âHoly shit,â Novah whispered, leaning into me. âLittle boy blue blood is all grown up!â
I rolled my eyes. âYou do realize heâs only a year older than you, right?â
âIâve only seen him in pictures, Faith. Unlike some, I havenât been graced with the younger dukeâs company before this moment. Let me bask in his mighty presence.â
âHeâs not a duke yet. That happens when his old man kicks it and passes down the title. And nobody is graced with that dickâs presence. Heâs arrogant and so rich itâs made him beyond stupid, and he walks with a permanent pole shoved up his ass. Il duko has no redeeming qualities whatsoever,â I snapped and folded my arms across my chest to exaggerate my point.
The object of our musings hovered in the doorway to the conference room. He was conversing with Sally, our editor, and Henry Sinclair II, his father. Or, as his father was better known, King. Apparently, it was quite the amusing nickname among the British elite. Oh, how they must have chortled at the âcheekyâ reference to their most famous royals. But to us, his American working-class worker bees, calling himself King Sinclair just made him sound like an entitled douchebag, too full of his own importance.
âWell I, for one, wouldnât mind delving into those khakis the duke trainee wears so well and deep fishing for said pole in his pert, tight posterior, if you know what I mean.â
I took hold of Novahâs arm and met her eyes with my most serious expression. âItâs irremovable, Novah. That pole is wedged in deep, like oil-rig deep. Youâll need a fucking crane to hoist it out. A crane, Novah.â
Novah waved her hand in front of her face. âJeez, Faith. Even that image has my thighs clenching.â She whistled low. âI could never be that close to his peach of a tush. Iâd end up biting his firm, toned, polo-playing cheek. I know I would. Or at least give it a swift lick. Iâm better off keeping my distance so as to not be arrested.â
âYouâre sick.â I smirked as she crossed her legs tightly.
âI never claimed otherwise.â
âRight, minions!â Sally shouted, standing at the front of the room. The staff grew silent. Our editor clapped her hands with impressive speed. She forced a smile. It wasnât a good look on her. She appeared constipated whenever she attempted âfriendly.â Or as though she were battling a mild-to-medium case of hemorrhoids.
âTodayâs a big day here at Visage.â
I held my breath, waiting for more, dread seeping into the very marrow of my bones. My skin itched in irritation seeing Henry âHarryâ Sinclair III stepping out from behind his father. No, I prayed, hands lowering into a death grip on the arms of my chair. I looked up toward the heavens. God, I know weâre not always on the best of terms. I drink, cuss, and enjoy fornicating far too much for your liking, but please, please, please, do not say he is here forâ
âAs you may have heard, Mr. King Sinclair is slowly taking a step back from the running of HCS Media Group and focusing solely on his British investments. He is still very much âin chargeâ on the global stage, but he has decided to start delegating the US enterprises to his son, Henry Sinclair Junior.â
I closed my eyes and felt Novahâs hand grip my thigh at this revelation. âSo today I have the great pleasure to welcome Henry as the new CEO of Visage Magazine and the New York Journal and everything that falls under that impressive umbrella.â The people in the conference room broke out into somewhat enthusiastic applause, and I reluctantly opened my eyes. Iâd hoped if I kept them closed, this would somehow turn out to be a bad dream. But as soon as I opened them, my gaze railroaded right into Henryâs or, as I liked to call him, the eternally entitled ball-sack.
Fuck my life. What had we mere mortals done in the world to deserve three of these Henry Sinclair jerks on the planet? His father was an asswipe of the highest order, and Iâd heard the grandfather, whoâd created the empire, had been the worst kind of human being. His grandson had apparently followed suit. Henry didnât smile at me. His nostrils flared and his lip curled up. I wasnât sure if he was silently passing gas or exposing the fact that he disliked me as much as I disliked him.
King Sinclair nudged his son from his malevolent reverie. Henry pulled his hands from his pockets, nodded curtly, and instantly became the leader I was sure he had been molded to be since birth. âGood morning, Iâm Henry Sinclair, but please call me Harry. Only my teachers ever called me Henry.â He smirked a little at that. I blinked slowly in confusion. I had never seen him smile. This was a barely-there smile and, no matter how brief it was, it indicated Harry wasnât always the dour bastard he appeared to be.
âI know most of you have never met me, but Iâve been living between New York and England for the past few years and am extremely happy to be taking over here at the New York Journal and therefore, of course, Visage.â Visage was the in-house style magazine, which went out every Sunday along with the Journalâs other Sunday offerings. The in-house magazines of such prestigious newspapers had always been considered the ugly stepsisters in the world of newspaper publishing, but I loved it here. Always hadâŚuntil, I feared, now.
~đ~ Michelle’s review ~đ~
Thoroughly Whipped by Tillie Cole
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
So so funny!
This is just what I needed right now. With everything that is going on in this crazy world, it was so nice to sit down and get lost in this absolutely hysterical book. Faith and her friends had me laughing so much that I about owed on myself.
Everything about this lighthearted read I loved. Faith and Harry are fantastic characters and had be begging for more. I do hope we get more of these happy reads from this author especially Sage and Nathan. Loved it!