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This book contains graphic adult subject matter and situations, not suitable for readers under 18 years old. When Catherine's world is turned upside down by her fiance's admission that he's been unfaithful throughout their relationship, she decides to make up for lost time. She meets Jude at an upscale nightclub. His rugged good looks have her wondering what she ever saw in her fiance to begin with, and his smoldering gaze lets her know in no uncertain terms that he wants her. He takes her to his apartment and what she expects be merely an amazing one night stand becomes something much more when his friend Brett shows up unannounced and joins in the party. One night in New York City is all it takes to prove to Catherine that she's still desirable--and not only to one man, but two of the hottest men in Manhattan. PROLOGUE In this modern day, many women can say they’ve had a one night stand, or even a sexual encounter with a stranger. But I’d wager there are not many women who can say they had the hottest sex of their lives during a one night stand with two strangers. Yes, you heard me right. Two strangers. I suppose you want to hear about my night of erotic ecstasy, don’t you? But of course you do! All right, you twisted my arm. It would probably help to tell you a little about myself first. My name is Catherine. I’m a twenty-seven year old, financially independent free-lance writer from New Jersey, and I live just across the bridge from New York City in a lovely townhouse condominium with 1900 square foot of luxury living space. Oh, you want to know what I look like? Let’s see… I’m five foot, seven inches tall (which makes me nearly six foot in my fuck-me stilettos). Weight? Suffice it to say my weight is proportionate to my height. I’m neither overweight nor underweight, thanks to three visits to the gym every week for a half hour of aerobic exercise and twenty minutes of laps in the Olympic size pool. No, I’m not one of those health nuts, though I try to stay in shape, and eat basically healthy when I remember to eat. But I also have three addictions that aren’t so good for me—coffee, cigarettes and chocolate. The former two I intend to quit, the latter, I fear, will be a lifetime addiction. I’m a natural red head. Dark red, sort of copper. I yanked out my first gray hair last week, and after a thorough search that didn’t turn up any more offending strands, I have concluded it was a fluke, and do not yet need to rush out for a bottle of dye. I’ve never had the nerve to get it cut short, though I suspect it would be easier to manage, so it falls to my waist, and is usually either pulled back in a ponytail when I’m working at home, or pinned in a plain roll when I’m meeting with an editor or having dinner in the city, and I’ve recently begun wearing it loose and straight (but more on that later). My eyes are green. By now you’ve probably guessed—I’m Irish. About ninety-five percent (and about five percent Welsh). But I somehow managed to escape the freckles that plague the rest of my family’s fair skin—perhaps it’s that my hair is dark red, rather than the carrot tone most of them display, or that little bit of black Irish from way back (something about a sunken Spanish ship off the cost of Eire and Spanish sailors who came ashore and married Irish lasses), or maybe it’s because I religiously use sunscreen. To relax, I read, play the piano or watch old movies (black and white are my favorite). I’ve had three boyfriends my entire life—all were long-term relationships. At one point in my life, I’d planned on waiting to have sex until I got married. Jimmy Trenkle was my high school sweetheart, and other than French kissing and a little heavy petting in the back seat of his ’82 Honda Accord, I remained true to my vow. We broke up our first year in college—he was attending USC, and I was commuting to NYU. Separation by two coasts does not make for the best dating, and so by mutual consent, we decided to see other people. Six months later, he married some surfer chick with bleached blonde hair and a native tan. Daniel was my second boyfriend, and my first lover. We shared a journalism class at NYU, and after working on a couple of assignments together, we began to share other things. Namely, his bed. So much for my determination to remain a virgin. But Danny was one of those guys who just oozed sex appeal, and by my sophomore year, I was flat out horny. For the two and a half years that followed, I had some really awesome sex. Unfortunately, Danny and I did so much fucking that we never got around to actually talking, and there was little to our relationship beyond great sex. So until graduation, we remained fuck-buddies, and after graduation, we had one last night together and went our separate ways. My third relationship was with Dick. Dick was twelve years older than me, tall, blonde with a distinguished touch of gray at his temples and blue eyes. He was intelligent, witty and a real charmer. He wasn’t as physically beautiful as Danny, but by this point in my life, I was looking for more—a relationship built on an emotional and intellectual level. Don’t get me wrong—sex was still important. At least to me. Not so much to Dick, and when we did have sex, it was somewhat one sided (in other words, once he came, it was over), so it was good that there were other aspects to our relationship that made up for what we lacked in sexual compatibility. Early