Page 6 of Last Minion Standing
Muttering under my breath, I stalked into my apartment in a high dudgeon. “Stupid, too-hot-for-his-own-good asshat.”
“Ooh, sounds like I missed out. What happened?” asked Jezzie. She emerged from the kitchen munching on some chips.
I needed them more than she did so I snatched the bag from her hands and flounced over to the couch, where I collapsed. It took several handfuls of sour cream and onion crunchiness before I could tell her the events of the evening.
The bitch laughed. “Damn. I wish I’d been there. You kicking his balls up into his stomach would have made an awesome video for your fan page.”
Who cared about a video? The man had dissed me. Treated me like I was a…girl. Ugh.
I stuffed another handful of chips in my mouth. Some women turned to chocolate in times of stress, I preferred salty goodness, and if I couldn’t indulge in the bedroom variety, then the crunchy, out-of-a-bag kind would do.
“Speaking of fan pages, did you know we already have over five thousand followers? You’re a hit.”
The news perked my irritated spirt. “Really?”
Jezzie bobbed her head. “We’ve also got tons of names for you to check out and even a few applications for the sidekick position. Now, I was thinking.” Ooh, dangerous. “Interviews seem like a piss-poor way to test your new sidekick’s mettle. It occurred to me what we really should do, instead, is make them accomplish some tasks. Things to show they’re the right fit for you. That they can understand and predict your needs.”
“Like fetching my coffee and making sure it’s the right temperature with just the right amount of cream,” I added helpfully.
“No. Harder stuff. Television-worthy shit. My buddy over at HBC says this would make a perfect reality miniseries, and we’ve already hashed out the contracts.”
HBC, Hell’s Broadcasting Corporation, talk about the big times. “Me? On television?” Hot damn. I’d need to go shopping again.
Jezzie went over the details of the contract with me and gave me the knife to prick my finger. Hell’s bureaucracy didn’t rely on unreadable signatures to seal contracts. Nothing but one-of-a-kind blood would do. As to the show itself, basically, I needed to do nothing. No lines to memorize or scripts to follow. Without me even being aware of it, cameras would trail me and the contestants selected to compete for the position of minion. I’d have to make sure I looked my best at all times. I also really hoped they hadn’t taped this evening’s fiasco.
How was I supposed to get any respect when Drake—with his bare chest and big muscles—insisted on treating me like a fragile damsel?
Now if only my body would stop humming in excitement at his actions and words.
At least I had the HBC deal to distract me from Drake. I went to bed excited about becoming a television star, but I tossed and turned as a certain muscular somebody kept interrupting my thoughts of fame and fortune.
Attraction to a male wasn’t a new feeling for me. Thinking about him, though, after I’d left his presence? I couldn’t remember that happening before.
Love ’em and leave ’em—I’d grown up faithfully following our family motto. My longest relationship with an incubus—my blood protected me from their soul sucking, that or I had no soul—lasted less than a month, a record for me.
I tried thinking about anyone else, even the superhot Damon character from the television show The Vampire Diaries, but over and over, the rugged face and body of Drake superimposed itself over my usual fantasy figures. Maybe it was because he’d left me horny. I needed some kind of explanation for why I couldn’t help remembering Drake’s muscular body as he’d slugged it out with the escaped soul. His smooth, tanned skin that I still, even after his obnoxious behavior, wanted to lick.
Lick. Touch. Rub…
Shuddering in arousal, I gave in to my libido and pulled open the drawer to my nightstand. I pulled out “Bob,” the boyfriend who never disappointed me. Long and hard, his black rubber length was just the thing I needed to sate my pussy tonight. I dripped some oil on his rubbery length then rubbed the bulbous head across my clit, but while it felt good, I needed more.
Closing my eyes, I pictured Drake, his chest slick with sweat, his dark hair rumpled and his blue eyes smoky with desire. My sex flooded with wetness, eager for more.
I wondered how his cock looked. Long and lean or thick and juicy? Would he fuck me fast or torture me with long, deep strokes? I worked my rubber phallus into my sex, sliding it in and out, my thoughts of Drake exciting me, but my orgasm hung just out of reach. A rubber substitute just couldn’t take the place of the real thing.
Frustrated and beyond aroused, I pushed faster, my breath coming in pants. But when my cell phone rang, satiation slipped away.
Cursing technology but wondering who could be calling at this hour, I let go of Bob—after all it wasn’t as if I was getting anywhere—and grabbed my cell. A glance at the display showed a number I didn’t recognize. Maybe, if I was lucky, it would be an obscene caller who’d have suggestions on how I could get off.
I answered in my sexiest phone sex voice. “Hello.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
At the query, I almost dropped the phone in shock. I hadn’t actually expected a naughty caller. Things were looking up. “Who is this?” I asked.
“I can’t stop thinking of you,” my anonymous caller replied instead. “I wanted you to know that, even though you did your best to turn me into a eunuch, I have recovered and I’m stroking my big cock right now.”
My eyes widened, and even in my shock over him calling, my pussy began to throb. “Drake? Is that you? How did you get my number?”