Filthy Gorgeous Read online

  FILTHY GORGEOUS

  Jodi Knight

  Copyright © 2014 by Jodi Knight

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or passed, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

  Please DO NOT participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials, which is in full violation of the author’s rights. Those found to be doing so will be prosecuted.

  This book is intended for adult readers due to some strong language and sexual content throughout.

  COVER DESIGN by Jodi Knight.

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  Dedication

  For Sladies everywhere.

  You know who you are.

  Acknowledgements

  A special thanks to Sarah Elizabeth, my beta reader, editor, and crisis adviser—I couldn't have done this without you.

  And a big thank you to all those who have patiently (and not so patiently) waited over the past months for Filthy Gorgeous to be released.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  Have you ever been sucker punched? How about on the receiving end of an uppercut to the jaw? Not just a slap—I’m talking about a full-on blow executed by somebody with considerably more upper-body strength.

  I have.

  Let me tell you straight up—it hurts. It really hurts. I’m not a weak guy. I’m athletic. I’m strong. But I was no match for that asshole.

  Did I deserve a beating? Maybe, but I’ll let you decide for yourself. He may have won that battle, but he sure as hell won’t win the war, of that I’m certain.

  Please excuse me. I’m being rude. Allow me to introduce myself.

  My name is Alexander Slade.

  I’m the Global Operations Director of Slade Group; my father’s boutique advertising agency based in New York City. Most call me Alex. Some call me God. The latter is both an acronym of my job title and a reference to my expertise in the bedroom.

  Now that you know my name, it would only be fair to let you in on a little secret of mine.

  I, Alexander Slade, am a fugitive.

  Yeah, you heard that right. But before you let your mind conjure up all kinds of wacky scenarios, allow me to clarify my ongoing predicament. I’m not a dangerous felon. I’m not on the run from the FBI. I’m not even sheltering from the dipshit who gave me the shiner on my left cheek.

  I’m actually hiding from my father.

  Cowardly? Yes.

  Necessary? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  You see, in the space of a few weeks, my perfectly sanguine existence has transformed into a clusterfuck of family saga that has not been seen in America since Dallas.

  To escape the drama, I’ve sequestered myself in a luxurious suite at the apex of a five star hotel. I’ve been holed up here since the weekend, and for the foreseeable future, the Pemberley Suite is my safe house.

  How long I’ll wallow in my den of self-pity is anybody’s guess. Ten days? Ten weeks? Ten years? By my reckoning, I have at least five days before our accounts department cut my lifeline to luxury, so I’m going to damn well enjoy it while it lasts.

  Take a look around. The suite oozes old-world charm and its north-east aspect affords excellent views over Central Park. I’ve even got a four-poster bed. Awesome.

  If a guy’s going to hide out, then he should damn well do it in style, wouldn’t you agree?

  Okay, so you’re probably wondering what I’ve done that’s so terrible that it would warrant holing myself up in a nine-hundred-dollar a night hotel suite.

  Ladies and gentlemen; I’ve finally crossed the line.

  As far as my parents are concerned, I’ve been skating close to the line for most of my adult life.

  But this time? Oh boy, am I knee-deep in the shit. The fight was over a woman of course; a beautiful, smart, and sexy woman.

  Who most probably hates my guts right now.

  Yeah … and the punch up was kinda tied up with a business deal my father has been trying to lock down for years. The client in question is worth serious coin; I’m talking megabucks, here. Successful completion would have signaled our arrival among the industry’s elite.

  And I’ve blown the whole damn thing.

  I drag my ass out of my semi-permanent position on the chaise longue and head to the bathroom mirror. Ugh. Let’s examine the damage. What you’re seeing right now isn’t the real Alexander Slade. It’s a mirage. Stare long enough and you may catch a glimpse of my former self; that debonair gentleman who’s never short of female company.

  That was before I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson’s apprentice. I press the purple bruise that’s garnishing my left cheek. Jesus Christ. That’s a good solid nine out of ten on the pain-o-meter. Nine is the upper threshold; I hold ten under strict reservation for penile-related afflictions.

  Before the knockout, one look into my eyes was enough to render women catatonic with lust. Now they’re bloodshot, and the copious amounts of scotch I’ve imbibed over the past few days have done nothing to restore their malachite sparkle. My Ray-Bans are struggling to conceal the injury and it’s starting to scare housekeeping.

  Look at that chin. My dedication to follicular grooming has reached an all-time low. If I don’t take a razor to my scruff in the next couple of days, I’ll be mistaken for Cousin Itt. Gross. As if this freak show isn’t enough, I’m still wearing my manjamas; the clothes I’ve both lived and slept in for the past several days.

  In short; I look like a panda recovering from a meth addiction.

  And now there’s a pounding at my door. Ugh.

  Dah-dih-dit. Dah-dih-dih-dit.

