by Lana Sky
He shocked me by unfolding his arms. Then, his leg shot out in my direction and I could feel my entire body stiffen as the toe of his boot landed on the rim of my chair, right in between my legs. Without warning, he used the contact to yank me towards him, chair and all.
He surged forward and caught the back of my chair with one hand, right before I would have crashed into the console. The motion brought the entire length of his body within close proximity and…my God.
His scent exploded through my lungs, and I found myself inhaling deeply, locking it away like a dirty little secret.
“I’m afraid, Ms. Newman,” he murmured near my ear in a shattering dose of rich honey, “that this isn’t a conversation that I want to have with you in a deserted recording office. When I tell you my…naughty secrets, I hope the venue will be a little more intimate.”
When.
Naughty.
Intimate.
Those three words melted my brain into a scalding puddle.
My heart didn’t just pound—it thudded. I couldn’t breathe, and every muscle holding my skeleton together went limp and lifeless.
Had I imagined the intensity in his tone? Or the way his blue eyes had honed in on mine before he finally pulled away?
“Ch-Cheater,” I managed to croak, desperate to regain control. “You cheated.”
Jason withdrew his foot from my chair, but I didn’t miss the slight smirk that fleetingly crossed his lips.
“Shall I take you home now, Ms. Newman?”
Home. The word snapped me back to reality with all the force of a sucker punch.
“Shit!” I lurched to my feet, aware of the way my robe clung to my body like spandex. “What time is it?”
Jason glanced down at a silver wristwatch. “Almost six a.m.”
Dear God. If I was lucky and Jason sped, I might have been able to catch Perry on his way to the gym. I could feel my cheeks heat up as I pictured his reaction when I strolled into our building in my current attire—or when he realized just who I’d snuck out to see at four a.m..
But as Jason himself had pointed out, I was one brave woman.
I was dead on my feet in the office.
Barely a minute seemed to pass when I wasn’t yawning, and within an hour, I had already burned off my breakfast bagel by walking to and from the coffee maker about a hundred times.
It didn’t help any that the office was empty, save for myself and Bertie the janitor. I didn’t even have Bret’s constant tantrums to keep me awake. He had called out due to a “headache,” which I knew was just code for a massive hangover.
If it wasn’t for the fact that the air conditioning was on full blast—and that I was wearing a shiver-inducing sheer tank top paired with a black miniskirt that barely covered my ass—I probably would have fallen asleep on my keyboard.
In fact, the only eye-opening part of my day had been walking in to find a package on my desk, waiting for me. My name had been written across the thick brown envelope. Oh-so very official.
Two hours later, I still had yet to open it—though I had a pretty good idea of just what the envelope contained.
Chicken shit, I scolded myself as I took a sip of coffee. Technically, I didn’t even have to read the documents. Just say “no thanks” and send them back—the same thing I’d done for the past month and a half.
But it wasn’t so easy this time.
I couldn’t get the lyrics to “Blue” out of my head. The damn song haunted me.
For you pulled that trigger, and then it was done.
The naive music lover I used to be recognized a hit when she heard one—and not one of those superficial flashes in the pan that played on the radio for a few months before fading away. This was different.
I would have to be a fool to pass this by.
Well, Abby, I told myself. Stick on a red nose and put on a rainbow-colored wig, because that’s just what you’re going to do.
I never went outside of my usual pool of clients. Besides, I had no idea how to actually promote an album, let alone one as dark and gritty as Jason seemed to think his was.
And that’s why you can’t stop thinking about it, a part of me admitted. I couldn’t resist a challenge. My competitive drive was the only reason I had survived my first week in the office all those years ago, when Bret had hurled insults almost as quickly as his latte demands.
I never gave up.
I hated retreating from a fight.
I loved to win.
Though, at the moment, I wavered on whether or not to “accidentally” spill my coffee on that fancy brown envelope and claim that I’d never received it. Before I could make up my mind, my cell phone pinged with an incoming text…and my heart lurched at the sight of the sender’s name.
Good morning, Ms. Newman, the message from a certain country crooner read. I trust you’re having a lovely day so far?
I snorted, knowing damn well why Jason was asking. Oh boy had Perry been mighty pleased with his conniving self when he’d strolled out of the apartment building at the exact same moment that Jason had pulled up, with me in the passenger-side seat of his truck.
When I wasn’t quite so damn tired, I would be sure to think of a good way to repay my dear cousin’s “thoughtfulness” for sneaking my number to Jason.
All in good time.
I shook my head and attempted to focus on the situation at hand. Fine, I typed finally.
Seconds later, a response lit up the screen.
Have you seen the proposal?
Hmmm. I swirled my finger around the rim of my mug and mulled over a response. I could have lied, but I decided to suck it up, put on my big-girl panties, and take the plunge.
I used a letter opener to rip open the top of the envelope and then settled the papers on my desk.
I scanned the first page, and got the gist of the legal jargon: I would do my best to promote Jason’s album, grit and all. After reading the final paragraph, I reached for my phone and typed, I’ll have to have my lawyer go over these before I can make a final decision, rather than answer him directly.
