Bound to Steele

by Coco Miller

  She takes a step back, hitting the table, looking a bit disorientated when my words finally hit her. “You weren’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why did you lock the door?” she points, a satisfied look crossing her face.

  “Because what I want to say, I don’t want to say in front of other people, and my intern has a way of showing up at the wrong time.”

  She scrutinizes me and crosses her arms, bringing emphasis to her breasts. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m in a situation and you need to have an open mind. I know we don’t know each other very well, and what I’m about to say is insane, but could be beneficial for both of us.”

  I take a deep breath and remember that this wouldn’t be my only shot at this, but this is the only shot that matters. “I need to get married before I’m twenty−nine or the company will fall to the next Steele in line who’s a colossal idiot. You are in massive debt, and if you do this, I’ll pay off every cent, along with your student loans.”

  I wait to get slapped or knowing her sass, a swift punch across my face, but she stands there, blinking at me.

  “Zola?” I snap my finger in front of her face. “Okay, I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  I take a seat and reach for a pastry that Erica set out and bite into a chocolate chip croissant. My favorite. The silence in the room is almost unnerving. Zola shakes her head, causing her fluffy curls to bounce, and then she mutters something to herself.

  Followed by hand gestures.

  Followed by pacing.

  I take another bite and grin as I watch her. Zola is very amusing and more animated than I thought she would be. She seemed so serious, staring at the painting, but every second that passes with her, more of her personality shows.

  Nearly an hour into meeting her and I’m hooked. I feel possessive, obsessive, and it’s this unnerving feeling in my gut that if I can’t have her, I’d be missing out on something truly special. And then it reminds me of my parents and my grandparents and how this is probably how they felt in the beginning.

  Lust tricks you into believing that you’re in love.

  Can I risk that?

  “I need to go,” she says, yanking on the door handle a few times and then remembers it’s locked. “Damn it.” Zola curses as she struggles to unlock it.

  Her perfume whisks in the air, permeating my every sense. I can’t put my finger on what the smell is like. It’s sweet and subtle, a complete contradiction of Zola Washington.

  She’s a bit sour and mouthy, but the kind of sour that you end up liking and want more of.

  I get up to stop her, mouth full of croissant, but I’m not fast enough. She bolts out the door without saying another word. I’ll wait for a little awhile to give her space to think.

  From my lips to the devil’s ears, I’ll hunt her down and make her mine.

  And I’ll ignore the voice in the back of my head saying I’m just like my old man.

  Stupid.

  5

  Zola

  It’s been two days since Mr. Steele’s offer or should I call him Easton? Of course, he has a name like that. It sounds all sexy and hot, and…sexy. I did a quick Google search of him and every picture he was in, and he looked the same in each and every one. He never had a woman on his side, never smiled, which was a shame because he has a beautiful smile. When it reaches his eyes, a dimple forms on the side of his left cheek, and….I shouldn’t know that much about him when I spent less than an hour with him, but it’s impossible not to when a man looks like Easton.

  His proposal, the most unromantic in history, but what can a girl expect when she knows a guy for thirty minutes? It’s tempting. That is something I can’t deny. I’ve thought about it every second over the last few days and I’ve come to no conclusion. It isn’t right to marry someone for those reasons. And how long would we have to be married? If he has to get married for this, then I assume he has to stay married. Divorce wouldn’t look good on a man like Easton, Mr. Steele, Mr. Sir.

  I haven’t decided what to call him yet. All three fit him. Mr. Sir because he makes my body heat up in ways that are pornographic. Mr. Steele because in that suit he is elegant and handsome with a powerful energy that makes me want to submit. Easton because when he speaks, it’s more casual than one expects, but with depth only the finest whiskey has.

  A man having all three sides of him is dangerous, and I find myself wanting to get thrown right into it.

  Just like an idiot.

  My cell phone rings, yanking me out of the shirtless fantasy of him. When I see it’s the collection agency again, I press ignore. His offer screams in my head. If I accept it, the looming debt over my head disappears. Gone. Poof. The three- hundred -thousand−dollar cloud will finally clear. But then I’ll be his wife and be a part of a lifestyle I’m not meant for. I’m just…me.

  I grew up lower−middle class, my parents made sure I never wanted for anything, and I had a car that was my dad’s car growing up until it finally died. My mom had to get a second job so that we could buy a little beater car. I’ll never forget it. It was such a piece of crap, and the ugliest color, burnt−orange, and rust decorated the edges of the doors, and the radio only worked on the Latino station. We constantly danced to words we couldn’t understand. The heater never worked, so we were bundled up with gloves and beanies when it was winter.

  Now this man, Mr. Sir, he wants me to marry him? A guy that can buy any car he wants with cash. He doesn’t have the stories of struggle or memories pushing a car up a hill. Easton and I are too different. People like him and people like me don’t end up together.

  I flip over on the couch and stare at my box tv, and I’m pretty sure they don’t even make these anymore, but it was my parents’ and I don’t want to give it away; my heart isn’t ready for that. The gears turn in my head and scroll through the numbers in my phone until I reach his. All I have to do is press it. All I have to do is call him and all this struggle would be over.

