Working It by Kendall Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

perhaps I did measure up.
    My phone pinged with a new message. That little ping was the sweetest sound.
    Ben: What kind of panties are you wearing?
    My pulse sped up. I wore full-bottomed undies, none of those damn dental-floss impersonating G-strings, thank you very much. Those blasted things felt like they were chaffing your ass like a piece of sandpaper. But dear Ben didn’t need to know all that information. I thoughtfully typed out my response.
    Me: Depends on the day’s outfit. Right now I’m in pink lacy boy shorts.
    Ben: It’d be better if they were around your ankles, but I approve.
    Holy. Crap. Moisture dampened my panties. I fought to keep my thoughts under control and jumping into the gutter. I ran through a mental list of nonsexy things: his schedule this week, the location of his next photo shoot, what he smelled like, his dick size. Gah! Where did that come from? I bit my lip. I knew I should keep it clean, but being naughty sounded like so much more fun. He was proving to be a terrible influence on me.
    Me: Eager tonight, aren’t we, Mr. Shaw?
    Ben: Always, doll.
    Me: Do you always text like this with Fiona’s assistants?
    Ben: No. They’re usually men. And I told you, I like pussy.
    God, anytime he used the p-word, I swear my lady parts clenched. Who knew I was such a glutton for a little dirty talk?
    Me: How could I forget? You worded that so eloquently. Fine then, do you text like this w/ other girls often?
    Ben: Depends on if I want to play with them or not.
    I took a moment to compose myself and tried to decipher his words. He didn’t deny it. But did that mean he was playing with me? Or that I was special because I was one of the few he wanted to play with? I felt a wine headache coming on and typed out the first thing I could think of.
    Me: Are you seeing anyone right now?
    After I hit send, I silently cursed myself. I didn’t want to seem overly interested. He was probably just messing with me, anyway. Just bored and killing time. He couldn’t really be interested in me. Could he?
    Ben: I don’t really date.
    I could see that, I suppose. Being a model with a hectic travel schedule, it was probably hard for him to meet people, let alone quality women. My phone pinged again.
    Ben: I don’t like to be tied down.
    Ha! So much for giving him the benefit of the doubt. He was practically admitting to being a player. Summoning my courage, I typed a response back.
    Me: Spoken like a true manwhore.
    Take that! That would put him in his place. There was a subtle difference between being flirty and being a bitch, and I wanted to stay on the correct side of it. But sheesh, someone had to call him out.
    Ben: Not a manwhore, babe. Only three girls have gotten it.
    It. My mouth went instantly dry. He was an exquisitely handsome man, quite obviously women threw themselves at him, yet only three lucky ladies had gotten the goods. That was rather curious information, if he was telling the truth. Maybe he had more restraint than I gave him credit for. Or maybe he’d had a long-term girlfriend somewhere along the way.
    I wanted to type back and ask him why he was flirting with me when he could get anyone he wanted. I wondered if he even found me attractive. But of course I didn’t write any of that. I needed to play it cool.
    Ben: Emmy?
    Wow. I liked that he used my real first name more than was even remotely normal. Breathe, Emmy. Breathe.
    Me: Yes?
    Ben: Do you have plans for tomorrow?
    Breathing became secondary as I took a moment to squeal like a giddy schoolgirl. There wasn’t a shoot tomorrow, and it would be one of the few days we had off, so Gunnar and I had planned to go to the Louvre.
    Me: Not really. Probably going to do some sightseeing.
    I was sooo canceling on Gunnar if the opportunity called for it. He would just have to deal with it. Our plans weren’t set in stone, anyway.
Ben: I have plans with Fiona during the day, but if you want to meet up for a drink later.
    • • •
    His