“She should have thought about that before she broke company policies.”
“Please.” I’m whispering.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.
Holds his ground, stone like a statue.
I can’t help bristling at his unrelenting attitude.
It’s breaking my heart.
“Is that how this is going to be, Rome? You can’t fire me so you’re going to fire Genevieve? That’s low, even for you.”
Oh God, did I just say that? I try to keep my eyes from widening, but honestly, I’ve shocked myself, too.
“Excuse me?” He pulls his hand away from mine and rounds his desk, coming up short a few inches from me.
My chin tips up. “You heard me.”
“Do you really think I grew this business by sweeping shit like this under the rug? No. I’ve had to be ruthless from the beginning, weeding out the toxic, making sure this company is a fine-tuned machine. Little word of business advice, Peyton—you’re going to have to toughen up, or the sharks are going to eat you alive, and you’ll be out of business within six months.”
How dare he.
“You’re too nice.”
Too nice?
“Screw you.” I poke him in the chest as I shoot back at him, my voice stern and unwavering. “You can be a ruthless CEO by having a little compassion and without being an ass, and that’s what you’re being right now. An asshole. You have a problem with me emailing you, and since you can’t punish me directly, you’re going after Gen. I get it. But it’s no wonder people call you a tyrant.”
“Do you honestly think I give a shit what everyone says?”
“You should,” I spit back. “Maybe if you had half the respect I’ve earned from your employees, they would work twice as hard, work smarter, and you wouldn’t have the issues you have right now.”
His nostrils flare.
His jaw ticks.
“What issues?”
“Well. Take marketing for example. The department is a mess. George isn’t creative—this place has sucked the artist flow right out of him.”
“Is that all?”
I huff. “No.” Pause. “The entire accounting department is so boring, I do a death march when I have to walk past.”
“They’re accountants.”
He has a really good point, there.
“A brighter shade of gray on that floor would certainly make it less dull.”
His eyes blaze with heat and anger as he takes a step forward, trapping me against the wall. His cologne is the first thing to invade my space—spicy and masculine—then it’s his chest, broad and rapidly falling up and down.
His hands find the wall behind me, straddling my body and closing in around me. The pale grey of his eyes turns ice cold as they stare me down, his breath heavy as he speaks to me.
Every last hair on my body stands to attention, awakening my nerves on an entirely different level. How long have I wanted to be this close to him, to have his face inches from mine, to have the opportunity to closely take in the ridges and sharp lines of his handsome face?
So long.
And yet, I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.
I wish instead of the anger that’s coming off him, it was passion for me. Lust.
An unstoppable yearning.
“You think it’s easy running this company? Do you think it’s been easy trying to do my job when I have you writing me every day telling me you want to bang me?”
Bang me.
When he says it, it sounds so dirty.
Rome’s eyes leave mine and travel down my body, fixating on the cleavage heaving beneath my dress, because I can barely catch my breath.
Finally, our eyes meet.
He speaks. “Do you think it’s easy for me to get any goddamn work done when I have you strutting around in a dress like this, enticing me with your smart mouth and sassy attitude?”
“Excuse me? Strutting?” I don’t strut.
I gulp—hard—trying to catch my breath as every nerve in my body begins to pulse, my body feeling more alive than ever with him this close.
He bows his head forward, his cheek brushing against mine, the stubble scraping along my sensitive flesh. What would it feel like to have that scruff scrape against my inner thighs? To have that sharp-witted tongue pleasuring me? To have those lips pressing wet kisses against my skin?
What would it feel like to have this man’s mouth on mine for just one kiss?
Just one . . .
. . . kiss.
My mind drifts; wanders.
What does he taste like?
What would it feel like to be owned by Rome Blackburn, for just one sex-filled night?
I shift against the wall, my legs rubbing together to ease the friction, a low throb inside my center launching a crusade against my traitorous heart.
It wants more, damn her. It wants him.
Rome leans in.
Bends at the neck.
Breath nicking the bare column of my neck and finally, lips gently move across my skin, setting off a wave of goose bumps up and down my arms, collarbone, and legs.
His hot whisper is in my ear now, low. “Something is bound to slip, Peyton.” Long, dramatic pause as he runs his nose up the column of my neck. “Something is bound to break.”
“W-what’s bound to break?” I whisper back, unable to keep my gaze steady. That beautiful nose of his leaves my neck and grazes my cheek.
Gently.
Lips inches away, Rome’s forehead rests against mine, and he takes a break to compose himself, deft fingers millimeters from tangling themselves in my hair.
I want to reach out and touch him the way he’s touching me.
I want to run my hand up his chest; explore the soft fabric of his cotton shirt. Fiddle with the waist and pull it up; expose the tan and muscled chest I know is hidden under the thick fabric of his designer t-shirt.
Desperately, I want nothing more than to loosen his belt, undo his pants, and shove them down his hips until they’re falling to the floor. I want to caress him, hold the weight of his arousal in my hand, stroke him, lick him, and suck him.