  Letting the phone go, it hits the floor, falling with a hard thud and I wince. I forgot the screen is cracked. Just add that to the one−million other things that I need.

  A knock at the door sounds and I sit up wondering if I heard right. I don’t have people. Friends aren’t my thing. Getting close to someone was never on my radar. People make life difficult. Being alone is easier because then the only pain I have to worry about is my own, and I can’t stand the thought of losing someone again.

  Tossing the fleece blanket off me, I make my way toward the door in my raggedy Yankees T−shirt and grey shorts and peek out the peephole.

  To see him.

  “No! Oh, god,” I whisper and lean against the door, panicking as I look around my apartment. It’s clean, but it doesn’t cover up the fact that it’s a crap hole. No way am I letting this guy in.

  “I hear you talking to yourself, Zola.”

  I throw my hand over my mouth, and shake my head, muttering out loud about how he can’t hear me.

  His deep chuckle filters through the door and my spine tingles from how rich it sounds. “I can still hear you.”

  I close my eyes and curse. Why is he here? I take a step away from the door when the floor beneath my feet creeks. Oh, you have got to be kidding.

  “Don’t walk away from me.”

  I stop mid−step and look back, wondering if he has x−ray vision.

  “We need to talk.”

  I bring my thumb to my mouth and chew on the nail with nerves. It’s a disgusting habit, but I only do it when my anxiety reaches a new peak. I reach for the handle, afraid to turn it and open it because I know he is going to look amazing and all hot and all Mr. Sir and I can’t say no to him again, not in person.

  “Zola, you have five seconds to open this door, or I’m going to open it.”

  I stomp my foot and huff, “Fine.”

  Is it a bit childish? Maybe, but he makes me…annoyed and bothered in ways I do not want to be. I yank the door open,
only to be greeted with him with his arms above his head, leaning his wrist against the door frame, wearing a tshirt that looks so soft and tight against his chest. A bit of his flat stomach shows when his shirt rides up and he has a smirk on his face that can only be described as confident.

  My mouth goes dry as I stare at him with my mouth open. He is Easton today. Sexy and casual in tight, dark blue jeans that hug his long defined legs. He isn’t wearing a belt, so the jeans fall on his hips a bit, showing the cut V that leads down to…

  “Enjoying the view?”

  And there went the lust that took over my brain. “What are you doing here, Mr. Steele?”

  “Call me, Easton. We are going to be more than co−workers soon; it’s best we get that out of the way. Are you going to invite me in?”

  I close the door until it’s flush with my side, “No. Strangers aren’t allowed. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

  “Hmm, no. She didn’t.” He takes a step forward and places his hand on the door, pushing it with my force than the grip I had on the door handle, ripping it out of my hand. I try and catch it, to stop it from opening, but it slams against the wall, and he barges in like he owns the place.

  “Wow, I am so glad I bought this complex today. No one should have to live like this.”

  What! He bought the complex today? Is he serious?

  I grab the door and slam it shut, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about but if you’re here to insult my home, you can find the door again and let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  “Retract the claws,” he lifts his hands in surrender and takes a seat on my couch, crossing his leg over the other, but in a masculine way. His left ankle crosses over his right knee, and he taps his fingers along his thigh, darting his eyes around the place. “I meant no offense. You have made this place look great for what it is, but I’m sorry you have had to live like this.”

  “I do the best I can,” I say, trying not to let his words get the best of me. I feel totally insulted. “And employer or not you can’t just barge in here—”

  “I can and I just did. I own this dump, and don’t argue with me about it not being a dump because you have a bucket in the corner catching water from the ceiling. It’s your home, but it isn’t any longer. Consider this your eviction notice.You’re going to move in with me per our new arrangement. This life is over. You’re going to work for me. Your life is going to be different, okay?” He stands and prowls toward me, and I take a step back, not wanting to be near him. The smell of him makes my judgment cloudy.

  My back hits the counter, and he cages me in. His cologne fills my nostrils, and I want to bathe in it, rub against him, and never stop inhaling the fresh aroma. It reminds me of the ocean, light yet demanding of someone’s submission.

  “I don’t even know you,” my voice trembles as he leans closer. My eyes never leave his face as his nose trails along the soft apple of my cheek. His green eyes vanish for a second when his lids close. He inhales and hot puffs of breath escape his mouth, teasing my cheek with his sexual energy.

  “And I’m trying to get to know you.”

  “No, you’re trying to convince me to marry you. A man I don’t know.”

  He straightens and takes a step back, the bulge in his pants can’t be hidden, and his broad chest rises and falls in rapid beats.

  “Listen,” he says in a much calmer, less lustful voice. “You’re my only shot at getting the company—”

  My scoff interrupts him. “I highly doubt that. You can have anyone you want. Don’t play games with me, Easton.”

  “I’m not. I’m offering this to you because I know you need this just as badly as I do. You’re in a lot of debt for a horrible reason, and I can help you with that.”

  “You can only help me by attaching strings, right?” I cross my arms under my breast and cock a hip showing the attitude I have.

