Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

"You think this is about my masculinity? Trust me, doll, with what I'm packing, I never have to worry about that. You think I'd be upset because you might hurt my fragile ego?" The sarcasm dripping in his words comes close to schooling the best I've ever had to offer, and he studies me so hard I instantly want to check myself over to make sure nothing's out of place. "Are you for real?"

  "I am for real. But that girl you met on Friday? She was a figment of your imagination. Can we start over from right here, right now?" I should heed my own question. But he brought up what he's packing, and now the glimpse I got of his hard-on under the covers on Saturday morning is frozen in my brain.

  "Do you really not remember?"

  Do I really not remember what? I open my mouth but the question doesn't come out, because suddenly I'm nervous about what I might not be remembering.

  "You were going to let me be your first and then you were going to walk out in the morning."

  "Stop." My hand flies up to block his words, but they find their way to me anyway. Like a sledgehammer to the gut, stealing every last breath. It takes all I have not to double over. And I have to respond… Finally, lamely, I come up with: "That's bullshit."

  "You told me the truth that night, so drop the act."

  "What are you talking about?" Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. "Nothing I told you on Friday was true—that's why we're here having this very conversation, remember?"

  "You're the one who needs to stop." He says it patiently, like his anger with me is suddenly gone.

  However, for me, panic is a rabid tiger with foot-long claws, slashing through my insides. "Alec—I don't know what you're getting—"

  "You're a virgin."

  And I drop dead.

  Or at least I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could. Because what he's accusing me of?

  It's the truth.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "YOU'RE A VIRGIN," he repeats, making the entire world crash down around me a second fucking time. "And you weren't going to tell me before I fucked you."

  He watches my face, scrutinizing me so closely he must be looking for any chinks in the armor of my reaction. But his words spin me around so roughly, I'm too dizzy to gather anything to protect myself with.

  Virgin, virgin, virgin. The word echoes through my mind, through my limbs.

  It's the biggest truth I've never told anyone.

  Except, apparently, for him.

  Fucking alcohol. I'm never drinking again. Like, ever.

  "I… That's not true." Breathe. Why can't I breathe? "I've had tons of sex—ask my friends. Ask anyone."

  "So if I had fucked you—and trust me, Teagan, that's what we were building toward—something fast, something hard, something unrestrained…" Naked desire weaves through his expression, making my breath catch—it stays stuck even when he wrestles control over his features, contorting them into anger instead. "If we'd done that, you wouldn't have bled? It wouldn't have hurt you to be taken so roughly your first time?"

  I should not be picturing him above me, fast, hard, unrestrained… Rough. Oh, God. I need to stop. I need to cross my legs to ease the fluttering happening between my thighs. Focus, Teagan. Focus. Now I can breathe, go figure, but it's happening too fast, too heavy. And he's watching my mouth. And, very, very deliberately, I'm biting my lower lip to keep his attention there.

  Virgin, virgin, virgin.

  The fact that he knows this thing about me should hit me like a freezing cold shower, should get rid of this damn attraction. But the way he's speaking to me, so rough, so purposefully graphic… It's heating me in a way a splash of water could never cool off. Hell, an entire tub of ice couldn't chill the rush burning through my veins. Even if he's using the language to try to freak me out. Wrong route to take, buddy.

  "I don't think you're supposed to speak to me this way," I say, my voice almost steady.

  "You're right." He breathes deeply, trying to rein himself in.

  "I'm not saying you should stop. Just pointing out that you aren't perfect either." What am I doing?

  "What are you doing?" His voice is strained, and for some reason it makes me want to giggle again.

  "I don't know." But I do. I've dipped my toes into the quicksand of this attraction and instead of pulling my feet back, I want to dive in all the way. "I've regretted Friday night from the moment I opened my eyes on Saturday."

  "If you'd told me, I wouldn't have been so—"

  "So what? So aggressive? So demanding? So hot?" I almost smile when he starts to nod, but stops short with my last question, confused. "I don't regret any of that, you moron. What I regret is not sleeping with you."

