by Ava Claire
“Lay back on the bed.” It wasn’t a command, or order. Domination wasn’t on the menu tonight...pleasure was.
Her brow furrowed in surprise.
Good. Surprise was good. I wanted to keep her guessing.
She murmured something to herself, but she acquiesced, walking her hands backward. Not in any hurry. She took her time, teasing me with how the dark fabric stroked her skin. She fell back against the pillows and pointedly kept her knees pressed together.
Lust already had me by the balls and when I saw the devious smile on her lips, keeping my breathing steady became a problem, too.
“Open your legs,” I growled, holding back the urge to grin at her delicious playfulness. The real her behind the barbed wire.
She walked her fingertips to the peaks of her knees and slowly parted her thighs.
My pulse raced as the glimpse of her body became a full-on display and I couldn’t stop the moan from falling from my lips. The warmth radiated from her core, the gentle folds of her pussy sighing as she spread her thighs apart. If there had been any doubt whether our introductions had been foreplay for her too, I had my answer. She glistened with arousal. She was dripping wet and I’d barely touched her.
Forgetting myself, forgetting control, I stroked her beauty with my thumb. She crooned when I flicked her clit with my finger, her body arching into me. Her movements sobered me and I paused long enough to bring my thumb to my mouth.
My second moan came from deep inside me, a vocalization of all my desire come to fruition. She tasted delicious. Sweet, with a naughty bite that I savored with my eyes closed.
I wanted more than a bite.
I wanted it all.
I didn’t say another word...I feasted.
I pushed her thighs wider and buried my mouth inside her. I tasted her moans, her essence, her lust as she grabbed tufts of my hair and pulled me deeper into her. We were both in need, both starved. Her moans were like my own private concert, and I had the best seats in the house. I felt every twitch, every quiver, every flutter that ripped through her body and exploded when it reached her center.
There was no warning besides the uncontrollable vibrations of her thighs when she came. Even in the midst of the way she begged and whimpered as her climax took her under, I knew I’d only grazed the surface. And as hard as I was, primed and ready to fill her wetness with my cock, I didn’t indulge. I pulled myself from heaven, with plans to make her wonder and long for our next session.
She was silent again as I strode to the bathroom. Still high off her, I managed to make myself presentable, but I didn’t wash away her scent. When I emerged, she was back on her feet with a sheet wrapped around her body. Flushed and back at the bedpost?”
“We’re done?”
The question had sharp edges that went right through my chest. Against my better judgment, I went to her and pressed my lips against her forehead. It was too tender a moment. Too personal. That seemed like a ridiculous notion since a few minutes ago I had my tongue in the most personal place it could be. It wasn’t wise to get attached to her, but I couldn’t help but linger. She smelled like cinnamon and sex and I wanted to memorize every note of her so I could conjure it up later.
“That was just the beginning,” I replied softly.
I slipped out of the room as quietly as I’d entered, heading to the parking garage with a smile that wouldn’t go away.
~
It was a brand new day. A day where I'd crush one of the biggest pricks on the scene with a single swipe of a pen. There was a power, a delicious sense of victory when I gripped the cool sliver of metal and marched inside.
I didn’t need to check the pulse of the room because tension hung in the air, a suffocating fog that I’d helped along a bit by turning the heat up a few notches.
Okay, ten notches.
If you checked the system unit, it would read 84 degrees, just a few degrees shy of the temperature outside. To top it off, I chose the conference room that resembled a prison cell. No windows, no light, no furniture except chairs and a table. A table that was surrounded by sweaty, impatient men.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” I leveled the greeting at Joe Wright. At 6’4 and 220 pounds of muscle, he was a force to be reckoned with. It was easy to picture him kicking ass on a football field, and he was just as fearsome in a two-piece suit.
He gave me a look that told me he wasn’t glad I was running a few minutes late either. He adjusted his tie with a curt, ‘Morning’ that told me I’d be hearing about the lack of AC later, too. He was the only one that could give me a hard time and get away with it, and that’s how it had been since we were kids.
Lazarus Crowe, our guest of honor, made no efforts to hide his disgust. “It’s hotter than a whore in church, Colt.”
In most circumstances, referring to a man by their last name was a show of respect. When Lazarus said my name, disdain clutched the syllable that fell from his curled lips.
I didn’t take offense. The feeling was mutual.
The man was richer than God, but far from benevolent. I studied and analyzed his career trajectory back in business school. During his golden years, years of making billions, it seemed he had the Midas touch—and his greed. It was kind of ironic that he hadn’t been much older than I was now when his career took off, but we’d chosen different paths to achieve success. With his sparse, country-club blond hair, cold blue eyes, and teeth that glowed like diamonds, he was the spitting image of everything I hated about wealth. He reeked of entitlement.
