Objection

By Sawyer Bennett

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2013 by Sawyer Bennett

Published by Big Dog Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12

Looking in the
mirror, I tug on the tight, red mini dress that I’m wearing.
It’s hugging my hips like a glove, and my breasts are
practically spilling out. The only good thing is that the color goes
wonderfully with my raven-colored hair and green eyes.

“I look like a
slut,” I complain to Macy.

She comes to stand
behind me, perusing my appearance. “Exactly! That’s just
what I was going for.”

Turning to her with
pleading eyes, I say, “I can’t go through with this. I
was drunk when I agreed to it.”

Macy’s blue
eyes alight with mischief as she takes me by the shoulders, turning
me back around to the mirror. She looks at me in the reflection. “Yet
you agreed all the same, McKayla, and you only have five minutes left
before you have to leave to meet your date. Now, go put on that sexy
red lipstick to match your dress.”

Date.

Funny word for what
this is.

Two weeks ago, in a
moment of drunken despair over losing my boyfriend of three years,
Macy talked me into trying this exclusive and discreet service that
she was a member of. It was called
One Night Only
, and it
catered to the rich and sexually depraved of New York’s finest.
Macy had been a proud member for the past two years and swore by it.

But then again, Macy
is... well, Macy. She is my dearest friend in the world, my roommate
for the past six years, and perhaps the weirdest, most ostentatious,
and most deviant socialite that New York has ever seen. She graduated
from Columbia with me, earning a political science degree that she
had no intention of ever using. While I went on to schlep my way
through Columbia’s law school program over the next three
years, Macy was on the hunt for the future Mr. Macy Carrington.

That’s right…
she expects her husband to take her name and refer to himself that
way. Her qualifications are clear. He has to be equally as rich as
her, wouldn’t mind her taking the occasional lover, and would
need to treat her like the queen she believes herself to be.

Until that time, she
is happy spending her nights partying and getting her rocks off—her
words, not mine—through
One Night Only
.

Back to that.

It’s a service
that is highly secretive, but in major demand. It caters to those
people that are looking for one-night stands with a partner who is
matched to their specifications and guaranteed disease free. Macy
pays an exorbitant amount of her inheritance each month for club
benefits, which usually means she’s going on a different “date”
at least four times a week.

That puts her square
in the category of skankerific, but I still love her more than I love
the air I breathe. Macy and I have been together through thick and
thin, ups and downs, love and betrayal. She’s stood by me when
no one else would, and I give her the love and acceptance she’s
never had from her emotionally cold, but uber wealthy parents.

Macy has her
quirks—her deviant behavior, for one—but there has never
been a more loyal person to me in the world. Besides that, she’s
let me live in her Manhattan penthouse apartment dirt cheap for the
last six years because I was a poor and impoverished undergrad, and
now I’m a poor and impoverished attorney. I graduated from law
school a year ago with a crappy job that keeps me busy eighty hours a
week and a $120,000 in law school loans that will take me until I am
seventy to pay off.

Taking the lipstick
from my makeup drawer, I coat my lips with the Hooker Red stain and
brush some gloss over them. Even though I’m having major second
thoughts about what I’m getting ready to do, there’s also
a part of me—deep down—that is thrilled to be doing
something so far out of my comfort zone…

Having a
one-night stand.

I wouldn’t be
in this position had my boyfriend, Pete—aka the Douche—not
ripped my heart out six months ago. Over what was, I thought, a
romantic dinner that would result in a marriage proposal, he ended up
telling me that he wanted to break up. Something about wanting to
travel the world as a wildlife photographer and not wanting to be
pinned down. I thought that was weird… seeing as how I don’t
even think he owned a camera.

So I said goodbye to
the Douche, immersed myself in misery and work, and yes, in a night
of complete drunkenness, agreed to Macy’s idea that I join
One
Night Only
… at her expense, of course.

By the time I woke
up the next morning, with a raging headache and puke in my throat,
Macy had me signed up. A simple physical and blood test later, and I
was a full-fledged member.

Now I have a date
with Number 134—a tall, gorgeous hunk of a man that is
supposedly going to put my battery-operated boyfriend to shame
tonight. I made sure my application said I was only interested in
vanilla sex, and I apparently was matched to someone with the same
tastes.

Smacking my lips
together, I turn to Macy once more for her final assessment. She
gives me the critical eye, running her eyes over me slowly while she
taps her finger to her chin. “You are definitely one-hundred
percent, perfectly fuckable.”

Rolling my eyes at
her, I pick up my clutch purse and double check my contents. Credit
card, iPhone, lip gloss, and Mace.