on I learned to get off fast (it was either keep up with Dick or be left behind), and did my best to find fulfillment in the spiritual sense. After a three years, Dick and I were engaged, and we settled into a comfortable routine. He ran a sports magazine in the city that he’d started just before I met him, I worked out of the office in my condo, making a living writing pieces for periodicals and newspapers, and in my spare time, working on that great American novel. He spent four to five days a week traveling for business, and I was able to focus on my writing career during the week, and my fiancé on the weekends. When I hit twenty-six, the baby bug bit pretty hard. But Dick said he wanted to wait to finally tie the proverbial knot until the magazine was on its feet and stable, and instead of at last setting our wedding date, we decided to finally move in together. Our biggest point of contention was where we should live. He thrived on the hustle and bustle of the city, while I found the noise distracting. I knew he really loved me when he offered to give up his rent controlled apartment in New York and move into my condo in Jersey. And then I knew it was only a matter of time until we made things permanent. As you can see, I’m not the sort to indulge in casual sex. In fact, until that night a few months ago, I’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I was the last woman on earth who would even consider sleeping with anyone I wasn’t in a long-term and at least relatively committed relationship with. So how did I end up joyously sandwiched between two of the hottest lovers this side of—well, anywhere—and screaming in pure ecstasy? Let’s go back to the day before that night. Dick, from out of nowhere, decided to clear his conscience and confessed that for most of the five years we’d been together, he’d been fucking everything that walked upright. Not just his secretary and the female vice-president of his company, not just the occasional barfly he’d pick up and take back to his hotel room when he was traveling for business, or most of his female clientele, and pretty much any woman who was willing to lift her skirt for him, but even a few men who apparently tripped his trigger somewhere along the way (can you say, “too much information?”) Just curious--you didn't think Dick was his real name did you? It's not, but if the proverbial shoe fits... Needless to say, I was devastated on one hand, and thanking God that I'd insisted on double birth control from the beginning (the pill for me and condoms for him). I was in shock. I didn’t know how to respond to his revelation, so I didn’t. I took a deep breath, stood, walked toward the door, and said simply, “Get out.” The next thing that happened would have made me laugh out loud if it had happened to anyone but me. Believe it or not, as I flung the door open, the dumbass son-of-a-bitch caught up to me and had the freaking nerve to ask me if this meant things were over between us. I pushed him through the threshold and before he could utter another word, I slammed the door in his face. And locked it—chain, deadbolt and doorknob. Fucker. I was numb. Within moments my phone rang. It was Dick, calling from his cell, probably still right outside my door. I picked up the receiver, and hung it up just as fast. Then I took the phone off the hook so the asshole couldn’t call again. I got a bottle of Asti Spumante from my wine rack and a box of chocolate covered cherries from my fridge, got undressed, climbed into bed, and proceeded to eat and drink myself into oblivion while weeping like a baby and watching some old Doris Day and Rock Hudson movie. Thanks to the wine, I eventually fell asleep, only to awaken the next morning, alone in my bed (except for the empty candy box and wine bottle that lay beside me), and feeling worse than I had the night before. I stumbled to my office and faxed Kellie, my editor at “Executive Woman”, a two word resignation letter—Fuck off. I was fairly certain I wouldn’t need to add that she would not be getting “How to Balance Sex with Business”, the article about casual office boinking for the girl who wants to still be taken seriously in business after she’s done the spread eagle with her boss or some other associate. Why? Dick had introduced us a year earlier. Business acquaintance my ass! Yep, you guessed it—she had been one of Dick’s many lovers all along. And as far as I was concerned, she had more experience boiking in the office than I did, so she could write the damned article herself. Then I faxed Dick the same memo as Kellie, but with the added notation, “Your junk will be in the boxes at the curb. If you don’t get them, the trash collectors will.” That task complete, I had my breakfast—a glass of Asti (hair of the dog and all that rot) and two extra-strength aspirin. And I cried some more, while emptying Dick’s dresser drawers, his closet, and his side of the medicine cabinet. I pitched all his stuff into boxes and trash bags, including his Playstation, his Barbara Streisand CDs (that should have been a red flag in itself), and the grotesque modern art he’d littered my home with, and I took them all out to the end of my driveway. After that, I laid on the couch in my ratty old terry cloth bathrobe, watching an old Barbara Stanwyke mystery, sipping extra dry gingerale, and chain smoking. By early afternoon, I didn’t really feel any better, except thanks to what might be called the “breakfast of losers”, my