’ll have to trust you on that.”

She rolled her stormy blue eyes, the same shade as his. “Don’t go all squeamish on me.”

“Has nothing to do with squeamishness,” he said, shaking his head. “You can just keep this on the list of things I never want to hear—stories about my little sister and our newest product.”

“You don’t have to trust me when it comes to The Wild One,” she said, grasping the toy and cradling the newest vibrator in her hand, stroking it lovingly. “Trust our product testing group, otherwise known as The Happiest Ladies in the World.”

“Do they walk around all blissed out, mouths open, eyes glazed?” Jack teased, hanging his jaw open in demonstration. Not mockingly, of course. He was a big fan of that deliciously sated look a woman wore after an orgasm. Usually multiple Os. At least, as far as he was concerned.

Casey snapped her fingers. “Allow me to quote some feedback from one of our testers. ‘The Wild One is like a direct line to a pleasure palace I didn’t even know existed inside of me.’ Now that I think about it, we should rename this one The Wizard, because this is the closest anyone will ever come to real magic here.” She stopped, took a beat. “Get it? Come?”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I do get it. Wasn’t a hard one to wrap my head around,” he said, tapping his temple.

“See? You’ve got the hang of the puns too. Hard one,” she repeated.

“Been running this business with you for five years now, Casey. I’m well acquainted with your style. And with the magic we’re peddling.”

“Abracadabra,” she said, miming waving a magic wand. “Joy delivered.”

That’s what the company they ran was called—Joy Delivered—and Jack had a meeting in an hour with one of the city’s top purveyors of pleasure products, Eden. The classy shop on the Upper East Side, conveniently located above a private BDSM club Eden also ran, had been actively promoting another device, the Dancing Dolphin. That triple speed, nearly noiseless, terrifically thrilling pocket vibrator had developed a cult following among legions of erotic book club readers, who praised it as the perfect companion while they read one-handed, often about BDSM storylines, as it turned out. The dom-sub lifestyle wasn’t Jack’s personal cup of tea, but he was glad for whatever floated someone’s boat enough to open the bedside drawer and grab a toy.

Yeah, business was good thanks to the erotica craze that had swept not just the country, but also the world, and had made it more acceptable to bring another party into the bedroom, even if the third party required batteries. Nothing wrong with self-love or with calling in backup between the sheets, Jack reasoned.

“Are you going to take this with you to your meeting tonight with Henry and Marquita?” Casey handed him The Wild One, but Jack quickly shook his head.

“They’ve already seen it. We’re just finalizing the paperwork for the new shipment. We’re beyond the giggle-at-the-dildo stage of conversation.”

“But it’s still nice to see the pleasure tools. Especially since they’re going to that sexuality conference at The Pierson, right?”

“Right. He said he’d be attending some sessions in the afternoon. And yet, call me crazy,” he said, stopping to scratch his chin, “I think I might prefer not to display a nine-inch fake schlong on the table at The Pierson Hotel. It’s a classy joint.”

“And all their guests are probably slipping plastic purple friends under those twelve-hundred thread count sheets at that classy joint. That’s why you hear so many high-pitched screams at The Pierson,” Casey said, rising from the desk, and slapping a palm on it to accentuate her punch line. With her other hand, she tossed him the newest toy, her blond hair swishing around her face from the throw. “Take it, Jack. Maybe he wants to bring a present home to his wife.”

“Not one that’s been manhandled already.”

“That’s what the toy cleaner is for,” she said, reaching for a bottle of anti-bacterial cleaner from the edge of his desk and tossing it next. He caught it easily, snatching it out of the air.

“By the way, send Marquita my love. Tell her and Henry I say hi.”

Casey sauntered out of his office and Jack grinned, tsking her playfully under his breath. No way in hell was he bringing this device along, and it had nothing to do with being embarrassed, and everything to do with keeping it simple. He wasn’t a bag man; he didn’t want to tote his laptop to a meeting, along with a toy in the side pocket. A wallet, phone and keys were all he needed, so he left the rest behind as he stood up, pushed a hand roughly through his dark hair, and then jammed his phone into the pocket of his pants. He grabbed the cranberry-colored tie slung over the back of his chair and looped it around his neck, tying a neat knot. Best to look sharp for the team at Eden. New York was still very much a suit-and-tie town, and so Jack wore the requisite uniform.

He was about to step out of his office when Casey popped back in, the look in her eyes now intense and serious. “Don’t forget your appointment tomorrow at two.”

He held out his hands wide, and grumbled, “I know.”

She pointed at him and pursed her lips as she leaned in the doorway. “It’s important.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Oh, ha, ha, ha. But you need it,” she said, and she was right. Jack hadn’t been the same since he’d lost his fiancée a year ago, and he needed to get his head screwed on right. Correction. His heart. He needed to get that annoying organ fixed.

If it were even possible.

That was the question.

But tonight, his mind was on business, plain and simple, so he headed off to The Pierson to finalize the deal.


Michelle Milo had sex on the brain.

Dirty, sweaty, slick sex. Limo sex. Office sex. Swanky-nightclub-bathroom sex.

Unfortunately, none of these were positive images, because they had nothing to do with her sex life, but instead her client’s philandering husband.

And she was dying to shout, leave him.

She wanted to scream it, to slash it on the wall in orange paint, to get down on her knees and beg. But Shayla needed time to come to the realization on her own, even though it seemed patently fucking obvious that she should not only leave that cad of a husband, but kick him several times in the balls too.

“I just keep thinking about The Owl. It has these low lights, almost kind of a blue light, and the bathroom is all tiled in black, and I had such great memories about our time there,” Shayla recounted, referring to a club in Los Angeles where her husband had been caught having sex with his assistant last month. “It was our place,” she said, wiping a tear that had already streaked the mascara from her eyelashes, sending a black jagged line down one porcelain cheek. “Well, back when I used to want to have sex with him.”

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