  That’ll be Theo with my room service order. Theo is the only human contact I’ve had since I checked into heartbreak hotel. He’s cool. Yesterday evening we smoked a Cuban and I demonstrated the fine art of blowing vulva-shaped smoke rings. As a small token of gratitude, he served up a flute of champagne.

  While moonwalking.

  Forward.

  You’re not impressed? He performed this while balancing a bottle of champagne on his head. That kind of creativity deserves to be rewarded. If I manage to get out of this hotel in one piece, then maybe I’ll consider giving him a job.

  To cement our newfound camaraderie, Theo and I devised a secret code to minimize the threat of a security breach. Can you guess what he was tapping when he rapped on my door a few moments ago?

  That’s right. It’s Morse code for tits.

  I open the door, allowing Theo to navigate the steel trolley inside my suite.

 
“Slade, may I suggest you diversify your meals? You need more nutrients. I heartily recommend the nachos.” He smoothes down the creases in his uniform. “Now, I got good news and I got bad news.”

  “Hit me with the bad, Theo. I’m on a winning streak of bad news.”

  “Mr. Slade, I’m sorry to say that we’re all out of Dijon.”

  “Jesus, is that all? And the good news is? Does the room service menu now include a side order of Victoria’s Secret models?”

  Theo chuckles. “Nuh-uh, Slade. I’m still working on that. But I do have the other fourteen condiments you ordered. Now, if you’ll be so kind, put your paw print on here.” He hands me the check with a smile. I half-heartedly scrawl my name and pour myself another scotch. It’s my twelfth of the day and it’s only three in the afternoon.

  I tip Theo as he leaves and try to close the door, but it ricochets back into my face because there’s a tan-colored brogue wedged between the wall and the door.

  Wait a second.

  I recognize that shoe.

  Oh, no.

  It’s Parker. What the hell is he doing here? I force the door shut and squint through the peephole. Parker leans forward, his eyes merging into one like Cyclops. Terrifying.

  Parker Harrison heads up our creative department. He’s a good three inches taller than me, and pretty bulky to boot. My receptionist calls him a ‘housewives dream.’ In fact, he’s just the kind of guy my father would hire as a hit man.

  “Quit messing around and open the goddamn door!”

  “No.”

  Parker pummels both fists against the wooden door in unison. “Fine! Have it your way. If you won’t come out then you leave me with no choice. I’ll destroy it with fire!”

  I don’t answer him. I lean against the adjacent wall and weigh up the possibilities. It takes me all of five seconds to reach the pitiful conclusion that I have no possibilities. I’m screwed. There’s no escape. Shy of tying my sheets together and abseiling Bond-style from the window, I’m cornered like a bunny in its burrow.

  And all of a sudden the pounding stops. Maybe he went home? Feeling hopeful, I squint through the peephole again. Gah. No such luck. He’s still there and he’s holding up his iPad.

  “I have in my possession a video of your fighting debut from Saturday night. Come out right now or it goes viral.” That son of a bitch.

  “Eighty per cent downloaded. It’ll be on YouTube in no time.”

  God damn you, Parker Harrison.

  “Alrighty, cool your jets!” I take a deep breath and pull the door back as far as the chain will allow. “You don’t fool me, Parker,” I hiss. “I know you’re here on my father’s bidding. Touch me, and I’m calling the cops.”

  I unchain the door and brace myself. Parker barges inside the suite, before he stills to appraise me. “Jesus jumping Christ, look at that shiner. You look like one of those mole people that live underneath the subway. And when did you last shave? 1999?”

  Charming.

  I eye Parker with suspicion as he swipes a sandwich from the trolley. “How did you know I was here?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Easy. I had accounts trace your credit transactions.”

  “No, no. How did you know I was in this room?”

  Parker settles down on the couch and smirks. “I asked at the front desk, but no dice; privacy laws and all that bullshit. Figured you’d take a suite, so I hijacked an elevator ride with an elderly couple. I knew I’d hit the jackpot when I saw the room service trolley heading this way. You can’t even commit to a single condiment to go with a damn sandwich.”

  Can you see why I hired him? Colombo’s got nothing on Parker Harrison.

  He helps himself to another sandwich. “Anyway, don’t worry about the House of Aubrey campaign. I smoothed things over with Juliana … but you’re off the account.”

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and take a moment to digest his words.

  I’m off the account, but we still have the account.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  I jump off the bed with renewed vigor and pour two tumblers of scotch. “And my father? Just how pissed is he?”

  Parker looks confused. “Pissed? Oh, he doesn’t know about your rumble. I told him you took off upstate for some post-project rest and relaxation. You may thank me in your own time.”

  Did you hear that? Music to my frigging ears. See, I told you he was my best friend, didn’t I? I hand him a drink. “You’re a goddamn genius, Parker. I’d kiss you if I didn’t think you’d enjoy it so much.”

