by Eva Luxe
***
Since it was a beautiful, crisp winter day and the aura of Christmas filled the air, I walked the three blocks to The Avalon apartments. It would be faster than taking a cab, anyway. As I made my way to my destination, I told myself to calm down and not be nervouse, mentally reciting the information I’d read about Wyatt.
I had researched and prepared as best as I could with such short advance notice. I told myself “you’ve got this. You’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t quite sure I believed it. There was a rumbling in my stomach that told me things could go badly, and I’d be out a job.
The Avalon apartment building held more billionaires than should be legally allowed to exist in one area. The building sat on the corner of 5th and 69th and gave stunning views of Central Park.
I hurried my pace, not wanting to be late. But when I looked at the time on my burner phone I realized I was already a couple minutes late. Talking to Jimmy had taken longer than I’d anticipated.
Crap. I briskly walked up to the door and a portly man with black hair and dressed in a red bellhop uniform greeted me. He introduced himself as George Worthington.
“Can I help you ma’am?” he asked.
“I’m Paige Matthews, and I have an appointment with Wyatt Palmer at midday. I’m a little late. Sorry.”
“Mr. Palmer is a bit of a stickler for punctuality, but I’m sure he’ll understand. Step inside, and I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
George picked up the phone by a small check-in desk and dialed a number. After a few beats, he said, “There’s a Miss Paige Matthews here from The New York Reporter.”
After a pause, he nodded, and then said, “Very well, Sir.” He hung up and looked at me. “You can go on up.”
George gestured to the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Forty-eighth floor.”
“Thank you.”
As I walked through the Christmas tree-lined lobby, the rich scent of coffee wrapped around me and enveloped me in a hug. To my left was a café advertising all kinds of goodies, including hot chocolate surprises.
I vowed to myself that after the interview, I would treat myself to one, with an extra helping of whipped cream. I didn’t know what the surprise was about, but I made it my mission to find out.
Once inside the elevator, I consulted the notes Alec had given me— boring, boring, and boring. They were the same old questions everyone asked.
How bad would it be if I asked my own questions? And, the first question on my list would be why this guy had requested that I be the one to interview him.
I was a good journalist. That much I knew, but nothing I’d written suggested I was any better than any other graduate, so the question remained: why me?
Chapter 8 – Wyatt Palmer
I wasn’t angry. Pissed maybe, but not angry. Who was I more pissed at? The little mouse or me? The jury was still out on that.
It didn’t take much digging to find out about Paige Matthews. She was a recent graduate from Emerson. She’d won several awards and had a promising career, so what I wanted to know was: why was an obviously talented journalist answering letters about cheating husbands and unrequited love?
After I’d found her phone, I scrolled through her social media apps for about thirty minutes until the lock screen kicked me out. From her bookmarks and notes, the young journalist was obviously working on a story on Expose and had somehow managed to sneak a phone in. Her snooping would uncover too many people’s secrets, including mine, and that wasn’t an option.
Since last night, I’d left countless messages for Vivian, but she hadn’t returned any of my calls. She had, however, sent a text message asking if I had missed her, and informing me that she was enjoying the money she’d gotten from the sale of the invitation.
I would deal with the scorned sub later because right now, I planned to find out what Miss Matthews’ deal was. Since she worked for The Reporter and had somehow gotten her hands on Vivian’s invitation, I believed she wasn’t a plant from a competitor. At least that was some good news.
But the fact that I had done what I had done with an intruder was eating at me. I couldn’t remember a time when a woman had gotten under my skin as fast as she had. Her body filled my every thought along with guilt at my actions.
I knew better than to act like a junior and untrained Dom unable to control his urges. I still wasn’t able to justify to myself why I’d acted the way I had.
My cock hadn’t stopped throbbing, and no matter how many times I’d jerked off, my need for her hadn’t sated. The memory of the sounds she made when she climaxed was sweet music to my ears, and something I wanted to hear again and again and again.
I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do when she arrived. Would I confront her about her phone or would I let the interview go ahead as planned?
Alec had been furious when I’d demanded that Paige, and Paige only, be the one to interview me, and he had had every right to be. But I promised him I would give him an exclusive and soon. For now, that seemed to mollify him.
Having the mouse come to my apartment was my way to unnerve her and maybe to make her sweat in more ways than one. Sure, I could’ve invited her to my office, or somewhere less personal, but I wanted her alone and in my fucking territory.
With my clothes on and mask off, she wouldn’t recognize me. The light in the room last night was purposefully dim. Plus, we were in two completely different environments.
A devious idea popped into my head, and I searched for an episode of The Office. When I found a Christmas special, I put it on and left it playing in the background. Her choice of a safe word still brought a smile to my face despite my best intentions to feel nothing but anger towards her.
How would she behave during the interview? Would she still have the same quirky sense of humor as last night? I hoped so. Or would she find interviewing me intimidating?
