Burning Desire

by Ami Snow

  “Wow, Julian you move fast,” I said through clenched teeth. She hated me.

  She batted her lashes like she didn’t have any idea. “Whatever do you mean Leila?”

  “Cut the shit.” Then I looked at Ryan. “Guess now I understand why you wanted to take it slow. Thing is, you could have had a whore if you wanted one. Just ask Julian, she’ll tell you all about our sordid history.” I would not cry—not in front of him. I couldn’t believe it. She was everything I wasn’t. She was thin, dark skinned, and absolutely stunning. She took care of herself. Apparently she was still a street girl but taking house calls.

  I spun and left the way I came shaking my head. Well shit. I didn’t have to worry about Aiden telling Ryan anything now. I was now a free woman. Meaning my secret didn’t matter anymore. Why did my heart clench when I realized I wouldn’t have to finish out my day with Aiden? I didn’t actually want him did I? My heart thumped. Shit. No way. He was a complete jerk and treated me terrible.

  When I slid into my car and noticed Ryan didn’t follow me, go figure, I sped back to work. Crying the whole way. I should have known I couldn’t get a man like Ryan. But he wasn’t any better than any of the other men that had come and gone in my life. He just hid behind his wealth.

  Chapter 8

  I sat in my car composing myself. I looked in my mirror and grimaced. Mascara and eyeliner ran down my cheeks. My eyes were red and my cheeks were puffy. I looked like a disaster, but I’d left my makeup inside. I sighed. It didn’t really matter anyways. Aiden didn’t need his revenge anymore. I sniffed and pulled my keys out of the ignition before I opened my door and forced myself out of my car.

  I ignored the looks from everyone in the office as I made my way upstairs. Tossing my purse on my desk I knocked on his door and didn’t wait for him to tell me to “come.”

  I stepped inside and shut the door. “Well, it’s over.”

  He glanced away from his computer and frowned. “What’s over?”

  I gestured between us both. “This one day thing. I’m done. If you want to scream my secret to the rooftops so be it. I don’t give a damn anymore.”

  He stopped typing and then he pushed his chair back roughly. When he stormed over to me I flinched, but he did the last thing I expected. He pulled me into his arms and hugged me close. “Thank fucking god. I was hoping you’d realize it was stupid.”

  I pulled my head back and laugh—cried. “Now is not the time to call me stupid.”

  He cringed and the used his thumb to wipe my tear. “Right, sorry I’m terrible at being a good person. What happened sweetheart?”

  I raised a brow. “You’re being a good person, why?”

  “I like you. I wouldn’t have used something so serious against you if I didn’t feel I had to. I wouldn’t have had a chance would I?”

  “Not at all. You still don’t,” I said stubbornly. I wasn’t going down that road again. No more rich assholes for me.

  “Oh come on. Admit you like me—a little bit.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Not really, but your body is hot.”

  He leaned in and kissed me stealing my breath. It was such a devastating sweet kiss I was left speechless when he pulled back. No man could fake that. “Now do you believe me?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  He glared and sighed in exasperation. “Damn woman you’re not easy.”

  No I wasn’t. Not anymore, but I had a feeling that there was a fine line between hate and a little bit of like. I found myself smiling against his mouth and kissing him back. He held me the way a lover should always hold the one he loves.

  THE END

  Satisfying the CEO’s Desire

  BDSM ROMANCE

  By: Amanda Bolton

  Satisfying the CEO’s Desire

  Chapter One –

  “Cleo Walsh?”

  I rose from my seat, the plastic chair squeaking underneath me as I crossed the room to the receptionist's station. Fiona, the middle-aged nurse behind the counter with the old-fashioned, bleached blonde bouffant, raised her eyebrows as I approached her, the crinkled corners of her lips stretching in a genial smile. She lifted her hawk-like nose, sniffing theatrically, her wandering eyes landing on the wicker basket rung around my arm.

  “Cleo, sweetie,” Fiona chirped, the large, golden hoops on her ears swinging, “You just look more radiant every week, don't you?”

  “As do you,” I replied, beaming. I detected a tinge of summer-kissed bronze on her skin, winking, “You look positively glowing with your new tan – very Real Housewives of you.”

