All About the D(4)

By: Lex Martin & Leslie McAdam


It doesn’t matter that I’ve won awards for kicking ass at my job. Because when a stunning woman criticizes you in front of a beautiful man, it stings. I’m twelve years old all over again, being laughed at by eighth grade boys for having big boobs. The pity in Nate’s eyes only makes it worse.

This is one of those times I need to channel Madonna. Don’t laugh. It works. I’ve always loved how she’s a confident, strong woman. Internally, I search for the perfect song, vacillating between “Keep It Together” and “Bitch, I’m Madonna.”

I settle on the latter because I might need to call someone a bitch.

Taking a cleansing breath, I stay half-hidden behind the door.

Malcolm motions toward the reception area and asks for any more examples of Penny’s ineptitude. God, could he sound any more pompous?

Nate and I lock eyes, and I shake my head, pleading, Don’t do it. Don’t sell her out.

He taps a pen on his desk. “Wish I could help you, Malcolm, but I can’t say I have any complaints about Penny besides that one phone call Angela mentioned, which really wasn’t a big deal.”

When Malcolm turns back to Angela, Nate winks at me.

Thank you, I mouth before the butterflies in my stomach take flight from having his megawatt charm aimed my way. Turning on my heel, I race back to my office, hoping that Penny can get off Angela’s shit list before she loses her job. I’ll have to warn her to stay out of Poison Ivy’s way for the next few weeks.

My heart is still galloping when I plop my ass down at my desk and take a few more deep breaths. One crisis down, one NSFW blog to go.

When I click to enlarge the browser, I’m greeted by Josh’s enormous penis, which is winking at me as only a dick can. The logo at the top says All About the D with his behemoth erection towering over it like it’s the Chrysler Building.

A laugh escapes me. Is this supposed to be funny?

Seriously, it’s Photoshopped to look like the Chrysler Building.

Once I’m over the shock of the X-rated python before me, I take a good long look. Because, truthfully, I’ve never seen one this size in real life. I feel like I’m paddling down the Amazon, and I just spotted my first anaconda.

All jokes aside, there’s no wild jungle. Everything is neatly trimmed like a freshly mowed lawn.

His cock is strangely attractive.

Smooth and firm and thick.

I look down out my palm and then back at his photo. I bet I wouldn’t be able to close my hand around it.

The long lines of his body lead to a wide crown that sits proudly on top as though His Majesty might storm the castle any minute now.

I can only imagine taking a slow lick up that muscular body…

Evie, stop perving on the potential client.

Shaking my head, I blow out a breath and ignore the damp fabric between my legs.

Guess it’s been a while since I’ve had some personal time. Maybe I should pencil that in this weekend.

Fanning myself, I try to regroup and check out the other elements of his layout, which are surprisingly engaging. The lighting is artistic, the cropping and placement are amusing, and the captions crack me up with quips like, “Warning: Pressure-treated wood” and “A little caulk for your tongue and groove.”

My eyes sweep over another erotic photo, and the throb between my legs intensifies.

I realize I might need to reevaluate my life if I’m turned on by a skyline of New York with a giant dick Photoshopped in the middle, but I suppose I can’t be the only woman who’s wildly intrigued. Josh-With-No-Last-Name has millions of followers and at least two corporate sponsors who are interested in collaborating on sex toys.

After a few minutes scrolling down the page, I close his blog, erase my browser history, and push the bangs out of my face.

Now how the hell am I going to sell this client to the firm?





2





Josh





I can’t look.

God, I don’t want to look.

It’ll only piss me off.

But I gotta do it.

Sitting forward in my black leather Herman Miller chair at the desk in my loft, I slice the fold of the thick, creamy envelope with a silver Georg Jensen letter opener and take out an engraved invitation from my mother. Rubbing my temples, I brush the frame of my horn-rimmed glasses with my thumb.

The news is a double-whammy. My presence is requested next weekend at the celebration of the birth of my nephew—an event that I would give my left nut to avoid—and the groundbreaking of my oldest brother Spencer’s new high-rise, mixed-use, LEED-certified office building in downtown Portland. Which is really another way to pimp himself out for his senatorial run and show the world what a reputable guy he is.

I roll my eyes. Yeah, it’ll be a spectacle—Spence for Senate and the next Cartwright heir, a two-for-one extravaganza of bullshit and breeding.

My mother downloaded Emily Post into her operating system at birth, so etiquette runs through her bloodstream. She’s the kind of woman who owns an ice cream fork—because a regular spoon won’t do—and uses it.

I’m probably the only kid who was mailed an invite to his own birthday parties.

The thing is, this invitation?

It’s the politest way possible to give me the finger.

Also By Lex Martin & Leslie McAdam

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