  His beautiful cheekbones stand out a little sharper when he presses his lips into a line before speaking. "Why?"

  "Um, look at you." I let my eyes slowly drift down his face, his neck, his chest…and just as slowly, back up, my own body tingling with desire.

  "Who cares how I look?" he asks. "You're beautiful, and you're funny. You deserve something spectacular. Something gentle for your first time. Not some drunk guy from a bar."

  "You're clearly more than a drunk guy from a bar," I say, glowing too much from his compliments to stem the words falling from my mouth. "And I get the feeling you might actually be a semi-decent human being. Maybe the perfect kind of guy to be somebody's first. And if you ever tried to give me less than what you started to on Friday night? Something slower, something more gentle? I'd be so…not pleased."

  "You'd be surprised by all the ways I can think of pleasing you, kitten, and if I were to go slow? You'd love it." Instantly the air between us is pregnant with something I'm not sure I can name. A mixture of hormones and nerves.

  Or maybe that's just me.

  Virgin, virgin, virgin…

  "Fuck. That was insanely inappropriate." He slides a hand down his face. "I can't believe I fucking said that. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be." I want to wipe his words away. The apology is dampening the rest of the mood. "I told you I didn't want gentle. I still don't…"

  He clears his throat. "Are you asking me to—"

  "No." I laugh, interrupting him before he can finish the question. Completely chickening out. "Get over yourself."

  He smirks. "Really? 'Cause it sounded for a second like you actually wanted me over you."

  He's giving me another chance to do it. Or maybe he's trying to ease the tension with a joke. Either way, I should go for it. Deep breath. "Maybe we could—"

  "It's probably best we keep things—"

  "What?"

  "No, go ahead."

  "Aw, you're such a gentleman," I say, letting my lip rise in a sneer. I know what he was going to say—which was the opposite of what I was going to say. Which makes my stomach close in on itself, and which means no way am I saying what I wanted to say in the first place right now. And if I keep thinking in these circles I'm going to get a freaking headache. "Friday night was a onetime thing for us. It'd be a mistake to try again."

  "Right. Because now I'm your boss, and sleeping with you would be breaking a ton of ethical rules," he says, adding almost as an afterthought, "but mostly because I don't trust you."

  "Because now you're my boss." I sigh, the tightening in my stomach turning sharper, more sour. "And you don't trust me." I pause, hoping he'll say something to make it still seem possible, but he doesn't. "Then I guess we've said all we need to say on the matter. Unless you wanted to sit there and judge me for a few more minutes."

  "I'm not judging you," he's quick to say. "But you sell yourself short."

  "I landed a job at Chambers and Britt. I'm doing all right."

  He cringes at the name of the company, and I wonder why, but I won't ask. "I don't mean professionally, Teagan."

  God. Why is he pressing this? Forget attraction. Forget regret. That slithery snake of anger is starting to stir in my veins. I stand, pushing my chair out with the backs of my knees. "No shit. But guess what, boss? It's none of your business."

  He stands, too, his
hands pressed flat on his desk, tension leveling his shoulders. "You want to play boss and employee? Fine. Start by speaking to me with a little more respect."

  "Respect? After you basically call me a slut? Good luck with that shit."

  He stares at me, his mouth agape. "That's not what I'm saying. Do you always put words in people's mouths? Jesus."

  "My name's Teagan," I deadpan, too pissed to be proud of the quick retort.

  "Could've fooled me. Oh wait, you did."

  "We're back on that? Because if you're going to talk in freaking circles all day, I should sit down. These heels aren't comfortable enough to stand in for that long." I don't sit, though. Neither does he.

  He sighs, loud, hard, his shoulders relaxing a few degrees. "No. That's…behind us. I don't know why I'm being such a dick. I can't keep myself in check around you."

  "Actually, most people have that reaction," I say, shrugging off some irritation of my own. It's easier because he did it first. "Probably because I'm such a bitch."