  “Oh, stop,” Fiona gushed, giggling, “I was finally able to use up a couple of vacation days – Joshua took me down to Daytona Beach for the weekend. Now, what's in that basket, Mrs. Fields?”

  “Snicker-doodles,” I answered, managing a smile, “They're Dad's favorite.”

  Fiona's laughter faded, her compassion projecting in her eyes, “Of course, sweetheart.”

  I retrieved a large, chilled tupperware from the bottom of the basket, filled with layers of custard, sliced bananas, and crumbled cookies. Fiona's eyes lit up as I laid it upon the counter.

  “Not like I'd forget how much you all love my famous banana pudding. Should be enough for all the nurses.”

  “You're an angel, Cleo,” Fiona raved, storing the pudding in the nurse's mini-fridge, “Would you like me to come with you –”

  “No,” I declined, turning on my heel, “I'm here every week. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

  The stringent aroma of isopropyl alcohol stung my nostrils as I strode down the corridor, mechanically veering left towards the common room of the Golden Sunrise Retirement. I greeted the nurses with a few quick hellos. Frowning, I looked around searchingly at the lifeless, stoic expressions etched across the lined faces of the gloomy-faced inhabitants. They were scattered amongst the round tables of the rooms, silently reading and playing muted games of cards and chess. My heart pattered in my chest, finally spotting my father in the far nook of the room.

  He was seated alone, the vivid rays of the sunlight irradiating his gnarled, weatherbeaten features. The right side of his face sagged slightly, never completely recovering from the stroke he suffered three years ago. I sighed as I studied the patches of wispy hair from afar, the glow of the sun shining them completely white. I felt a sharp yank on my heartstrings, recalling the dusty, childhood photographs I had gathered whilst cleaning up the family attic.

  Dixon Walsh was once a strapping, burly-chested man with a full head of bright, coppery hair, an established realtor with a successful career, and one of the friendliest faces at Sunday church gatherings. Mom used to call me her little bundle of miracles, as my parents were nearing their fifties when I was unanticipatedly conceived. When I was seven, Mom tragically passed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver in a pick-up truck, robbing my irreparable father of his wife of almost three decades, leaving him burdened with the solitary task of raising a child as he neared his golden years. His own health continued to deteriorate over the years, and now, at seventy-five, he was reduced to a scrawny, pitiful pile of skin and bones, cloaked in a ratty cardigan, the product of three strokes and a slow descent to dementia.

  I took a deep breath, plastering a cheerful, light-hearted smile on my face as I skirted past the other tenants towards my father. He pulled away when I leaned in to peck him on the cheek, my heart wrenching. I kept my smile on as I pulled up a chair next to him, setting my basket on the table. His eyes brightened, deeply inhaling the treacly, buttery aroma of fresh-baked cookies. The corners of his lips twitched, his heightened eyebrows relaxing as I produced a carefully wrapped tinfoil of a dozen, flat, cinnamon-crusted treats.

  “Lila – you came.”

  My bottom lip quivered at the sound of my mother's name, blinking away the tears springing to my eyes as I offered him a snicker-doodle.

  “Snicker-doodles,” my father rasped, smacking his lips, “My favorite – not that
your other treats aren't just as delicious, but this has always deserved a pedestal of its own.” He reached for my hand, his cold, rumpled fingers grasping mine firmly, “You've always known how to brighten up my day, my sweet.”

  “Dad,” I gently whispered, smiling tenderly, “Dad, it's me –”

  He persisted, his lips coated with crumbs, clamping his other hand over mine as he gazed lovingly into my eyes, “Oh, Lila. I've missed you so much. Why haven't you come to see me in so long? It gets so goddamned lonely here, I'll tell ya – but it don't matter no more. You're here now.”

  I cocked my head to the side, soundlessly blinking at my father's glowing, buoyant expression. He devoured another cookie from the foil, licking the buttery morsels off his fingertips. I removed a green, glass bottle of sparkling water, my father's eyes widening as he recognized the fancy script writing on the label.

  “Here's a little something for you to wash it down with.”

  “Befreien!” my father exclaimed, his broad, toothy smile infectious, “What an exquisite treat – it's not my birthday, is it?”

  “No, Dad, it's –” I started, my words trailing off at the abrupt change in my father's expression.