  He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to rub away the smile on his face. “Well, this would be a team effort. You know my terms,” he says with finalization and starts to walk away. He stops next to me and grabs my wrist, rubbing his thumb on the inside of my palm. “And you can act like there is nothing here. You can act like you don’t feel anything more, but I’m a smart man, Zola. I can tell you’re attracted to me, just like I’m attracted to you. You can fight it all you want, but I’m not the kind of man that goes down easily.”

  His words are laced with sinful promise, and I hate that my body betrays me. My nipples tighten when I think about the added benefit of giving in to his offer. A tingle spreads between my legs, and I press my thighs together to try and ease the ache.

  Easton leans in closer, his lips a ghost along the shell of my ear. “I expect to see you at work tomorrow. Don’t make me come back here because next time, I’m just going to kiss you like I want to right now.”

  I stand on my tip−toes as his lips brush my cheek. My sensitive nipples scratch against the fabric of my shirt, aching for him to touch.

  “There’s something about you, Zola,” the words are breathed on my skin and it pebbles in reaction. Shivering, I gasp for air when his fingers trail down my arm. My hairs raise all over my body from the simple touch, and my nerves are on fire, making my clit throb to the pulse of my racing heart.

  “Your skin,” he says with appreciation, “It’s soft and sweet and sparkles like the color of the night.” He seduces me more with every word; tempting me to jump into his arms and take him up on his offer. “And Zola? I fucking thrive in the dark of night.”

  He pulls away from me, taking his magnifying, gravitational sex field with him, allowing me to get air into my lungs– finally. His steps get further away and the only thing I can think about is his warmth and how I miss it.

  “I’ll do it.”

  The words fly out of my mouth before I have time to think about it, but I don’t want to take them back. This is my chance to start over. It’s unconventional, but it could be worse, right? It isn’t every day a billionaire is knocking on my door. I have to take advantage while I can.

  “But no sex,” I say. “At the very least, we need rules to this craziness.”

  He turns around and cocks a thick, perfectly formed brow at me. “Rules can be broken.”

  “Not these.”

  This is a bad idea.

  “I’m listening,” he saunters over to me again, and my eyes land on his chest, the swells of his pecs. It isn’t fair that he looks like this or feels like this. He makes me want to throw caution to the wind and jump his bones. The consequences be damned.

  “No sex, no flirting, and no talking about my skin like that,” I swallow when he takes a step closer.

  “Why? You don’t want me exploring the night with you?”

  “See…that’s what I’m talking about.” I exhale a shaky breath. “You can’t say things like that.”

  “Why?” he takes another step forward with a predatory smile on his face.

  “Because it’s unprofessional and we work together in the office and out. This is strictly business.” I had no idea I was backing up until my back hit the wall and he caged me in, his lips too close to mine. Silence falls between us and all I can hear are our breaths mixing and my heart pounding.

  We are an inch away and all it would take is for one of us to lose control for our lips to touch.

  6

  Easton

  It took all I had to pry my lips away from Zola yesterday. I wanted to feel her lips so badly and finally give in to what I know is building between us. I don’t want her to think I’m only doing this for the sex. The last thing I want is for her to feel used, even though we are using each other. She’s still a woman, a woman I have every intention of staying married to and respecting. Because while the short term goal is to keep running my company, my long game is to make Zola fall in love with me.

  I wish I could explain it. I really do. Maybe then it would make more sense as why I feel, and act the way I do around her. It’s like I’ve lost al
l control and the ability to think. I’m pulled to her in a way I can’t explain. She’s better than all the other women I’ve ever dated and I haven’t even tasted her yet. She’s strong, independent, sassy, and beautiful. It’s hard to find genuine people these days and she is one of them. Zola isn’t fake.

  And whatever this intense feeling is in my gut, I’m going to run with it.

  “Hey,” my good friend Duncan snaps his fingers in front of me. Duncan doesn’t live here in Silver Springs. He has a good job out in California for now and visits when he can. He flew in this morning, and now he and I are eating brunch at a local French café that always has a table reserved for me.

  The fork stabs my cheek when I miss my mouth. “Ow, damn it.” I toss the fork down on my plate that has strawberry crepes on it, my favorite.

  “You deserve it for not paying attention to your mouth. What’s going on with you?”

  I sigh and take a sip of my mimosa, wiping my mouth a napkin. “You know the deal about me having to get married before my birthday?”

  He groans, cutting into his pancake. “Yeah, what about that stupid shit?”

  “I’m going to do it.”

  He coughs mid−chew and hits his chest with his fist. I push the water toward him and he takes a big gulp. Duncan’s eyes water from the strain, and he leans back, staring at me in disbelief.

  “You can’t just spring that on a guy. When did this happen?”

  “I met a woman a few days ago and she is perfect. I made her a deal. She’s in medical debt, and I need a wife to keep the company. She agreed to it yesterday.”

  “Wow, sounds so romantic.”

  I cut into my crepe and swirl the piece around in the strawberry sauce. “I know it isn’t, but Duncan, there is something about her. I like her, like really like her. She’s fighting me tooth and nail. She’s stubborn and demanding.”

  “And that makes you feel better about this whole arrangement?”

  “She’s special.”