Lazarus’s grandfather’s legacy led to his father’s, then the mantle was passed to Lazarus on his 25th birthday. His father’s advisors had railed against the move, but it ended up being the best business decision his father ever made. With Lazarus at the helm, profits shot to the stratosphere while he destroyed his competitors. The amount of good he could have done with his resources could have made him a success and a philanthropist, but there wasn’t an ounce of humanity in him. Lazarus was a man who laughed with his golf buddies at the fact that his acquisitions left people with next to nothing. He was used to making the world bend to his cruel whim. Used to sitting at the head of the table.
In my seat, I thought grumpily. I kept the thought to myself and smiled, focusing on the sweat that glistened on his balding head. Considering I was taking possession of his company, I could let him borrow my chair for a few minutes.
"It is a bit warm in here, isn't it?" I walked to the corner of the room, where several room temperature bottles of Evian were stacked like soldiers. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have given the man a sip of water if he was dying of thirst, but I decided to make an exception. I picked up a couple of bottles and made my way back to the table. I extended the first to Lazarus, who didn't even acknowledge my gesture of kindness. He just wiped his brow and scowled.
I turned to his right-hand man, Art Whittaker. The complete opposite of his boss, Art's tall, scrappy frame was engulfed by his seat. He was sweating full-on buckets and looked ready to peel off every piece of clothing he wore. I saw the longing in his gaze. He was dying to have a bottle of water, room temperature or not. If he got permission from his King, of course.
Art twisted his head to the right, and Lazarus looked ready to wring his neck before he even uttered a sound.
Art didn't meet my eye. “I’m fine, thanks.”
"Hell, I'll take a bottle of water," Joe grumbled. He popped the cap and gulped it down. I had to bite back a grin when Art cut his eyes at Joe, his lips parting like he’d be fine with the tiniest drop. Lazarus must have caught the moment of weakness too, because he cleared his throat and Art snapped his mouth shut.
Art still wouldn’t look at me. It was hard to believe this was the same man that sneered on newscasts and shut down debates on the morality of their business practices with a shrug. Sensing my gaze on him, Art’s nostrils flared, and it hit me. I wasn't dropping a bomb on him at all. Somehow, he knew.
But not Lazarus. He wouldn't have com
e down from his tower if he knew said tower had a new owner. I'd thought knocking the man down a peg or two would have been satisfying, the little kid in me finally taking down the bully. I didn't need to make Lazarus pay. I didn't need to say the words. I didn't need to sit at the head of the table, because knowing that the man Lazarus trusted most was keeping secrets was reward enough.
I breezed to the table, perching a hand on the back of the chair with a sigh. “My apologies for the wait-”
“Wait being the key word," Lazarus sniped. His angry jowls shuddered with every word. “I'm sure your rock-and-roll lifestyle makes a hell of a tabloid story, but the rest of us work for a living.”
I couldn't resist getting a jab or two in. "It's a little early for jokes, don't you think, Laz? I mean, weren’t you just on TMZ with a woman who wasn’t your wife?”
Now it was Joe clearing his throat, reminding me to keep my eye on the prize.
“You little..."
I was ready for him to explode. I saw every profanity, every insult in the book flit across Lazarus’s angry face. Before he could let loose a tirade that would make a comedian blush, Art leaned in and murmured something that made the man purse his lips together. I watched in awe as a man not known for his anger management skills calmed down, drawing a few breaths and exhaling. I hoped it would keep the man from stroking out before I put him out of his misery.
I was being petty, but I'd be a liar if I said watching one of the most powerful men I’d ever known sweat didn’t bring me immense pleasure. I was the righteous hand of karma, the sum of all of his chickens coming home to roost.
I wasn't Lazarus Crowe, and I wasn't talking about the horrible comb over and his overly-tanned skin. When he was on my side of the table, the winning side, he laughed when asked for mercy. He scoffed at appeals to look out for the employees and their families. I could burn his entire legacy to the ground, and it would be exactly what he deserved. It was how the game was played. That’s what separated me from the Lazarus’ of the business world. Yeah, I could ruin him and toss aside everything that had his name on it, including his employees. I wouldn't.
I'd tried the asshole route. To numb myself to the realities of being a driven businessman. It didn’t stick. I remembered every email from ousted employees who couldn't make their mortgage payments. Scanned images of medical bills for sick children were burned onto my brain. The lives turned upside down by forces outside of their control haunted me. They did their job, and the reward was a stock letter telling them they were no longer employed. Collateral damage.
Not today.
There would only be one casualty, and it was Lazarus Crowe's massive ego.
“First off, thanks for making time for us this morning. I know time is money, so I won't waste another minute with beating around the bush.” I pulled out the chair beside Joe. He was nodding silently, twirling a Colt Enterprises pen between his fingers. It was a show of support, gratitude that I wasn’t milking this opportunity for all it was worth. He'd wanted to do this all over the phone, but then again, he was always the good cop in this partnership. He was the forgiving one. I was the muscle.