In my everyday life, I was as intimidating and as driven as the next investment banker, but I wasn’t as intimidating as when I was at the club. I saved that side of my personality for my subs.
The doorbell rang, and my balls tingled. She was here.
I strolled to the foyer, and when I opened the door, my breath caught. Standing in front of me wasn’t the masked vixen in the little black dress from last night, but she was just as stunning.
She wore her hair back in a tight ponytail and a flash of yanking her head back while I took her from behind, crashed into the forefront of my mind. She wore black-rimmed glasses that accentuated her green eyes. Last night, I hadn’t been aware of how vivid they were. Her skin was fresh and scraped free of makeup, and the Manhattan wind had reddened her cheeks and nose.
She stood there, biting her inner cheek the way she had last night. As if my cock wasn’t already hard enough.
She held out her hand and said, “Mr. Palmer, I’m Paige Matthews from The New York Reporter. You were expecting me? Sorry, I’m a little late.”
She gave me a dimpled smile, and I wondered how I’d missed her dimples the previous evening.
“I’m not a fan of lateness. I usually make people pay in some way to teach them a lesson, but I’ll let it go this one time.”
Her smile faltered a little. “Um, thanks and good to know. Can I come in, or would you like me to interview you in the hallway?”
She grinned, and my heart stuttered. I hated myself for loving to see her smile. She glanced down at her fingers, and I realized I’d ignored her outstretched hand.
I took her small palm and enveloped it in mine, and the second our hands touched, it was like she’d reached down and caressed my cock. Inviting her to my apartment could turn out to be a bad idea for both of us.
I had iron willpower, but this little mouse could possess enough power to bend it.
A flash of something ran across her eyes. Was it recognition? Did she feel the same thing I did when our hands touched?
She quickly blinked and stepped into my apartment— like everyone who entered my home al
ways did. Her eyes widened, and her jaw slackened at the view of Central Park from my living room windows. It was something I would never grow immune to. From my vantage point, I could see the entire fucking span of the park.
“Wow. Just wow.” She turned to face me, her face filled with awe. “You live here alone?”
Not giving me a chance to answer, she continued, “How big is this place? How do you get any work done with this view?”
I smiled at her childlike enthusiasm.
“Almost 4000 square feet. And to answer your other question, yes, I live here alone, and I get a lot of work done that way. You should see the view of Central Park when it’s covered in snow. It’s breathtaking.”
“I bet. When I was a kid, I used to dream about having the ice rink all to myself. I’d imagine gliding across the ice with the skyline in the background.”
She lost herself to her thoughts, and a happy sigh floated from her lips, reminding me of how she’d sounded after her second orgasm.
“If you’d like to see the view at night, you’ll have to stop by some evening.”
I was flirting and enjoyed the way her cheeks reddened at my not-so-subtle invitation. I stood behind the sofa, hoping it would hide the hard on straining against the crotch of my jeans. I wanted to order her to strip her clothes off, so I could view her body in the daylight to see if it was as exquisite as I remembered from when we were in the dimly lit club.
But if I wanted to find out more about this little mouse who didn’t seem so mousy today, I had to bide my time. She dropped her bag onto the sofa and shrugged off her coat. I noticed she didn’t take as much care of her things as she had last night. Probably because she didn’t have a phone hidden anywhere.
Her tight jeans accentuated the curve of her ass. The ass that had been on the end of my hand, but her sweater sadly only showed a hint of her beautiful tits.
She tilted her head, and a perplexed expression crossed her face. “You don’t decorate for Christmas?”
I shrugged. “There’s no point since I’m the only one who is usually here and when I am, I’m working. No one would get to enjoy it.”
“Shame. You could fit a twenty-foot tree in here and still have room for more.”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” I said with a smile.
“Ready?” she asked.
I grinned— it was the same question I’d asked her last night.
“Ready,” I replied. “Promise you’ll be gentle.”
She gave me a lopsided grin. “If I get too tough, you can use a safe word.”
She giggled, and it was a delightful tinkling sound.
I did a double take and raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me.”
“Sorry.” She said, taking a pad of paper and pen from her bag. She pointed the pen towards the TV. “Looks like you were watching The Office before I got here. It’s one of my favorite shows. Michael and Jan’s safe word is Foliage.”
“I know,” was my only reply.
She sat a voice recorder in the center of the table and pressed record. And once I had my dick under control, I sat down on the sofa directly opposite her.
Paige began her interview by asking, “Wouldn’t you prefer someone who’s much more experienced than I am?”
“Is that your first question?” I asked, startled.
“Yes.”
She pursed her lips at me, and I wasn’t sure if she meant the question to be a double entendre. This little Paige Matthews was full of big surprises. Oh, how I wished I could tie her up and teach her that I was the one in charge. Instead, I had to act professional and answer her questions, but she was making that task— and my fucking cock— very hard indeed.
Chapter 9 – Paige Palmer
Wyatt looked a little uncomfortable when I asked my first question— which was exactly my intention, because I liked to be the one in charge of my interviews, and plus I was having fun toying with him— but he soon cleared his throat and regained his normal, impressive, composure.