Of course, Jason responded. But, now that business is out of the way, we can discuss something else.
Oh? I raised an eyebrow, unable to ignore the thrill that raced down my spine as I imagined the way his accent would thicken over “something else” had he been here in person.
Like what?
Did you enjoy the concert?
The truth slipped out, in place of some smart ass reply. Yes. Before I could stop myself, I added, You sound amazing live.
Nearly five minutes passed without a reply.
At first, I tried to shrug off the irrational bit of hurt that flashed through my chest. Apparently, Jason wasn’t one for compliments. Should I have tried to counter it with a playful insult, instead?
Play it cool, Abby! I scolded myself before I could lay a finger on the keypad.
Eager to take my mind off of him, I turned my attention to the stack of work that had brought me into the office on a Saturday in the first place. Someone had to tackle the mess that tended to accumulate, due to Bret’s rather annoying habit of scaring away new employees.
I was eyeballs-deep in returning countless emails and filing paperwork by the time a new message finally lit up my cell-phone screen.
I’m glad.
And then a second later:
Pardon me for not telling you this last night, but you looked very nice.
A rush of heat flooded my cheeks. Damn the vain bitch inside me who simpered at the comment. I wanted more. Did I look sexy? Delicious? Mouthwatering?
More.
Just nice? I hastily typed.
My screen lit up once again.
Beautiful, read the first line, much to my inner diva’s delight. Score one for the slutty red dress. My traitorous lips curled into a smile—even though his opinion shouldn’t have mattered.
If you don’t mind my saying.
I snorted and composed my response.
&
nbsp; It must be a full-time job being so proper all the time.
Hell, it exhausted me, just thinking about it. Naughty Jason seemed way more fun, anyway. I remembered how he’d caught me off guard last night and felt my breath hitch in my throat. Seconds later, my phone vibrated with a new message.
Would you like to hear what I really thought?
Oh? I bit my bottom lip. Really thought? What if he had really thought that I’d looked like a cheap hooker?
Try me, I typed, shrugging off the apprehension. I had to force down a sip of coffee and tap my fingers anxiously against the surface of my desk, until my screen finally flashed with a telltale icon.
I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You’re a breathtaking woman.
“How lame,” I replied out loud, even as my cheeks flamed. My first instinct was to type a quirky response, but then I decided, to hell with it, and aimed for a little bit of blunt honesty myself.
Breathtaking? That’s it? Maybe I should return the dress.
His message arrived seconds later.
All right then, Ms. Abigail. Should I be even more honest?
Yes.
Well, I wanted to do a lot more than just hire you, I’m afraid.
Like what?
I shouldn’t say.
I’m a big girl. I can handle it.
Really?
A part of me shied away from the challenge. It had been a long, long time since I’d verbally sparred with a man, other than Bret. I couldn’t tell if Jason was joking or not.
Regardless, my fingers practically flew across the surface of my cell.
Yes.
His reply was shockingly blunt.
I wanted to fuck you, Abigail.
My phone clattered to the desk as I clutched my knees and tried to suck in air. Whoa.
I swallowed so hard that I was afraid my tongue had gone down my throat. In shock, I could only manage to type four words that barely seemed to tie together.
That’s not very Daniels.
The words reverberated in my brain.
I wanted to fuck you, Abigail.
Fuck.
The ping of his reply sent shockwaves coursing through my entire body. I struggled to scoop up my phone and open it.
Daniels?
I frowned at the question. Was he not even aware of the vocabulary crafted around his own angelic persona? Daniels equals perfect and/or wholesome.
Nice, I tap out. That’s not very nice, Mr. Daniels. And, just to be a bitch I added, before hitting send, I’m a lady. Frankly, I’m appalled.
It seemed like only a second passed before his reply lit up my screen.
You’re no lady.
Huh? That wasn’t very flirty. Obviously, they didn’t teach sexy banter out there on the farm.
Another ping.
In fact, Jason had added, I’m quite willing to assume that your body is the only thing remotely feminine about you.
“Okay, asshole,” I growled out loud.
That was crossing the line. My reputation may not have been squeaky clean, but Jason Daniels wasn’t even one of my conquests and, therefore, had no reason to stoop so low.
It took me five minutes just to type out a reply that didn’t include profanity. Only concern for what a text like that would do to my already infamous career kept the nastiness in check. But—as Mr. Daniels seemed well aware of—there was a whole new brand of “nasty” that I was more than willing to put into play.
The idea was so bad. Had I been running on more than four hours of sleep, I probably would have never considered it.
So he wanted a “lady,” did he?
Well, I would give him one, all right.
Shrugging off all apprehension, I stood, clutching my phone with one hand while reaching beneath my skirt with the other. I hated the way my body trembled at the contact of even my own hand. I couldn’t ignore the longing that crossed my mind—briefly—to have someone else’s fingers cinching the hem of my thong, instead.
Thick, masculine fingers that smelled of incredible cologne…
Pushing the thoughts aside, I carefully maneuvered my panties down my legs and cinched them in my fist.