Pleasure him until he can’t take it anymore—right here, in his office—until his tightly wound control slips and he has no choice but to take me over his desk and make every fantasy of mine come true.
He moves his mouth to the other side of my head where his nose leads the way down my cheek to my ear.
“How long have you wanted me, Peyton, hmm?” His voice is deep—so sinister I feel light-headed with every sentence. It leaves me breathless just hearing my name fall from his lips.
“How long have I wanted you?”
Years. I’ve wanted you for years.
He breathes in and nods. “Yes, how long?”
My palms press against the wall, my chest rising and falling, my nipples so incredibly hard.
“I can’t re-remember,” I stutter. Lie.
“Ballpark it for me. Humor me.”
“Maybe, um . . .” I lean forward, catching a whiff of him. God, he smells so freaking good. “Uh, a couple years.”
“How many? Be specific.”
“Do details turn you on?”
“Yes.”
“Three years.”
He sharply lifts his head from its bent position, brows shooting into his hairline. “Three years?”
“Give or take.” My lip gets caught between my teeth.
He makes a humming sound and moves one of his hands to my hip, his thumb pressing into my hipbone, anchoring me against the wall.
“And during those three years, how many times have you envisioned me pressing you against this wall, spreading your legs, and fucking you while you bite down on my tie to keep quiet?”
My eyes squeeze shut as I try to catch my breath, the erratic beat of my heart making it difficult. I try to wiggle under his grasp but his hand pinned to my hip doesn’t let me move. The need for him between my legs grows stronger and
stronger.
I swallow hard. “Almost every damn day,” I answer honestly. “Given a few different positions.”
He takes a moment, letting my words sink into the silence. When he speaks, it’s rough and ragged. “Then what are you waiting for? If this is what you want, take it.”
Take it.
He makes it sound so easy.
As if my entire career doesn’t fall on this one little decision. To him, it’s nothing, probably just another random fuck, but this random fuck is built on a truckload of sexual tension.
For me, there is so much riding on this.
If I give in, if I take what I’ve wanted for so damn long, it might be one of the most passionate moments of my life but with huge consequences awaiting me post orgasm.
As much as I would like to say I trust him, I don’t. Like he said, he’s ruthless, and even though I’m desperate to know what it feels like to have his lips all over my body while he’s buried deep inside me, I can’t take that chance.
Do I trust him not to fuck me over after? Or to fuck over Gen?
He’s angry. Probably embarrassed, and even though it would be good at the time, I can’t give in to this all-consuming passion in the off-chance that he could ruin my reputation after.
Pulling back, meeting my gaze with his, he searches my eyes and for a brief moment, I see it, that vulnerability, the uncertainty he carries deep within his soul that he doesn’t dare show anyone. But I see it.
“Take me,” he repeats, this time, his thumb rubs across my hipbone, the gentle touch erasing all thoughts I had of him betraying me.
No, there is no way he would do that to me.
But that doesn’t mean I can allow for this to happen. I want his business, I want to work with him professionally, as a partnership, and for that to work, there is no way I can give in to my feelings even though I want nothing more than to throw caution to the wind in this moment and finally feel his lips pressed against mine.
Hating what I’m about to do, I let out a long breath and say, “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” His brow creases, confusion written all over his face.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
With my second dismissal, his face hardens. Confusion vanishes with anger quickly replacing it. He pushes off the wall and turns his back toward me, his hand tightly gripping the back of his neck.
Needing to explain, I take a step forward and say, “Rome—”
“Leave.” He walks to his desk, not sparing me another glance.
“Rome, please.”
Snapping, he spins on his heel and points to his door. “Fucking leave. You’ve fucked around with my head enough to last a lifetime.”
“It’s not like that.”
He sits in his chair and moves his mouse, the telltale sound of his computer coming to life filling the silence.
“Please let me explain.”
He scratches the side of his jaw, his movements jagged, harsh. “Either leave in the next three seconds, or your friend is fired. Don’t fuck with me again, Peyton.”
“Rome—”
He reaches for his phone and before I can say one more word, I quickly sprint out of his office, tears welling in my eyes.
I can’t believe how horribly I screwed this entire thing up. I wish I never sent that stupid email, because not only do I think he’s never going to work with me, but I have a strong feeling I hurt him, and that realization just about kills me.
Chapter Sixteen
ROME
“Sir, everyone is waiting for you in the conference room.” Lauren peeks her head through my office door.
“I’m well aware that everyone is waiting, Lauren.” I just don’t give a shit at the moment.
My secretary hesitates outside the door, unsure. Not wanting to poke the bear. “Uh, are you going to join them?”
“Not right away. I need a few minutes to myself.”
“Okay . . .” Her voice drags out the word, concerned. “Should I tell them you’re in the bathroom or something?”
Why is she asking so many damn questions? She’s not my babysitter; she’s my assistant, for fuck’s sake.
“No, Lauren. Don’t tell them I’m in the bathroom, they’ll think I’m taking a shit—just let them sweat it out.”
