The Playgirl

The Playgirl

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

What happens when the woman is the one who preys on the man?

Summary

What happens when the woman is the one who preys on the man?

Chapter1 (v.1) - 1

Author Chapter Note

I originally posted this as a short story with only the beginning to get some feedback on a project I am working on. But I thought you all would enjoy the extended version and also an ending. It's still going to be rather short, about 5,000 words give or take, but hopefully it will be well rounded. Enjoy! J.W. Hart

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 13, 2016

Reads: 1454

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 13, 2016

A A A

A A A

“I had a great time, baby,” I tell him as I roll over and suggestively rub the slight patch of hair on his chest. His skin is smooth and youthful. The muscles beneath my fingertips are barely out of puberty and give a hint of the dominant, confident man that he will no-doubtedly one day become. “But, I have an early meeting. You understand don’t you?”

He lets out a hefty “hmph” from his thin sexy lips and runs a palm through his dark blond hair, running it down his face as he scrubs his smooth jaw. “Are you kicking me out?” he asks.

I quirk an eyebrow at his question. He’s young, early twenties. I’m not even sure if he can drink legally. But with youth comes a certain level of naiveté. I’m not looking for a life-long commitment. Just a few hours of ecstasy between the sheets with the stamina and libido that only a younger man possesses. “Don’t get so upset, baby. You knew what this was the moment I asked you back to my place.”

Tossing the sheets off of his heavenly naked body, he drops his feet on the ground with a thud and sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped with disappointment. “I thought older women were supposed to be clingy and needy. Desperate even,” he declares, as if my behavior is abnormal for all of my thirty-five years.

I clutch my chest and let out a good guffaw at his comment. He can’t be serious? “Not this one,” I reply after catching my breath. I watch as his finely toned derriere walks toward the chair in the corner, a stark reminder why I prefer them young. Older men tend to stop paying mind to their bodies. I suppose the same holds true for women. But this woman keeps her BMI in check and there is not a single cellulite dimple to be found.

Hastily, he pulls on his jeans and tugs his graphic tee over his head. “Apparently, not. I had a good time. We should do it again,” he suggests as he bends on one knee into the bed and gives me a long sloppy kiss as a reminder of what I’m going to miss. He was good in the sack, but not the most artful of kissers.

Never willing to commit, I don’t respond to his invitation, just give a polite pat to his chest. “Have a good night, Jerry,” I tell him as my official farewell. My eyes begin to flutter and the tranquility of sleep is about to descend upon me.

Beyond satisfied, I barely acknowledge the acid in his voice, “It’s Jared.” The slam of my bedroom door followed by the harsh footfalls of wounded pride begin to fade into the distance and I let myself drift off into oblivion.

 

***

 

“Good morning, Samantha. I trust you had a good weekend,” greets James, my assistant as he sets a cup of coffee on my classic white writing desk. Dressed in a starched white linen shirt with a green and purple argyle sweater-vest and a necktie that matches perfectly with the green in his sweater, I can’t say I haven’t had a more than a few fantasies about the man. He’s young, intelligent and obviously takes good care of his body. A body that I would love to strip naked right here in my office. I’d consider paying money just to see the shimmer of Lake Michigan against the lean muscles beneath all of those pesky clothes. But the risk is too great. He is the perfect executive assistant for a single woman looking to make her mark in the competitive world of real estate in Chicago. And I don’t know what I would do without him. Nor do I ever intend to find out. I will not grease the company pen with my ink.

He perches on the edge of the desk and stirs his coffee. “Did you meet the future Mr. Valentine yet?” he asks then takes a sips from his mug.

“Very funny,” I tell him as I shuffle papers around on my desk. “You know I’m not into that sort of thing. How am I ever going to take over the world with . . .”

“A man dragging me down,” he finishes for me. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you’re not getting any younger. Eventually, you’re going to want to settle down and have 2.5 kids, a dog, and a house in North Shore.”

For most women my age, the biological clock should be gong with each passing second that I haven’t found a suitable mate. In a rat race of sorts, to find the perfect male specimen to supply his seed. But I don’t have that clock and that little fact digs into my subconscious, making me a leper of the female species. Ignoring his obvious jabs at my own insecurities, I continue looking through paperwork on my most recent bids. “What’s on the agenda today, James.”

“Well you have a lunch meeting with Mr. Bennett downtown at Agostino’s to finalize the deal for the warehouse on South Central. Then you have a meeting with The Big Guy,” he says as he waggles his eyebrows, “at four o’clock.”

The Big Guy? My moment has finally come. John Peters, a.k.a The Big Guy and CEO of Peters Real estate is looking to retire and when he hired me more than ten years ago, it was with the intention to groom me as his replacement. I’ve worked an atrocious amount of hours for an ungodly number of years and it will all culminate into the perfect moment at four o’clock today. The word “excited” can’t even come close to describing how I feel right now. But, I must not let my fervency for this potentially life-altering development be noticed. I have a reputation after all. “Four o’clock. Sounds good.” My inner twelve-year-old girl is squealing like a stuffed pig, but I manage to keep my face neutral.

Sounds good? That’s all you have to say? Come on Sam, I know you better than you know yourself. You project a tough girl image, but on the inside I know you are dying. You’ve worked hard. You’ve earned this.” The words James speaks is in unison with the same thoughts knocking around in my own head.

“You’re right,” I agree and then out of nowhere I let out that prepubescent squeal while jumping up and down. Then James grabs my hands and we let out our laughter and joy in sounds so high-pitched only dogs can hear them as we swing around the room in a Ring-Around-the-Rosie-type fashion.


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