His Nasty Little Pussy

BRADY

Three weeks laterBelongs to © n0velDrama.Org.

I sipped my whiskey, staring at the hot pink gaudy sign in front of the convention center stage. The packed room bustled with pre-dinner conversation, the asinine small talk debilitating.

I skimmed the announcement, gritting my teeth.

Chicago Face and Beauty National Conference

A list of hosts and presenters followed. At the very bottom was my name.

Presenter: Bradie Wyler, CEO of Wyler Align Marketing.

It wasn’t the color of the sign that bothered me or even the absurd green font. It was everything else.

Rich stepped beside me, fixing his Armani suit and heaving a giant sigh. “I fucking love these conventions. You see all these dimes?” His seedy eyes absorbed the room. “Face and beauty, my ass. Should be called cleavage and cocktails.”

I scanned the room, my eyes skipping from one evening dress to the next.

“You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” I muttered, my annoyance taking precedence over the possibility of getting laid.

“Says the guy who fucks a stranger in an airplane bathroom,” Rich muttered.

“And I regret telling you about that.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t get her number.”

“I didn’t even know her name, so why would I want her number?”

Rich shook his head. “I don’t get you, man.”

I rolled my eyes, setting my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Double whiskey, neat.”

“I mean, look at where we are,” Rich said. “We are completely outnumbered by fine women. Fuck, I love makeup conventions. And I love you for inviting me.”

“Well, I’m starting to regret that decision too,” I whispered.

“Huh? What did I do now?”

I pointed at the announcement sign. “See a problem?”

Rich narrowed his eyes, licking his lips. “I do.”

“I doubt that,” I said

“Brady should be spelled with a Y,” Rich pointed out.

I cocked my head. “You know, Rich, I’m honestly surprised you know that.”

Rich licked the salt off the rim of his tequila glass. “We’ve been friends for two decades, Brady.” He shrugged. “Plus, you sign my checks.”

“Ah, yes.” I sighed. “How much do I pay you again?”

Rich scratched his head. He was only thirty-eight-but his receding hairline and beer belly made him look older. You’d think with that money, he would have paid for hair plugs.

“About six fifty an hour,” he said.

I slipped my hand into my suit pockets. “And for six hundred and fifty dollars an hour, you think you’d know how to use that pretty Harvard law degree to intimidate the organizers into putting my name first, as I had requested.”

Rich shrugged. “To be fair, your last name starts with a W. You know, alphabetical and all, it kind of makes sense.”

“And my first name starts with a B,” I grunted.

An amused smirk played on Rich’s face. “Yes, but no one would dare call you Brady.”

“Except you.”

“Well, duh,” Rich said. “Who should we fire for spelling your name wrong on the poster?”

“You’re way too eager to fire people, you know that?”

Rich lifted a burly eyebrow. “And, for a billionaire who owns these organizations, you don’t fire enough people.”

I caught a glimpse of a woman in a tight red gown approaching us, and I recognized her as the assistant to the organizer of the event.

“Yeah, and it’d probably be her. Someone on their first day who made a mistake. Not worth it.” I glanced around, searching for the bartender. “Where’s my drink?”

Rich smacked his lips together as he chewed on a piece of ice. “You could fire the bartender too. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your drink.”

“Don’t you drink it.”

“Nah,” Rich smirked. “I’ll just throw in some Viagra. So you’ll be ready for some action later tonight.”

I stared at him. “Do you ever listen to the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Mr. Wyler, you’re our first presenter for the evening.”

I nodded at her and turned back to Rich, tapping my ear. “Hear that?

First.”

The assistant smiled. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

Rich winked at us. “Have fun, you two, ya hear?”

Sometimes, I wondered why I kept Rich around. He was a cutthroat lawyer, but in New York, we had plenty of those, and for a cheaper rate too.

If I was being honest, he amused me, but I wouldn’t exactly call us friends.

“This way, Mr. Wyler.”

I followed the woman through a side door and into a backstage area, my eyes trained on the plump firmness of her ass. I could hear the host of the event asking everyone to take their seats and introducing me.

