by Amelia Wilde
My attention is focused on Christian, but I can’t concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing. Instead all I can think about is the hot, steady pulsing between my legs, begging for a release that can’t be satisfied in the office.
Christian could help me with that, though, the voice in my head taunts me.
“Ha.” I let out a short burst of laughter under my breath. Christian Pierce could give me what I needed at any time and in virtually any location. I’m positive about that.
He said he would see me before our meeting tomorrow. That meeting is at ten o’clock.
As the hours crawl by, the possibility of seeing him today becomes completely distracting. I want to do nothing but lean back in my chair and imagine all the things we could do together—all the things that he could do to me—but through sheer willpower, I force myself to doggedly keep building the schedule of appearances, keep writing sample press releases, keep my phone tucked into my purse.
If he wants to see me, he’ll call.
There’s always the chance that he really didn’t mean what he said. I’ve met plenty of rich, arrogant guys who go back on their word or make promises with no intention of keeping them. I’ve been engaged to one such asshole who never meant what he said, so it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve fallen for someone like that.
I’m wound so tight that by the time five o’clock rolls around and the office empties out, I can’t bring myself to leave. I stare at my computer screen, finishing tasks that could very easily be left for tomorrow, until it’s nearly six o’clock.
He still hasn’t called or sent a message of any kind.
My heart sinks as I ride the elevator down to the lobby alone. Unless he’s planning some early-morning rendezvous—and how could he do that without letting Carolyn in on it?—then his word was just a playful half-promise, not to be trusted.
It shocks me how disappointed I feel.
Until I see the Town Car pulled up to the curb, the driver leaning against it.
He straightens to his full height when he sees me coming. “Ms. Campbell?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I answer, my heart starting to beat heavily. Whose car is this? I didn’t order a ride home. Should I be ready to run in case this is some kind of bizarre kidnapping attempt?
“Mr. Pierce sent me to pick you up. He’d like to meet with you.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. Despite the disappointment I was just feeling a moment ago, I know that this is so wrong, such a risk. I should leave right now and put an end to this whole thing.
“Can I see your I.D.?” I say, buying myself a little more time.
The man produces an I.D. wallet and shows it to me, smiling so that his expression matches the photo on his license. His name is Louis.
“How do I know you work for Mr. Pierce?”
He pulls a cell phone from his jacket pocket and presses a single button. Waits for one second. Christian’s voice sounds from the other end of the line. “Pierce,” he says.
“Ms. Campbell would like to make sure I work for you.” Then he hands me the phone.
“Hello?” I say, trying to keep my cool.
“It’s me,” Christian says, and the sound of his voice makes my insides melt. “Come to me. Right now.”
I hang up the call.
I can still walk away.
This could all be over.
But I don’t.
I give Louis a single nod, and he reaches across in front of me and pulls open the door of the Town Car. I scramble into the back seat, and he closes the door behind me.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter 16
Christian
Even after the phone call, I’m still not entirely fucking certain that she’s going to show. Louis sent me a message saying that they were en route, but it’s not like he’s going to flip her over his shoulder and haul her up here if she changes her mind. This entire thing is taking much longer than I thought it would. I’d figured Quinn for the type who would leave the office right at five, and instead Louis lingered out by the curb for a full hour before she showed.
A full hour of me, pacing this apartment, my heart pounding like it’s banging on the door of my chest.
I take another lap around my space on the Upper East Side. It’s significantly smaller than my penthouse in Midtown, but it serves its purpose: having a place to entertain women that reveals nothing whatsoever about the real me.
I chose all the furniture, of course. Well, I chose the designer who chose the furniture according to my specifications. I have the place cleaned once a week, but it’s really more like a hotel suite than a truly lived-in space.
I have plenty of personal things here. The closets are stocked with my clothes, and the bathroom has a full complement of towels embroidered with my initials. The design still looks strange, after all this time, but the towels are plush as hell and the cleaning woman arranges them perfectly every time she’s here.
There’s just nothing truly personal.
There are no family photos and only a few token books. For a while, back in high school, I kept a journal—who the hell knows why—but I’ve long since broken myself of the habit of writing down any kind of detailed accounting of my life.
It’s just too risky.
Jesus Christ, how long does it take to drive here?
I’m desperate to see her, even though the smallest part of me hopes she won’t arrive.
If Quinn sidesteps this like a true professional, if she puts that insane, hot connection between us second to her work priorities, it will make my life significantly easier in the long run.
Would it?
The fucking pesky devil’s advocate taunting me from the back of my mind can’t shut his mouth. I don’t know. That’s the bitch of it. I don’t know if it would be easier, in the long run, to live without someone like Quinn.
That’s just a goddamn cop-out. To live without Quinn.