  He flips me the bird.

  Looks like things are getting back to normal.

  Well, almost.

  “By the way, I may have insinuated that you’ll take Juliana out to dinner … and stuff,” his final two words trail off into a whisper.

  I slowly lower myself onto the edge of the bed and eyeball Parker. “And stuff? Parker, please tell me that you didn’t tell Juliana Herrera I’d fuck her.”

  He shakes his head. The tension in my neck eases. Phew.

  And then Parker flashes a dazzling smile. “I implied. Told and implied are two very different words.”

  Holy shit.

  “Parker, we pay you for your ideas! We don’t pay you to pimp me out. That cougar is pushing eighty!”

  Parker shrugs. “Fifty-six, actually, but nobody checks the shelf life once they hit fifty. We still have the account. Consider yourself lucky the old gal thinks you’re hot tamale.”

  I jump up and jog over to the door.

  “What the hell are you doing, Slade?”

  “Securing the room. It’s going to take more than a secret code and an electronic lock to deter that sex-crazed hag!”

  I hear Parker let out a loud sigh, and he throws a sandwich crust back on the trolley. “You’re insane. Come back to the real world. People need you there. In a previous life, I think I’ve heard you refer to them as clients.”

  I lean against the wall and slide all the way down to the floor. Maybe he’s right. My clients can’t see me looking like road kill. Truth be told, this isn’t just about my father. I’m in a funk. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about our clients. The only person that can snap me out of my malaise is … her.

  Parker braces an arm against the wall and shoots me a pitiful look.

  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and get outta here.”

  “Parker, take a look around. I have a four-poster bed, a whirlpool tub the size of an Olympic swimming pool, Moët & Chandon on tap, a baby grand piano, and a goddamn telescope. Give me three reasons why I should return to the real world?”

  Parker wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “I’ll give you one: Ella. Have you spoken to her since—?”

  “Shhhhh!”

  “Have you even tried?”

  “Kind of. But what’s the point? She hates me.”

  Six weeks ago I was a hedonistic playboy with an unwavering commitment to bachelorhood, but that all changed when she marched her glorious self through my office and into my life. I was bewitched. Under a spell. I’m a different guy. If you’d told me back then that I’d meet a woman who’d turn my world on its axis, then I would have had you sectioned.

  The fridge clinks shut. I look up to see Parker holding two beers. He presses the ice cold can into my hand.

  “Here. Now get your shit together. The team needs you, buddy.”

  I can’t go back. Not yet. Can I? But she’s out there.

  Oh, this sucks.

  I crack my knuckles and jolt myself into action. “Parker, show me that video. I gotta assess the damage so I can prepare myself for the next round with you-know-who.”

  And while we review the big fight, I guess you should know all about the woman who did the unthinkable.

  The woman who stole Alexander Slade’s heart.

  ***

  Five weeks earlier …

  “Oh, God!”

  Spank.

  “Oh, God … that’s amazing! Do that again!”

  Spank.


  “Punish me … I’ve been such a bad girl!”

  Spank. Spank. Spank.

  “Say my name! Don’t stop, baby! Yeah!”

  “Oh, God … yes there! There! There! Oh, God ... God … I love you!”

  Oh, crap.

  You have got to be kidding me. Not another one. Not Renée. Why does this always happen to me? More poignantly; why does this always happen when I’m on the edge of a climatic nirvana?

  I’m going to have to call a time-out here to regroup.

  If you have any kind of brain activity going on at all, then you probably realize that we are not in a church. Though most women I meet do come to regard me as a mythical deity, this is not that kind of confessional. Did you think that my job description alone was enough to earn my good self the nickname ‘God’?

  Of course not.

  I’m the Dumbledore of deep-V diving. If cunnilingus was a martial art, I’d wear my black belt with pride. I’ve worked hard to earn my reputation as a master of the oral crafts. Let me tell you, it takes years of vigorous training to obtain the skills required to take a woman straight to heaven while utilizing only a tongue and a well-placed thumb.

  Luckily I’ve always been a fast learner.

  Anyway, it’s Friday evening. I’m unwinding in my bachelor pad after a hectic week at the office—a two-story loft conversion on the Upper West Side with spectacular views of the park. I love my apartment. The décor is contemporary with neutral colors—think strong lines, smooth forms, and minimal accessories.

  Okay, okay, we don’t need to see that right now. I know you’re more interested in the spanking than getting a real estate tour.

  The lovely lady on bended knee before me is Renée from our accounts department. She’s a dynamo between the sheets … and over my leather couch … and on the stairwell … you get the picture.

  Renée is my Friday night girl. She’s also one of my harem; a group of women that I affectionately refer to as my Sladies. There are eight girls I see regularly. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer a certain level of intimacy between lovers; the kind of passionate closeness that can only be built through repeated, non-exclusive fornication.