Misspelling my name wasn’t enough to fire someone, but it was enough to aggravate me. I am the CEO of one of the largest marketing companies in the country, for fuck’s sake. Knowing names was my entire business, and you’d think these people knew better.

I waited in the wings as the host introduced me, reading off my list of credentials-as if people didn’t know my name, my reputation. I was thirtyeight, and I’d been on the covers of multiple magazines.

My face was even occasionally printed on gossip magazines with my “fuck of the month,” as Rich liked to call them. Usually an actress or a model.

I tried to avoid those types for that very reason, not just because fame and paparazzi annoyed me, but because actresses tended to be mostly superficial.

“Here you go,” the assistant said, handing me a notecard. “The name of the participant you’ll be giving the award to.”

I furrowed my brows at the comment. There was always a teleprompter for events like this. I never needed to do research in advance. Except that, this time, I had done my research. The award was for a company called Perkins Formula, an up-and-coming name in the beauty industry.

As I took the note, I wondered if this assistant was mindless-my thought paused as her fingers grazed mine, her elbows squeezing into her rib cage so that her cleavage popped out of her dress-or incredibly savvy.

I glanced down at the piece of scrap paper, the name Melissa and a phone number scrawled on it. I lifted my eyes to her name tag: Melissa.

I gave a wry smile, folded the paper, and slipped it into my pocket.

Maybe I’d text her later, maybe I’ll just give her number to Rich…it all depended on how much whiskey I drank and if I wanted company in the hotel’s penthouse later.

“Thank you, Melissa.”

She winked, licking her red lips, then handed me the award, a crystal statue of a woman’s profile. “Anytime.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host announced. “Mr. Brady Wyler.”

I emerged on stage to a round of applause followed by a standing ovation. I screwed on my fake charming smile, the one that had carried me through my career from bottom of the barrel to billionaire CEO.

I went through the motions, my grin shifting to gratitude, my pause perfectly placed as the applause softened and the teleprompter began.

“I want to thank the Chicago Face and Beauty National Conference for organizing this great event to recognize the brightest talents in the industry. Our first recipient of the evening is our Fresh Face honoree. This award is designated to acknowledge the up-and-coming names in the beauty industry. This product needs no introduction. I’m sure we’ve all seen the viral videos of this miracle cream capable of accomplishing the same effects of top performing products in the industry-if not better.”

There was a surge of applause from the crowd, and I waited until they settled to continue.

“However, behind Perkins Formula is the inventor herself, a name you might have not known before tonight. Twenty-seven-year-old Tess Perkins holds a Ph. D. from NYU in Chemistry and has proven herself to be a true innovator in the field. As her miracle cream officially launches to the public next week, we hope this award will be the first of many in a very long and promising career. Tess Perkins, everyone.”

The surge of applause surprised me. The video of the Perkins Formula miracle cream was impressive, but I’d never seen a recipient of an up-andcomer award receive a standing ovation.

I grabbed the award off the podium and turned to face the corner of the backstage area, where the award winners waited. I had imagined the creator of Perkins Formula would be like the other geniuses who’d started college at fifteen.

Scrawny, awkward, bird-like.

What I did not expect was the gorgeous bombshell walking out so gracefully with each step.

I thought this was another assistant, but when no one else walked out behind her, I realized this was Tess Perkins. Fuck! She’s gorgeous. My dick twitched, hopping awake.

She was dressed elegantly, the sexiest woman I’d ever seen. The high collar of her floor-length black dress covered her perfectly round breasts, the long sleeves a perfect counterpart to the high slit that reached up her muscular thigh. It wasn’t overly tight, but it implied just enough, her curves sultry.

As she turned to wave to the crowd, I caught the backless dip of her dress and watched how her dirty blonde waves spilled down her spine.

I suddenly realized that there was something familiar about her profile. Her button nose looked familiar, and I knew without a doubt that her thick pink lips were soft to the touch.

Not just those lips, but even the ones between her smooth legs.