  He took a long swig from the bottle, his forehead crumpling as he set his beverage on the table. My shoulders stiffened as his eyes bulged, shooting me a crazed, deathly glare. His eyes darted around wildly, glistening with his blatant confusion, his cracked lips contorting. A storm of panic began brewing within me. I reached over cautiously, yelping in surprise as he shot up from his chair, knocking over his drink, the spilling carbonated water bleeding into the navy-blue carpet.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Dad, please, it's me, Cleo –”

  A pair of nurses shuffled towards us, nodding at me apologetically as they guarded my father, attempting to appease his outbursts with their soothing voices. His brows knitted, staring at the three of us unblinkingly. I picked up the fallen bottle and placed it delicately on the table, my palms raised.

  “Dad, please, calm down, it's gonna be okay –”

  “Who're you calling Dad? Where's my mother? I demand to see her immediately –”

  The nurse on his left flashed me a sympathetic look, stating dolefully, “Sorry, Cleo, honey, he doesn't seem to be feeling well today –”

  “That's alright,” I sighed, rising from my chair, dusting crumbs off my lap. I turned towards my father, smiling wistfully, “I'll see you soon, Dad.”

  An icy blast shivered down my spine, my father's psychotic pleas ringing in my ears as I hustled out of the establishment. I crossed the street to a maroon station wagon, slipping into the passenger's seat.

  “What took you so long? Thought you were just dropping something off – you've kept me waiting for twenty minutes –”

  I ignored his harping, turning towards Mathias, who was rubbing his palms against the short buzz of his close-shaved cut in exasperation.

  A fat tear rolled down my cheek, “Dad's slowly losing it – he's getting worse every week. He loved the snicker-doodles, but he doesn't remember me anymore, he thought I was Mom–”

  “So the old man's officially lost his marbles,” Mathias cut me off gruffly, twisting his key in the ignition, “You knew this was coming – big deal. Buckle up, I'ma try to make the movies.”

  I stared out the window, sighing as the car sputtered to life.

  Chapter Two –

  I stood behind a line of wooden boxes crammed with secondhand toys, neatly folded clothes, and passed-on pieces of literature with wilted ears on their covers. With a genuine beam stretched across my rose-frost painted lips, I surveilled the happy faces of the shopping patrons milling about the rented space. The monthly charity drive I organized seemed to be kicking off to a good start, with a decent haul from the church donations.

  “Mommy, look! A Molly doll, just like yours!”

  “That's very nice, sweetie.”

  A little girl with an adorable, chestnut pixie cut, who couldn't have been more than eight, hovered over one of the toy bins, rifling through the tangled limbs. She picked up a stuffed, beanbag doll garbed in a ruffled, teddy-bear printed sundress, with long, coffee-brown yarn for hair and a miniature straw hat. The girl wrinkled her nose at the missing button of the doll's eye.

  “Oh no,” the little girl exclaimed, pouting, “But she's only got one eye! She's ugly.”

  “Now, Nadine, that's not very nice,” her mother hissed, flustered.

  I bent forward, smiling, “Hey, Nadine. That's a lovely name. Can I tell you something about the Molly Doll?”

  “What's that?”

  “A little girl just like you used to love her with all her heart, but she's gotten too old for her. Now, the girl told me that the Molly Doll's eye was actually chewed off by her pit-bull, Scarface.”

  “Wow, really?” the little girl's eyes widened, marveling.

  “Really,” I assured her, grinning, “She's a fighter, this one. Look at it this way – she's special, dare I say, one-of-a-kind. You'll be the only little girl in all of Portland to own a Molly Doll with such a fierce backstory.”

  “Awesome!” the little girl beamed, clutching the doll to her chest, “I'm gonna take her home! Can I, Mommy? Please?”

  “Alright, alright,” her mother muttered, a faint smile on her lips as she delved into her purse, “How much for the doll?”

  I fished a crumpled twenty out of my pocket, dropping it into the cash box, nodding, “Don't worry about it – it's on me.”

  The mother handed me a twenty-dollar-bill, her brows furrowed, “Oh no, we shouldn't –”

  “I'd be happy to get it for Nadine,” I reassured her, ruffling the child's soft crop of hair, “The children at St. Paul's Orphanage thank you.”

