Victoria's Secret

Victoria took small comfort in the fact few would believe the slender, aloof CEO of Toronto’s most successful video dating service would be going home to an elegant but empty loft and a cat even more aloof than she was on Valentine’s Eve.
“Valentine’s Day,” she muttered, her voice echoing hollowly back from the granite walls and plush carpeting of the elite office building. “Corny, clichéd, commercial bullshit.”
The only good thing about it was the cinnamon hearts. Except someone had gifted her with a jumbo bag earlier in the week and she’d eaten so many of the damn things the last few days, her teeth felt like razors when her sandpaper tongue brushed them. It would probably be days before she felt able to indulge in the gourmet chocolate penis embellished with a bold Be Mine! logo in shiny red gel icing.
She didn’t know why she’d bothered to put the chocolate in her purse and lug it home. Nor did she have a clue who would have left it for her. She maintained a relationship of civil professionalism with her ten member staff. They didn’t fear her—exactly—but Victoria knew not a single one considered her a friend, certainly not a close enough friend to purchase a suggestive, and she knew from the luxurious confection shop label outrageously expensive, chocolate treat for.
Her cheeks heated in discomfort as it crossed her mind her employees could have all chipped in on the chocolate anatomy to make fun of her single status, but she shrugged the thought off as paranoia. The beauty of not having a personal relationship with the people she worked with was that none of them had a clue what went on—or in this case didn’t go on—in her personal life. For all they knew she could be jetting off for a romantic tryst in Paris rather than just planning to jettison herself into her cavernous king sized bed with some back-up batteries to keep her complication-free companion going until her sexual frustration had gone.
And boy, did she ever need it gone. The sight of couples walking hand and hand caused her belly to clench and dampness to gather between her legs lately. When an ordinarily balanced woman began watching strangers and visualizing them in naked encounters, it was past time for a little sexual healing. If not for stupid Valentine’s Day she would have broken her self-imposed celibacy, but she didn’t want any of the faux romance that would undoubtedly accompany an encounter on this most tender of all commercial holidays.
The elevator doors slid open and Victoria swallowed a growl of irritation when she spied battered motorcycle boots and long legs in faded jeans. She’d deliberately stayed later than her normal late so she wouldn’t have to share the thirty-six-story ride down with anyone. Judging by the designer faux pas, it didn’t look like someone who normally frequented the building, but she couldn’t say for sure. For one thing, she kept her distance from fellow tenants, preferring to find her random conquests further afield, and for another, a rumpled newspaper cloaked his face and the majority of his upper body.
He didn’t shift the paper or acknowledge her in any way, so she stepped in and impatiently poked the Close Doors button. They slid silently shut. The newspaper rustled but the noise wasn’t enough to mask a raspy chuckle.
Oh, God! Let him be reading the comics. A charge of adrenalin rushed through her veins and prickled at her nape.