“Oh, Mr. Daniels,” I sing-songed as I dropped the panties onto my desk. “I may not be pure and holy, but you’ve got another thing coming if you think that gives you a free pass to be a dick.”
I liked dirty talk as much as the next girl, but I wasn’t the type to take outright shit from anyone.
Sexy eyes or not.
I rummaged through my drawers for a pen, scribbled a nice little note over the signature line of his proposal—how’s this for ladylike?—and then placed it on the desk with my panties plopped right on top.
I couldn’t help but feel slightly dirty as I snapped a pic with my cell phone, but it was too late to back down.
I may not be a lady, I typed cheerfully into the description box of the photo message, but I know when to cut and run. We just aren’t compatible, Mr. Daniels. I’ve rejected your proposal.
It took everything I had in me not to tack “asshole” onto the end of that—though, I figured that seeing my slutty thong all over his nice, clean proposal was punishment enough. A triumphant rush of adrenaline had chased away the remains of anger by the time I finally hit send.
Then I blocked the bastard’s number, gathered up his proposal, and strolled out of my office with my head held high.
Perry picked me up from the office a little after five, and we caught a quick dinner of take-out from a bistro near our apartment. If he wondered why I sat stiffly with firmly crossed legs in the leather seats of his Volvo, he didn’t ask.
Before I’d left METRO, I had every intention of putting my panties back on like a good girl and tossing Jason Daniels’ shitty proposal papers right in the fucking trash.
I swear.
But Perry had been ten minutes late—caught in rush-hour traffic—and a girl gets naughty when she’s idle.
Such as…
Slipping her panties into an envelope, along with a certain stack of proposal papers, and then having them delivered, via messenger, to a certain country star.
The sad part was that I didn’t even feel ashamed.
Oh, Jason, I wondered as I watched the buildings of downtown blur in and out of focus while Perry maneuvered through traffic. Will your saintly little fingers shrivel and burn when they touch my dirty whore underwear?
There was always the possibility that he had his personal mail handled by an assistant, but for some reason, I couldn’t find the strength to care. In fact…his reaction to seeing poor Dixie creep into his recording studio with a lacy black thong in tow would have been even more priceless.
If I wasn’t so irritated, I would have delivered the package, if only to see his reaction for myself.
My breath caught as I pictured how those blue eyes might smolder with rage, and I had to cross my legs a little tighter as heat tore through me so fiercely it hurt. My head fell against the window, and I pressed my cheek against the cool glass, desperate to retain my sanity.
Oh, Abby, Abby, Abby, I thought helplessly as the inside of my legs throbbed mercilessly. You really are a whore. Even an absolute prick managed to get me hot and bothered with a few choice words.
“You’re pinging.”
“W-What?”
I glanced over at Perry who simply nodded to my purse.
“You’re pinging. Is that your phone?”
“Oh.”
I fished my cell from my purse, expecting to find a message from Bret demanding to know how much work I’d finished—only the number lighting up the screen wasn’t his. In fact, I didn’t recognize it at all. Confused, I opened the message, and Perry nearly swerved as I clutched his forearm for balance.
“Abs! What the hell?”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t answer him.
My entire world had narrowed to an itty, bitty screen and the simple message written across it:
Meet me at Motilda. Twenty minute
s.
No please.
No thank you.
Motilda was a high-end restaurant a few blocks down from the office, and it just so happened to be my favorite in the whole city. It was an exclusive venue, known for restricting their clientele to a coveted list that only a few people, including Bret, were privileged enough to land a spot on.
Not just anyone could choose it as their rendezvous spot.
Who is this? I managed to type, once Perry had disengaged my nails from his shoulder.
The reply came so quickly that I could picture its sender guessing my response before I’d even composed it.
Motilda. Twenty minutes.
Chapter 5
I struggled for air.
“You all right, Abbykins?” Perry asked, but his voice came from miles away. “Abby?”
“I’m fine,” I croaked, shaking my head to clear it.
My fingers clutched my cell phone for dear life, and I couldn’t seem to let go of it, let alone type a logical response.
That last message kept circling my brain: Motilda. Twenty minutes.
“If it’s your stomach, I can turn this car around and demand those bastards give us a refund for that shit they call food—”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s just…Bret wants me to handle some business things for him. A meeting with a client.”
I was surprised by how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
“Oh.” Perry sighed, well-accustomed to the 24/7 demands of my job.
To my surprise, he hadn’t brought up Jason all day—and for some reason, I couldn’t. My meddling cousin may have tried to play devious matchmaker, but I was the dumb bitch who’d snuck out to meet a stranger at four in the morning. I was more pissed off at myself, than I was with Perry.
“It can’t wait until Monday?”
“No,” I rasped, eyes on my phone. “It can’t.”
Twenty minutes.
Oh, no you don’t, I mentally hissed at myself. I was not meeting this mysterious texter, whoever he happened to be. Although, I had one giant suspicion as to who it was.
Bitchy gestures like sending “fuck off” picture messages and having dirty laundry delivered to a nemesis only packed the right punch if there was no contact after.