  “Well, alright,” the mother relented, placing an arm around her daughter's shoulders, “What do we say?”

  “Thank you so much!”

  “No problem, Nadine. Have a great day!”

  I rearranged the old records on the box to my left, biting down on my lip in concentration as I straightened the rows of faded vinyl cases. Deeply engrossed in my reorganization frenzy, I hardly noticed the looming shadow of the mysterious figure across me.

  “I saw what you did with the little girl – Nadine, was it? That was real sweet of you.”

  The back of my neck prickled at the crisp tone of an orotund, silvery voice. I glimpsed up from the stacks of records, my cheeks flushing beet red, gawking at the devilishly handsome stranger before me. The man's short, but luxuriant, vanilla blonde hair was sleekly parted to the side, his smoldering, pool-blue eyes piercing straight into my soul.

  I pushed a strand of my spirally, brick-red curls behind my burning ears, clearing my throat before mumbling, “Was for a good cause. I – can I help you with something, sir?”

  “I've actually been looking all over town for the Road House soundtrack on vinyl, any chance you've got that in your collection?”

  I shook my head slowly, fumbling through the cases, “Lemme check that for you right now, but I don't think we have it. I've been through all the records...”

  I sighed, defeated, “No, sorry. Are you a collector or are you looking for a gift?”

  “A gift – it's my buddy's birthday this weekend –”

  “So I take it he's into old action flicks?” I selected two records from the box, suggesting, “We've got the original soundtracks of Smokey and the Bandit and The Dukes of Hazzard – the TV show. These are both pretty rad – I've got them both on cassettes myself.”

  “Great, I'll take them both.”

  “That'll be thirty –”

  “Here, keep the change. It's for a good cause, yeah?”

  My shoulders shivered as his eyebrows wriggled sexily, accepting his hundred-dollar bill.

  I stuttered, “That's – that's very generous of you, sir. Thank you.”

  He reached into his pocket and slipped a name card into my hands. Adjusting the buttons of his fitted, burgund
y henley shirt, he explained coolly, “Kane Crawford, of –”

  “Crawford & Co. Modeling Group?” My eyes bulged in disbelief, “Don't y'all represent Kira Moore and Laney Chavez? Are you serious? What're you all doing in a town like –”

  “Are you interested in coming in for a position? I'm looking for a personal secretary.”

  My lips popped open in shock. I was bewildered, unsure I heard him correctly, “You're – you're what now? Me? Work for you? But I've never –”

  “I don't look for experience – I'm looking for an eager learner.”

  I raised my eyebrows thoughtfully, the corners of the card barbing my fingertips, “I'm really flattered, Mr. Crawford, sir, I'm just not sure I'm the right –”

  “Your salary's guaranteed to be triple your usual rate, all benefits included. We can talk.”

  “Mr. Crawford, it's not the money, I –”

  “Think about it, Ms. – ?”

  “Walsh. Cleo Walsh. I –”

  “Very well, Ms. Walsh. The address is on my card. Like I said – think about it. I hope to see you in my office for an interview at nine AM sharp, Monday morning.”

  As he strode away, my eyes fell to the snug silhouette of his sculpted cheeks, visibly tight through his jeans. I blushed, immediately ripping my eyes away, my heart fluttering excitedly in my chest. The wave of exhilaration quickly evaporated, the image of Mathias' ruddy, growling face sneaking into my mind. I breathed deeply, slowly piecing together how I would break the news to him.

  Chapter Three –

  The Crawford & Co. building towered over me like the illustrious, swanky business empire it was, conquering the North American industry of fashion in the '10s and earning them a permanent spot in Forbes lists. The modish, twisted skyscraper stood about fifty stories tall, its curtain walls constructed of spider-black, polished stone, the scintillating windows trimmed with scarlet. My shoulders shrunk spontaneously. The “small-town” girl in me shuddered in anxiety, grossly intimidated, immediately probing at my self-worth and ability. I took a deep breath, shaking off my qualms and pestering negativity. I'm an excellent, hard-working, Jesus-loving, karma-wary, decent, human being. This hoity-toity, big-named corporation would be lucky to have me on their team.