There’s just something about this woman that I simply can’t shake—there’s no way that I can go on without fully exploring her and learning everything there is to know about her. Who knows—maybe we’re a total mismatch, but the way her body felt against mine, the way her mouth opened to let my tongue have its way with hers, the way she kissed me back—it all tells me that we’re perfectly matched, we’re so compatible that it would be an utter waste to stay away from each other.
At the same time, it’s like lighting a match near gasoline. One of us is going to go up in flames, and I have no doubt that person is going to be me.
I can never tell her.
What would Quinn even say if she knew? If she knew the truth about me?
I entertain the thought before I can stop myself. I am one hundred percent certain that she would react coolly to finding out that—
I shake my head, ending it there. I can’t go there. I just can’t. It’s been too long. Nobody would take that kind of news in stride, much less someone who was in love with me.
Oh, my God. She’s not in love with me. We’re not in love.
Aren’t you?
I flop down on the sofa, putting a hand to my forehead.
I can’t deny there’s a current of something running wild and deep and true between us, but what does that mean for the future? There are no guarantees. Not ever.
Sitting down on the sofa just makes me feel restless, so I get back up again and look through the window down at the street below.
Out of the line of traffic, I see a black Town Car disengage from the main flow of traffic and head for the curb.
Spinning on my heel, I turn away from the window. I don’t want to see if she’s standing me up.
Taking in a deep breath, I try to force myself to be calm, cool, collected. The truth is, I remind myself sternly, this, right now, is about the fact that the two of you need to have your hands on one another. There’s no point in speculating about what that means. There’s no point in getting hung up on the possibility of a relationship you can never have
. You are still in control.
That’s fucking right.
I’m in control.
Thinking that doesn’t make my heart pound any less when there’s a soft knock at the front door of the apartment.
I make my way to the door with slow, measured steps. I won’t give myself away by rushing to open it.
The doorknob is cool and smooth under my hand as I twist it, pulling the heavy door open.
She came.
Quinn stands in the hallway wearing an all-black ensemble that emphasizes the lithe lines of her waist and hips. Her dark hair is pulled back into a gleaming twist at the back of her head.
She looks fucking gorgeous.
Her breath is already coming hard in her chest, and for a long moment we both stand there, staring in to each other’s eyes. There’s pink color rising in her cheeks, coloring her creamy skin with a delicate blush.
The moment shatters, breaks, and then the pieces spin back together.
I reach for her hand.
I pull her inside.
I close the door behind her.
Then she’s on me like an animal, arms flung around my neck, grasping, her mouth crashing against my mouth, her teeth biting at my lip. Her shoes fall from her feet and onto the floor as I lift her up in my arms. She wraps her lithe legs tightly around my waist, and I flex my muscles, bringing her in closer even as I taste her so deeply that it makes the kiss we shared in the office seem like a peck on the cheek.
I’m drowning in her.
I love it.
I’m so fucked.
Chapter 17
Quinn
I am silent on the ride from Midtown to the Upper East Side, but my mind buzzes and hums with thoughts of him. My lips still burn with yesterday’s kiss. The space between my legs has been soaked with my desire since he left me.
He could be my downfall, but my body can’t resist him.
The moment I got into the car, it was all over.
Once the decision was made, my mind went into a kind of sexual overdrive, and as Louis steers the car through the New York City traffic, I look out the window but see nothing. Not the buildings, not the people hustling by, not an ounce of the life that teems here in the concrete jungle. I am consumed with imagining Christian and his touch, his kiss, his body.
Maybe he’s already dismissed what happened earlier and intends to show me, right now, that it was a one-time mistake that won’t be repeated. Maybe he’s going to sit me down across from a desk in one of his private buildings somewhere and ask me to discuss the plans I’ve come up with to enhance his image. Maybe that’s how he works—he draws you in and then, when he has you where he wants you, hook, line, and sinker, he lets you dangle before cutting the rope and watching you fall.
I shake my head, my lips pressed together. No. This can’t be related to the work I have to do for him in the office. I felt the passion in our kiss. I felt the mutual need, so hot it almost scorched the walls of my office.
He’s summoning me because he can’t bear to be away from me one second longer.
I know exactly how he feels.
I don’t know what it is about him that’s making me so crazy, so willing to disregard my commitment to professionalism and sneak away to do God knows what with one of my clients on the second day at my new job. And it can’t just be that his body makes my mouth water even when it’s hidden under tailored suits, not an inch of skin showing. It’s more than that, but what? Is it the look in his eyes when he talks to me? Is it the electricity that charges through our veins when we both touch? Is it something deeper, wilder?
I run out of time to think about it because the car comes to a stop, parking curbside somewhere north of Midtown.
We’re here.
Louis gives me a key card. “Use this to access the elevator inside. The doorman is expecting you. Top floor.” Then he turns and gets back into the Town Car without another word.
I take a deep breath, force myself to stand up straight, and lift my chin in an attempt to gather a burst of confidence before moving inside the building.
