The Million Dollar Virgin

Chapter One - Stevie

Stevie took a breath, straightened her too-short skirt, then marched up the gold-painted steps and pounded on the door.

"C'mon, you sonofabitch," she grumbled. "I know you're in there."

But the door didn't budge. It didn't even creak.

Stevie lifted her fist and tried again, this time punctuating her knocks with a kick, too.

Thump, thwack. Thump, thwack. Thump, thwack.

Then she waited.

Still nothing.

"You have got to be kidding me."

She dragged out her phone – a flip-deal that spoke directly to her financial situation – from her purse and glared at the screen.

12:17pm.

No way was the nightclub empty. Spangles' sketchy owner – Stevie's lecherous boss – was more than a bit OCD. Mondays were his banking day. Late open. Orchestrated that way so he and his equally sketchy set of accountants could work out whatever scam they were currently using to pull the wool over the IRS's eyes.

With an annoyed grunt and a glance up and down the street to make sure no one would be getting a free view of her ass, Stevie tucked her phone away and climbed onto the stairs' railing. She got her balance – carefully – then drew back her boot clad foot and prepared to slam it against the small, decorative window that sat just to the right of the door. Even if they didn't answer the door over the shattered glass, someone would hear it and call the police. And then the assholes inside would have to give her the money they owed her. But when her foot met the window, it simply reverberated against her rubber sole.

Plastic, Stevie realized.

"Cheap bastards."

"That's not very nice."

The dry comment, spoken in a deeply melodic voice, came from behind her, and it startled Stevie so badly that she forgot how precarious her footing was, and she spun. She tried to stop it. But the momentum was too great. With a wild cry, and a tumble that could in no way be misconstrued as graceful, Stevie flew off the railing and smacked into the ground. Knees to pavement.

And then she looked up.

And the burn of her scraped skin became nothing compared to the burn of embarrassment. Because she was at eye level with a pair of well-fitted men's jeans. Face to face. Or more aptly, face to crotch. And for a too-long second, Stevie's eyes refused to move away. They stayed glued to the very clear outline of...erect manhood. Yeah. She'd stick with that descriptor for now because it seemed safer.

Then dry voice came again. "I don't usually ask a girl to do that on a first date."

And Stevie scrambled backwards, scraping her ass almost as much as her knees in the process. She flailed a little as she reached the edge of the stairs. It took her several seconds to finally get a hold of the bottom one, and when she finally did push herself to her feet, she was huffing and puffing with the exertion. She squinted at Mr. Super-Snug-Jeans, but he stood directly in the sun's path, and all Stevie knew for sure was that a trail of grey smoke was trickling up from somewhere near his mouth. Well. That. And that he was kind of...looming over her.

Stevie lifted her chin, something blissfully sarcastic on the tip of her tongue. But he beat her to it.

"I'm guessing that wasn't quite as good for you as it was for me?"