head wasn’t pounding anymore, and I got down to the nitty gritty of moving on—something I was determined to do. I watched my soap operas—a luxury I hadn’t partaken of in years—while going through all my photo albums one by one, and tearing every photo of Dick into a thousand tiny pieces. Over five years, I’d taken so many pictures, it took me two full soaps to get through them all. By the time my third soap started, I’d taken all the picture fragments, along with every reminder of Dick I could still find in the house, threw everything in the big aluminum trash can in my garage, sprinkled just the right amount of lighter fluid, and dropped my cigarette in. In a matter of moments, it all began to burn, and I was determined that by the time the flames died, so would my grief over Dick. You’d be amazed at how fast five years can go up in smoke. Revenge, even if it’s private, can be sweet, and watching Dick burn—figuratively, of course—had been almost as good as chocolate. And when his Jaguar appeared in the street in front of my house, I merely smiled when I saw his stunned stare, hit the button and watched the garage door close between us. Then I turned and went back inside my house. Yes, I’d begun to feel a little better, but there was still this nagging voice in the back of my mind, and a sort of restlessness that had crept in. But what more could I need at this point? It certainly wasn’t Dick, and shooting the bastard would only land me in jail. I began tapping my fingernails and the clicking sound of nail hitting the oak coffee table in front of me became like the seconds ticking double time. That can be a frightening prospect to a woman in her late twenties who had put her life on hold for five years for the future she would have with… The sound you just heard was my scream. What future? While he was out getting laid, I’d been the good girl, ever-faithful, and, for the most part, hideously celibate for the past two years. Dick and I had the mandatory once-a-monther (and silly me, I actually believed him when he told me he was too tired to perform because of jet lag, never suspecting for a moment it was fucking-everyone-else-lag). And during the rest of the month, I did the only thing a faithful, loving woman can do—I semi-sated my needs with my trusty vibrator and a vivid imagination. That’s right. I’d had more of a physical relationship with my vibrator than my fiancé. But the realization that Dick had made a fool of me (we’ll just look over the fact that all the signs had been staring me in the face for years and I was too naïve to see them) really pissed me off. I ran to the bathroom, flipped on the light and stared at myself. Was I ugly? Well, my hair was a tad matted, but a good brushing would tame it. My eyes were red and swollen at the moment, but that could be fixed with a cool compress and some Visine. Though my skin is fair, except for that itty-bitty stress zit on my chin—easily enough hidden with some concealer—it was unblemished. My lips were quite pale—a tell tale sign that I felt like shit—but a little lipstick would do miracles. OK, so I basically looked like hell. But it was all fixable. Was I frigid? No. My vibrator could testify to that (as, more than likely, could the computer geek in the condo next door that I shared a bedroom wall with, who no doubt heard every moan and orgasmic squeal that came from my side of the wall when my battery-operated date came to call). So if I wasn’t ugly and I wasn’t frigid… why? Why hadn’t I been enough? I asked myself. I mean, he’d even fucked his secretary for God’s sake. Have you ever seen this babe? No, of course you haven’t. Picture John Belushi, and that’s Dick’s secretary Maria—except John was more feminine and had less stubble on his chin when the clock struck five. I mean, would you have fucked a chick that looked like that? Of course not! And if I were a guy, neither would I. So why had Dick? And not only had he fucked her, he’d fucked her at least once a week, according to his own account of his indiscretions. You don’t need a calculator to figure out that’s four times more often than he fucked me. So then I had to ask myself the most horrifying question of all… Was I sexually undesirable? Four hours later, my legs were shaved, my hair pulled back in a loose roll, my makeup applied to perfection, and my fingernails painted slut red. I checked myself over in the full-length mirror that hung on my bedroom wall; conservative-yet-sexy, simple-yet-elegant black, sleeveless dress, real silk hosiery, and my favorite pair of black leather fuck-me heels. And the whole ensemble was accented with pearl earrings and necklace. Understated. Classy. But was I sexy? It all boiled down to this: if I couldn’t get laid tonight, I may as well call it quits and marry my vibrator. I shrugged into my long, black leather coat, walked out the door, and got into the car. What do you mean you want to know what kind of car I was driving? Does it matter? Geeze, you’re merciless! Okay, it was the car I’d purchased a year earlier, anticipating that by this time, I’d be married and well on my way to having a family. It was a powder blue minivan. Happy now? As I was saying, I got in my car, started the engine, backed out of my garage and headed down the road, out of the New Jersey suburb, toward New York City, determined to prove to myself that I was fuck-able. And that, dear reader, is how it all began.
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