“Okay.” She lingers. “Do you need anything? Lunch? Water? A chill pill?”
Jaw ticking, I make eye contact with her, unable to muster anything but a scowl. “Want to keep your job, Lauren?”
I’m only half joking and she knows it.
She nods.
“Then leave. Now.”
She scurries away, slipping out the door so fast it slams on its own, leaving me in peace.
Once she’s out of sight, I lean back in my chair and pull on the collar of my dress shirt that’s choking my neck. I hate it; I hate the rat race and having to find partners.
And I hate that I still look for Peyton in the damn break rooms.
Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks since Peyton left. Three blasted weeks of piss-poor marketing pitches. Three weeks of no erotic and funny emails. Three weeks of zero excitement in my life. Three weeks of me acting like a goddamn moody bastard.
I don’t know if it’s because I miss the interaction with Peyton, if it’s because I’m at a total loss with this women’s line the company is launching, or if it’s because I’m so goddamn hard up and itching to bury my dick inside Peyton that I’m being a “hormonal bitch” as Hunter so kindly put it.
“I can’t, Rome.”
I can’t.
Fuck. I can still hear Peyton’s words on a loop in my head. She can’t. She wouldn’t. How the fuck is that possible? Were her emails just a way to break me down, to show my vulnerability, to try to learn about me on a separate level so she could take me down when she was ready?
Well, it fucking worked, because I feel like I’m losing my damn mind.
She’s all I think about.
I find myself rereading our messages and emails over and over again at night. I stare at her company picture, at the Whitney Houston shirt picture, at the ass picture. I’m a pathetic mess of a man who is supposed to be running a Fortune 500 company and yet, here I am, staring at a company picture of a former employee.
Pathetic.
And yet, I’m angry as fuck too. I feel betrayed, like she chipped away at all my defenses so I would share personal information with her, and then she . . . she left.
Had she planned to tell me who she was before she no longer had access to her emails? Or was she just going to finish that day and never contact me again? Why list all the things she liked about me if she was never going to talk to me again?
Why tell me she wanted to bang me if it was all a lie?
Even though it felt so very real. Raw. Honest.
She exposed me, made me want to find her . . . and then she just left. After all her talk of wanting me, she left.
I shake my head and push my hand through my hair. Shit, my emotions are running more erratic than a teenage girl’s at this point.
Pushing from my desk, I straighten my tie and try to be the professional that I am.
Adjust my pants, tighten my tie, check my cufflinks, put on my jacket.
Take a deep breath.
I got this.
I make my way to my door just as Hunter comes through, wearing a red flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. “Dude, everyone is waiting for you in the conference room.”
I grind down on my teeth. “I’m aware.”
“Laughlin and Associates is ready to leave.”
“Then let them. They need my business. I don’t need them.”
Hunter scoffs. “After last week’s lackluster ad copy ideas, I’m going to guess you need them more than they need us.”
I hate that he’s right even though I won’t admit that. My marketing department is lacking in creativity. If they’re not copying Nike, they’re coming up with grade school-type ideas that make me want to pul
l out every last strand of my hair.
“Well, I’m on my way now.” I push past him but not before he can take me by the arm and stop me.
“You have to let it go,” he whispers.
“Drop it.”
“Rome. It’s over. She’s done with. Let it the fuck go and move on because this brooding, it’s not doing anything for you or the company. She fucked with you, I get that, but you can’t keep harping on it. She’s not worth it.”
“I’m not harping on it.”
“You’re sulking.”
“Fuck you, Hunter.” I try to pull away, but he keeps me in place.
“Prove me wrong then. Get your head out of your ass and be the Rome Blackburn I know.”
Why does this motherfucker always have to be right? Drives me crazy.
Freeing my arm from his grasp, I straighten my suit and say, “Are you coming? I want you in this meeting.”
He eyes me up and down, trying to gauge my mood. I put on my mask and put Peyton on the back-burner. I can’t bring her into this meeting.
“Right behind you, boss.”
* * *
I hate that I want to know what Peyton thinks about these campaigns. I hate that with every presentation, I try to imagine what Peyton would be saying, how she would pick them apart like George said she’s done with previous campaigns we’ve done in-house. Yet I never knew who she was. Not that I want to admit it, but she has an eye for this stuff and that drives me crazy because that means she was right, and the last thing I want is to admit she was right.
Although, I know she would hate all of these, just like I hate them.
There is nothing special about them. They don’t highlight the line or make them stand out. They don’t even touch upon the hiking, kayaking, or rock climbing portions of the clothing line, only focusing on the running aspect. Running is a drop in the pool when it comes to my company. We are outdoors adventure, not a goddamn running company.
What is so hard to understand about that?
“And that just about wraps it up,” the bald man from Maxwell Agency says. “What do you think?”
It’s shit.
It’s all shit.
You lack creativity and basically you should retire because you have nothing special to offer to our field of work.
Love Sincerely Yours Page 14