“On the contrary,” Wyatt replied, “I prefer someone who’s learning the ropes. I find it much more satisfying that way.”
Oh, boy! I hadn’t expected that answer. Everything he said had a hint of innuendo, and that wicked smile of his was all I needed to picture those innuendos.
Something about him was so familiar, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. But I’d never met him before, and I’d never been in his social circles and never would be.
If he kept flirting with me, getting through the interview with my panties still intact would be tough. There was no denying he was as sexy as all get out. The slightly tousled brown hair and roughened square jaw left me weak at the knees. Mischievousness filled his silvery blue eyes, and every deep word that fell from his full lips sent shivers down my spine. If I were into older men, which I was not, I could fall for him.
He had the confidence of a man who didn’t have to worry about money or how to pay next month’s rent. His presence reminded me a little of the masked man from last night, but I couldn’t picture Wyatt ordering me around or fingering me to a double orgasm.
In the short amount of time I’d had to research him, I hadn’t been able to find any whisperings on the gossip sites or online about him being involved in anything that wasn’t philanthropic. No girlfriends and no scandals. Definitely no rumors of sexual kinks or being a member of a sex club. It wasn’t like I could come right out and ask him if he was a member of Expose with a penchant for spanking women who walked into his room.
I shifted on the sofa, and the memory of the masked man’s hand hitting off my ass came to the front of my thoughts, not that I hadn’t thought about it every other second. My backside still smarted. I didn’t mind because I liked the sensation of my lace underwear scratching my skin, but now wasn’t the time to get all horny and turned on.
I had a job to do, and that job was to interview Wyatt Hot-as-hell-billionaire Palmer.
He cleared his throat again and leaned back on the sofa, spreading his arms over the back cushions. He had the air of someone who knew the room was his and was going to make it known— and not just this room that actually was his, but any room he was in.
“So,” I began, “you’re telling me you prefer someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing?”
“I don’t recall saying that.” He quirked an eyebrow and gave me a smile so wicked, my heart stopped. “It’s not like a journalist to twist words. Inexperience and incompetence are not the same things. Someone who’s new often has a hunger, is more enthusiastic, and at times does a better job than someone with years of experience. Plus, your advice column makes me smile— Advice from a Millennial Mind. Catchy title.”
“Dear Abbey was taken, and Dear Paige didn’t have the same ring.”
I said it with sarcasm, but I was embarrassed he’d seen my column. I wished I’d had something more serious for him to find.
“After researching you some more, I decided… I wanted you.”
His reply took my breath, and I momentarily sat as still as a stunned squirrel. I finally decided to give it back just as obviously as he was giving it to me. He was a powerful man, but it was obvious he was intrigued with me, and that was power that I could use to my advantage.
“If we’re going to get anywhere with this interview, you have to stop flirting with me, Mr. Palmer.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “You’ve got me. I’ll stop.”
I glanced over the list of questions Alec had given me and then set them to one side. This was my interview, and I would ask my questions.
“When you were a young executive, you punched your boss in the face. You never really said why.”
“You’ve done some research, I see. I was twenty-five, hot-headed, and didn’t suffer fools. I still don’t, but I handle them in different ways now.”
“But what was the reason?”
“It was over my ex-fiancée.”
He smiled, but I didn’t miss the
bitter edge to his words.
“Linda Phelps?” I glanced at my own notes. “In August, five years were added to her sentence for a credit card phishing scam.”
He shrugged. “She’s good at getting the information she wants. Doesn’t matter who she hurts along the way. And I’m sure her time behind bars has taught her a trick or two.”
“Is she the reason you’ve never married?”
This wasn’t how I expected the interview to go, but I ran with it.
“Alec would never have asked anything so personal.”
“He would have asked you about your golf handicap and the usual tedious crap he always asks. I want readers to know who you are. Not the financial guru, not the motivational speaker. Beneath the surface, who are you?”
“Tell me, Ms. Matthews, why are you working at The Reporter?”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Perhaps.”
“My dad worked there. He died covering a story, and I guess I wanted to carry on his legacy.”
“You’re carrying on his legacy by answering questions from someone who wants to know what’ll happen if he sends his colleague unsolicited dick pics?”
I resisted the urge to visibly grimace. Answering that question hadn’t been one of my proudest columns, but Henry had insisted I do it, for the shock value. He’d said “no press is bad press” and that it would rocket me to stardom, but that wasn’t exactly the kind of stardom I’d had in mind. I wanted real journalist credentials, not cheap laughs or edgy social media shares.
“It’s temporary,” I insisted. “Once I prove myself to my boss, I’ll—”
“And how do you hope to do that?”
“I’m working on a story.”
“Care to share?”
“Who’s interviewing who here?” I asked and then laughed. “Back to my question. Is Linda’s betrayal the reason you’ve never settled down?”
He gave a slight nod. “One of them.”