All a girl could
ever wish for on a date.

Date.

Funny word.

Holy shit!

This is it.

No turning back.

I walk into
Sullivan’s, a swanky bar on the Upper East Side, where Number
134 suggested we meet. Our communications so far have been limited to
one encrypted, anonymous email from Number 134 (him) to Number 3498
(me) setting the date, time, and place. If our membership numbers
have been assigned chronologically, then he’s clearly been in
the system for a while. He said he’d arrange for the hotel so I
didn’t have to worry about it.

As pre-arranged, I
went up to the bar and took a seat, ordering a white wine from the
bartender. I arrived almost half an hour early, hoping to get one
drink under my belt to calm the nerves that were jangling around
inside of me.

I want to do this.
Despite my hesitations, I really, really want to do this. But it
still doesn’t stop me from being nervous over meeting Number
134.

He told me to call
him Mike, but that’s not really his name. Everything is about
the anonymity, and I told him my name was Stella. I doubt we’d
even use the fake names we gave each other. It’s not like we’d
be having any deep conversation tonight, and I have no plans to
reveal any more identifying information about myself.

As soon as the
bartender sets my wine in front of me, I hear, “I’ll pay
for that.”

It’s on my
lips to decline… to say that I’m waiting on someone, but
when I turn to the voice, I’m assaulted by the decadence that
is none other than Number 134 himself.

He’s even more
beautiful than his picture, radiating pure magnetism and sex appeal.
He’s tall, which is good, because I am, too. But I can tell
he’ll tower over my five-nine frame by several inches.

Dark brown hair
cropped in a fashionable, yet short style, along with an elegant,
dark gray suit. I peg him as a banker or financier. His eyes are
golden-brown, more golden than anything. He’s smiling at me in
a completely relaxed, but I’m here to fuck you senseless, kind
of way, and it manages to show the two dimples he sports on either
side of his full lips.

If what’s in
his pants is as magnificent as what’s on the outside, I’m
going to go to sleep a very happy girl tonight. He’s utterly
perfect. Exactly what I need.

Number 134… I
mean Mike… hands over his credit card to the bartender,
telling him that he’ll have a Jameson neat. I’m
surprised, because I didn’t think we’d be staying here
long. Idle chitchat, schmoozing, or wooing is not required tonight.
Us sleeping together is pretty much a done deal.

Turning to me, Mike
sticks out his hand. “Mike… Number 134 at your service,
Stella.”

Giving a light
laugh, I place my palm against his to shake, but he lifts my hand to
his lips to brush a light kiss there. In any other circumstances, it
would have been a completely cheesy move, but somehow… Mike
owns it, as evidenced by the chills that break out on my arm.

He releases his hold
on me, and I rest my arms on the bar. Mike takes the seat next to me,
propping one arm on the bar and another on the back of my barstool.
Again, under ordinary circumstances, this move would have seemed a
little too proprietary for two people that had just met. But given
the fact we would be getting vertical—or maybe it would be
horizontal, who knows—it seems like a natural move.

“So, what’s
a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I quip.

Mike chuckles and
it’s rich and warm, causing me to immediately lose some of my
nervousness. “Well,” he says conspiratorially as he leans
in toward me, “I heard there was going to be a stunningly
ravishing woman at this bar tonight, and I simply had to come out and
try to win her.”

I laugh and take a
sip of wine. “I heard about this woman. They say she’s
kind of a sure bet, so I don’t think you have anything to worry
about.”

Grinning at me, Mike
reaches a finger out to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. It’s
an intimate move and one that I find myself very much enjoying. He
looks at me, his lips pursed in amusement. “I have to say. I’m
beyond pleased with our match. Your picture had me entranced, but it
really didn’t do you justice.”

“You did hear
the part where I said I was a sure bet, right? No need to spout
compliments. I’m sleeping with you tonight,” I tell him
with a return grin.

“Yet, I felt
compelled to give it to you all the same. I’m the kind of man
that sort of just speaks his mind.”

“I like that.
In fact,” I say, my voice just a tad lower as I lean in toward
him, “what exactly is on your mind for tonight?”

It’s so weird
how odd this conversation is, yet how natural it feels at the same
time. It’s almost liberating… knowing exactly how the
night is going to end and doing away with all pretense. I’ve
never been a sexually overt person, but tonight—dolled up in my
sluttiest dress, with a tiny scrap of lace covering my goods
below—knowing that Mike will have his hands all over me soon…
Well, it sort of brings out my inner sex kitten.