  I wait for him to tell me I'm not, but all he does is offer a small smile, and his honesty—or at least his lack of a lie—loosens more of the tight emotion in my chest. I'm out of breath, like I've run a mile while standing here. He's breathing heavily, too, and for a moment we watch each other without speaking.

  And gradually, the rest of the tension—from the anger, at least—fades. His mouth quirks and, this time, mine follows.

  "We'll start over," he says.

  I want to say no. I don't want to start over—I want to finish what we already started. But he knows my truth. And more than anything, I want to return to a place where he didn't. Which means we're starting over. From scratch. So I stick out my hand, across his desk. "Hi. I'm Teagan. Your assistant. And I think we should discuss the proposal your father rejected on Friday. Put me to work and maybe we can get him to change his mind."

  "I'm not sure how you'd know about that if this is our first time meeting," he says, a smarmy little smile across his mouth. "But I like your line of thinking."

  I'm both relieved and disappointed when he doesn't hang on to the handshake longer than professionally necessary.

  Mostly disappointed, though.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALEC'S PROPOSAL IS…well, basically I'm way out of my depth and suddenly beyond thankful I'm starting at such a low position because I'll have time to build up my understanding of the industry. But his proposal sounds smart, at least. Shit, the guy goes to grad school at Harvard. I'm pretty sure he knows a thing or two…

  Chambers & Britt—built from the ground up by Alec's grandfather—is a family equity firm, and both Alec's father and grandfather have kept the firm's focus on financial and industrial markets. Alec has an idea to move toward investments in tech startups and small businesses. He wants to give dreamers the chance to build companies. (His Cinderella-style words, not mine.)

  "My father always shuts me down," he says.

  And, finally, here's a spot where I can be helpful. Thank God for my natural bitchy inclinations. "So?" I keep my tone aloof, kind of catty. "Don't let him."

  "It's not that simple. There are a lot of considerations. My father—who's basically remote-operated by my grandfather—is old school. They want the focus on traditional assembly-line industries. They—"

  "You're making my eyes glaze over," I say. "I don't know enough yet to help with the technical aspects, but I do know about getting what you want. Look where I am. I want to be here. I made it happen." Okay, it's not all that easy, but he doesn't need to hear that part of it right now. "I do know that you can either whine about your father rejecting what you proposed—or you can fight harder for what you want."

  Alec blinks. Maybe he's never considered it. "I always go after what I want," he says. "I went after you, didn't I?"

  Not hard enough, I almost say, biting my tongue at the last second. "And for one night, I went with it, didn't I? Because you were persuasive."

  "You were pretty persuasive yourself," he says.

  There's this sudden jolt of candy-coated tension sending shockwaves of sugar through the space between us. I bite my lower lip again, accidentally on purpose, to see if his eyes will drop to it.

  They do.

  He swallows.

  I pull sweetened air into my lungs.

  "This is not going to be easy, is it?" he asks.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I say. "Considering we decided to start over."

  "Right. Starting over."

  "And on to your daddy issues." I wonder if I've gone too far, but thankfully he laughs.

  I probably have the bigger daddy issues of the two of us, all things considered, but I'll keep that little nugget to myself. Instead, I bring us back to his proposal.

  It's a much, much safer ground.

  Later, at Alec's instruction, Sam gets me set up on my computer—giving me the side eye the entire time. I don't have time to set him in his place though, because I have to mentally prep for my next official task. Note-taking.

  Of all the fucking things I'm supposed to do, keeping notes at meetings is my number one priority for Alec.

  I knew this this coming in—it was explained very clearly in my interview. I may have fibbed about my note-taking skills. Truth: They are abysmal. I can never read my own handwriting. I figured I could fake it, like I've always done—but I didn't realize I'd be working for someone like Alec. For someone I don't want to look like an idiot in front of. For someone who seems to see through anything I try to fake.

  So that's great.

  "Do you have a notebook I can borrow?" I ask Sam, who's at his own desk, typing away.

  "If you ask me nicely."

  I want to scream. "Please."

