Not that he was complaining, of course. What kind of idiot would whine over the fact that the most common reaction he drew from women was hunger? A hunger to screw, sure, but also apparently a hunger to monopolize, to control all of his time and his attention, to trap him into something he wasn’t interested in . . . to squash his very spirit.
Clearly, he was not attracting the right kind of female.
It was either that, or his problems were far more serious. There was a very good possibility that he just wasn’t meant for the long term.
That’s why he’d made a conscious effort a month ago to step back from women and dating and examine what the hell he was doing with his life. Because the sad truth was he was complaining, wasn’t he? He’d grown frustrated and listless in regard to smoking-hot but brittle, unsatisfying relationships. His dating life had grown as stale as week-old pizza . . . and about as nutritive to his well-being.
For more than a decade, the success ran just as thick as the stream of women and easy sex. He’d come into money and a kind of minor fame as a carefree, partying twenty-one-year-old when he first created BandBook, a mixture of a social and career Internet platform that hosted pages for musicians and bands. The site became popular for its original customers: people looking to book a band or musician for an event. But with its sophisticated search options, videos and the audience rating and comments feature, BandBook quickly earned a reputation as being a pulse-taker of popular culture. His start-up company became a go-to site for talent scouts looking for the next hot thing. It’d taken off like a rocket, and Trey had soon expanded the applications to other groups, like actors, artists and filmmakers. Since then, his newly consolidated company, TalentNet, had gone global. Today, Trey was proud to say that dozens of bands, musicians and other artists credited TalentNet with their first big break into celebrity status.
But he wasn’t that smart-mouthed, cocky, oversexed kid who had unexpectedly discovered entrepreneurial gold anymore. After losing two friends recently, along with a couple of ugly, messy breakups in a row, it had started to dawn on him how empty and unsatisfied his relationships with women were leaving him.
So he’d vowed to take a sexual sabbatical.
Almost five weeks without sex. It’d been hard, of course, but he’d kept his eye on the prize. If he wasn’t cut out to be in a serious relationship, best he figured that out now. And if he was? Well, he wasn’t ever going to achieve the gratification of a meaningful relationship until he broke his old patterns and figured out what he wanted . . .
And what women wanted, of course.
Romance. That was what he suspected they wanted. He wasn’t entirely sure what the meaning of the word was. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d never really appreciated the inner workings of the female mind. He’d certainly never been in a relationship that resembled anything close to what his father and mother, or what his sister and her husband, shared. Like his perennially single but never alone older brother, Kevin, Trey worried he’d missed out on the meaningful relationship gene.
It was time to do a serious self-examination and personal overhaul. So far, that had involved working out for an extra hour every day at the gym, because it was hell being a celibate thirty-three-year-old healthy man. He had a shitload of sexual energy to burn.
Self-improvement also meant taking a class on degenerate art at the Art Institute and enrolling in an advanced tai chi class that emphasized the meditative aspects. It included daily practice on his guitar and focusing again on writing music, another thing he had abandoned by the wayside in the energy-sucking process of developing, expanding and steering TalentNet for more than a decade. He’d reapplied himself to his massive music collection too, relearning the medium that he loved and that had originally made his career.
Trey also possessed a respectable personal library in his home. That library had started to represent everything he’d begun to resent about his life. Recently he’d realized that he hadn’t actually read anything of significance in almost a year. The library had become a decoration, a novelty talking point when he gave a guest a tour of the penthouse. When he’d started BandBook twelve years ago, he used to regularly inhale three or four books a week: great works of philosophy, literature and history, and biographies of the world’s movers and shakers.
Now, the only action his library was getting was his maid’s weekly dusting. God
, it was lame. He was.
That’s why when he’d seen the ad for Leave Everything Behind but a Book, he’d signed up immediately. It was the prod he needed. The concept was that while people might want to get around to reading that one particular book collecting shelf dust, it was hard to do so in this busy, technology-ridden world, especially during the frantic holiday season, which was just around the corner. The museum came up with a simple idea: grab that book you’ve been meaning to read forever, check your technology at the door, sit your ass down in a chair and pledge to read for two hours, two nights a week for two weeks in the company of like-minded, committed readers.
With his commitment not only to self-improvement, but to understanding the mysteries of the female mind a little better, Trey had chosen Pride and Prejudice as his book for the event. He’d never read it in his life, despite all the cultural references to it. He didn’t get its appeal; he often didn’t get women; women loved Pride and Prejudice.
It couldn’t be more obvious he should be reading this damn book.
By the end of the short first chapter, Trey was feeling mildly optimistic. He hadn’t encountered the adored Lizzy yet, let alone any of the famed romance, but it was entertaining watching Mr. Bennet verbally dance circles around his stupid wife. He flipped the page to Chapter Two, and that’s when it happened.
His attention fractured at movement: a purse swinging at the very top of his vision. He glanced up distractedly and did a double take.
Oh no.
No, no, no. This was not good. What had he done to deserve this?
Realizing he was gaping, he lowered his head back to the book, but his gaze shot back up over his reading glasses. He watched, his mouth going dry. The newly arrived bombshell who sat just feet away from him pushed a sexy mane of loose chestnut brown curls behind her shoulder. A rebellious, glossy tendril remained. She slid her fingers down the smooth length distractedly and let it fall on the upper curve of a mouthwatering breast. Lust poured through him, the strength of it surprising him a little.
Sweet Jesus. She wore some kind of tight suede vest under her blazer, like a modernized, chic version of those lace-up bustiers women used to wear on the covers of those old-fashioned bodice-ripper romance novels. She crossed her legs. He went rigid.
Everywhere.
Her legs were slender and about a mile long. She wore a pair of tight, supple suede boots that rose several inches past her knees. When she crossed her legs, the tops of her thigh-high stockings eased into view . . . along with a strip of golden, gleaming skin. She distractedly glided her fingers across the tops of her thigh-highs. His cock jumped higher to attention.
Realizing he was staring, he lowered his head and covertly traced the profile of her face from beneath a lowered brow. She wasn’t your standard beauty, but that made her even more of a knockout. Unique. Exotic. Off the charts on the sexy factor: Those were a few descriptors that came to his mind. Her neck was slender and graceful, her facial features delicate and finely wrought. He couldn’t get over the color and quality of her skin. It was a feature meant to be flaunted. She looked like she’d tan easily, but refrained from roasting in the sun. The result was a smooth, satiny texture and a pale gold, dewy glow. His gaze stuck on the expanse of skin at her chest and the incredible tease of the upper swells of her breasts in that suede lace-up vest-thingy she wore. She’d be so soft there, her curving flesh firm and velvety against his lips and tongue. He imagined unlacing that vest and exposing the treasure of her breasts, cradling them in his hands and then—
He abruptly became aware of his runaway fantasizing. Was this some kind of a joke? How was he supposed to concentrate on reading a book with this goddess just feet away? It’d be torture enough if he hadn’t sworn off sex for the past month, but considering the circumstances, this was nothing less than downright cruelty.
He glanced aside, half expecting someone to be filming his lechery. Unfortunately, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the possibility. Some joker to the left of him stared at the woman in slack-jawed wonder, his book forgotten in his lap: The Iliad. Trey suppressed a strong urge to laugh. And he’d thought he had it bad trying to comprehend a word of Pride and Prejudice with sex personified sitting just feet away. A quick survey of the room told him that the woman was having a similar effect on more than half a dozen other helpless saps.
Forget it. Forget about her. You came here to read. Remember, the self-improvement campaign?