He wants me to be here, and I want to be here. The only thing left to do is let this scene play out.
I stride confidently into the lobby of the building, It’s fairly nondescript, although there are small touches of luxury everywhere I look—marble flooring and countertops in the lobby, a uniformed doorman who gives me a wink and a smile as I go past, my heels echoing with every step, whisper-quiet elevators. The air inside is cool and comfortable, a welcome break from the summer heat.
The elevator doors slide open as soon as I wave the card in front of one of the scanners embedded in the wall. Blessedly, the car is empty, so I’m left in peace to push the button for the eighth floor. The penthouse.
Moments later, the elevator deposits me in a silent plushly carpeted hallway. Five steps away from the elevator, a single door is set into an alcove in the wall.
If I lose my nerve now, I’ll never go in.
Before I have time to think about this any further, I step up to the door and rap on it lightly with my knuckles.
Then I wait.
It seems to take forever before the door opens, the moments dripping languidly down the chain of time as if my heart is not pounding, as if my mouth is not suddenly dry.
The door swings inward.
There he is.
I look into his crystalline blue eyes for one long moment. Finally, he extends his hand to grasp mine, and he pulls me inside the entryway, closing the door behind us. He turns to face me.
I cannot remain silent and still.
My need, my overflowing lust boils over.
No, I cannot remain silent and still another second.
Throwing myself at him, I wrap my arms around his neck. Our lips lock together like we’re on a plane plummeting toward the ocean and have only moments left to live, and I plunge my tongue deeply into his mouth, I bite at his lip. He responds to me in kind like he can’t control his animalistic urge. Without realizing it, I wrap both my legs around his waist, hiking my skirt up around my hips. His arms flex against me, pressing me even tighter into his hard body. We fit together. Perfectly.
He lets out a low groan and puts one hand to the back of my head, taking control of the kiss, forcing his tongue into my mouth to taste and devour, and then he’s moving us, still hooked together, through the apartment. Moments later, we’re in his bedroom. He tips us both onto the bed, crawling on and over me, his arms on either side of me as he dives in for another kiss that draws a whimper from me.
I need him and he knows it.
He leaps off the bed and strips off his clothes. I can’t help but gasp at the perfection that is Christian Pierce in the nude—ripped abs, muscular arms, and a cock so thick and long, already hard and pulsing, that for the briefest moment, I wonder if it will fit inside. He’s beautiful.
Then he’s back on the bed, kissing me hard and tearing at my clothes. Soon they’re tossed in a pile on the floor next to his, and I’m splayed out before him, my arms and legs thrown wide.
I can’t think of anything to say, so instead I beg, “Please.”
The word rings like a bell in the silence between us, and the appearance of a half-smile that lights me aflame spreads across Christian’s face.
He leans down over me, balancing himself above me on his elbows, and nips at my earlobe. “Please what?”
“Please, you have to fuck me.”
“I have to fuck you?” His voice is quiet and deep and every word out of his mouth creates an inferno in me that can only be quenched by one thing.
I turn and look him directly in the eye. “I know you do.”
“Hmmm,” he says, leaning to the side, tracing one finger down the side of my neck, over my collarbone, and down to my nipple, which he circles as if he has all the time in the world, and then he rolls it between his fingers. I moan softly at the spikes of pleasure shooting straight down my spine to my aching wet pussy. “You might be right about that.”
“I am right about that,” I pant.
He plants kisses on the side of my neck, his hot breath brushing against my skin. “You have quite the attitude, Quinn Campbell. I wonder if I can tame it.”
My hips roll and writhe underneath him as my desperation grows, and at the words “tame it” a new gush of wetness soaks the inside of my thighs. Yes. Yes. I want to be tamed by him, taken by him, claimed as his.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I say, trying my damnedest to raise my hips up to make contact.
Something in my voice gets under his skin, strips him of his remaining self-control, and the next instant his hand is under my jaw, gripping my neck with a gentle force as he covers my mouth with his, our lips crushed together. With the other hand he spreads me wider, then positions the head of his cock at my slick opening.
Then, with his free hand—Jesus, how does he know the secret fantasies I’ve never told anyone?—he catches both of my hands and pins them above my head.
“You don’t know it,” he says, flicking his tongue against my jawline, “but you’re already mine.”
Then he slams his hardness into me, filling me to the hilt, sending me crashing down in an explosion of pleasure that goes on and on and on.
Chapter 18
Christian
Quinn is insatiable, wild, begging for me to bring her under control even as she sasses me, fights me, tries to drive me goddamn crazy.
It works.
I fuck her hard and fast, and she spreads herself open for me, taking every last inch of my cock, crying out, moaning. She cannot get enough of me.
The feeling is mutual.
We’re not finished after the first round. She spends ten minutes with her head buried in my shoulder and then I feel her hips rock against mine once again.