  "Come on." He stands and motions for me to follow. "I'll show you the supply room. Might as well get familiar with it, as we have to keep it clean. Break room, too."

  I enter the conference room armed with tools that'll do me absolutely no good, but make me appear to have a clue, anyway. Paper, pens, and freshly applied lip gloss.

  Sam and I are the first to arrive, as we're supposed to be, to set everything else up. We un-lid platters of pastries and lay out napkins and plastic cutlery. We stack disposable coffee cups and fill containers with sweeteners and stirrers. We lay out pens at each seat around the long oval table and connect the dial-in contraption speaker things for people who call in to the meeting from off-site. We do a lot of other boring, mindless tasks that somehow still make me feel like I've accomplished something when, at the end of it all, the room is set up. Neat and professional looking.

  I smile at Sam. "It looks awesome in here."

  He blinks, surprised at my good mood. "Yeah. So?"

  "Feels good to actually get something done," I admit, guilt bringing me down to reality already. I fucking hate how shocking it is when I act like a decent person. And I hate even more that I do it to myself. It's all my fault. Why did I start off like such a bitch to him?

  "Got the new job jitters?" he asks, grabbing a muffin and shoving half of it in his mouth, speaking through it all. "I had those, too. But Alec's chill and nothing we have to do is ever really hard."

  The corners of my mouth fall to their usual spots, the rest of my good mood disappearing. How nice for him to think the job's easy. He probably has legible handwriting. He probably takes in emails on the first read…

  "Here." He shoves out the chair beside him. "Sit next to me. I'll show you the kinds of things that we have to make sure to catch in our notes during meetings."

  Relief is instantaneous and I work my way around the table to drop down next to him. "You're taking notes, too? Mine are only backup?"

  "For the first few meetings, then you'll take over full-time and I'll be back to other stuff."

  Yep. There goes all the relief. But maybe I'll figure something out, some sort of system, before Sam stops.

  People wander in, greeting Sam, introducing themselves to me. I smile. Or I try to, at least. I w
rite a panicky note to Sam on my pad asking for help remembering names. Usually my memory's great for names, but today my mind's blanking. He squints at the note, unable to read my handwriting.

  Great. That makes two of us.

  "Are we supposed to get everyone coffee?" I whisper.

  "Oh." He shakes his head, whispering back. "Just Alec, in the morning. And sometimes he wants one after lunch, too." He doodles something on his own notebook, adding a second later: "He takes it black, so it's easy."

  "I know," the words slip out before I realize my error. How on earth would I already know that? "I mean, he seems like the type to take…" But I trail off because Sam's not paying attention. He's drawing some intensely detailed patterned thing. It's impressive. And distracting him.

  Then Alec walks in and Sam's not the only one distracted anymore. He zeroes in on me almost as immediately as I do him. My palms start to sweat at the heat in his gaze—and then it's gone, replaced with the professional mask that hopefully mirrors the one I'm attempting to wear, too.

  Yeah, right. There's no way to hide my attraction, or the things he stirs up in me. Plus…

  Virgin, virgin, virgin.

  Ugh.

  Of course, he sits directly across from Sam, effectively right in front of me, too. He's messing with his phone, not looking at me, but still. I need to stop staring at him, except he's like a damn magnet for my eyes. He's all relaxed and gorgeous and sharp and almost close enough to reach out and touch… How am I supposed to pay attention to anything, much less attempt to take notes?

  The woman in charge of the meeting makes it easier. Her name's Denise. She's beautiful, she's black, and she commands the room by stepping into it. She sits at the head of the table, smiling and shooting the shit for a few. Asking about one guy's kids, another woman's upcoming vacation… And then she starts the meeting and it's all business.

  She's clear and concise and it's obvious everyone respects what she has to say. Even me. Not that I understand half of it, but the calm way she speaks and her clear enunciation makes it easier to record her words about financial contracts and client management in my notebook. And when anyone interrupts her, or disagrees, she listens and considers and answers with her own thoughts in a totally levelheaded manner.