I unbuttoned my jacket and leaned back into the leather cushion. I looked right at Lazarus's face, his head slated to combust at any moment. Torturing him for a few more minutes would be just what he deserved, considering our history. Ten years ago, when I was just starting off and laying the groundwork for what I thought would become Colt Enterprises, he’d almost ruined me. My former company hit a rough patch and I had no idea Lazarus had been plotting a secret takeover. Before the ink was dry, he fired all my employees, just because he could.
It was time for me to welcome Lazarus to his new reality. “I brought you here today because I wanted to offer you the opportunity to formerly resign as CEO of Crowe International—or you can be ousted publicly.”
Lazarus didn't blink. In fact, it looked like he wasn’t breathing at all. The world was still turning around us. Art nervously massaged his hands, hunched over the table. Joe’s face was chiseled stone as he put down the pen and reached for his phone. He scrolled his thumb across the screen and broke the silence.
“Mr. Crowe, I just forwarded a prepared statement to your inbox for you to tweak as you see fit-”
“You haven't earned the right to even address me, boy,” Lazarus seethed.
The venom and disgust he hurled at Joe hit him right where it hurt the most. The 'boy' comment was engineered to strip him of everything he'd worked hard for. He deserved a seat at the table, deserved respect, but men like Lazarus treated him like he was less than, because he was black.
I felt the white-hot anger radiating from my best friend, my brother in every sense of the word but blood. He was too classy to call the disgruntled man on his shit, but I sure as hell wasn't.
“If you ever disrespect my friend in my presence again, you'll be taking a very special ride in an ambulance,” I blazed.
Art and Lazarus's eyes bulged in unison.
"Did you-did you-I-did you just threaten me?" Lazarus sputtered, his eyes glazed with shock and a fear that I knew he was unaccustomed to.
"Damn right," I answered smoothly. I rose to my feet, officially done looking at his face. "We're very busy, and you have a choice to make. You have until the end of business today to give us your answer, or we'll choose for you."
Joe followed suit, and I couldn't help but feel a fresh wave of anger when I saw he was grappling with being the bigger man. He shouldn't have to be. He shouldn't have to put up with racist rich pricks who thought their wealth entitled them to treat people like shit.
"You know what? You don't need hours. The offer to resign is only good until we leave this room."
"You son of a-"
"He'll resign!” Art cut in, leaping to his feet. That made Lazarus follow suit, his chair slamming into the wall.
"Like hell I will!" Lazarus roared. He looked ready to burst from his pinstripe suit and fashion a shank out of something, anything, so he could murder us all.
Joe and I exchanged a look, smiling because we'd taken on guys like this man. We walked away bruised, a little bloody, but with our heads held high.
"Think about your legacy, Laz," Art pleaded with Lazarus. "This is more than saving face. This is an opportunity to control the narrative."
Any other day, an appeal to his rationality may have worked. Today was an extraordinary day. Lazarus Crowe was too blindsided to think rationally. He was still frothing at the mouth, practically baring his fangs.
Art stepped in the line of fire, moving between me and his former boss. "You were the one that taught me that business is a game. And sometimes you have to cut your losses and play the hand that’s dealt to you. We lost. But the world doesn't have to know that.”
Lazarus finally aimed his bloodshot eyes at his associate. "You want me to concede? To them?!"
"I want you to resign so we can live to fight another day," Art answered calmly. "We can rebuild." The defeated man that couldn't look me in the eye had been replaced by the businessman I knew from before. Shrewd. Emotionless. Cold.
Good. It erased any lingering bits of conscience I had left about kicking the two of them out on their ass.
Lazarus was silent, but he'd stopped hyperventilating.
This was a man that would never admit defeat, even when it was staring him right in the eye.
Joe reached into his briefcase and retrieved a slender manila folder. He dropped it on the conference room table, along with two ballpoint pens. “I printed out some physical copies, just to be thorough. You can leave the letters with the secretary on your way out." He turned on his heels and metaphorically 'dropped the mic' in a way that my admonishment and threat couldn't. Any choice words I could have shared paled in comparison to the pleasure I got from watching Art shuffle toward the folder to claim their consolation prize.
I wanted them to rebuild so I could take it all away again.
Lazarus was saving face when I turned to follow Joe, m
uttering about how he'd made billions and revenge.
Come at me. I dare you.
I drew the door closed behind me, bumping fists with Joe. I couldn't help but make sure he was okay.
"I'm sorry about that in there, man."
"It's cool.” Joe shrugged his shoulders, but I knew him well enough to know those wounds ran deep. "I've been called worse."
I stopped walking, the pit of my stomach balling into a fist.
He paused, throwing a sad grin over his shoulder. "Let's not ruin a victory with heavy shit, okay?"
That just made me frown, so he changed the subject instead.
"Drinks after work? First round on you, of course."
He was practically to the elevator, booking it as far from Lazarus and his BS as he could. I decided to let it go too. "Of course."
He let out a joke about me throwing in a woman or two, just to be thorough, and I shook my head with a laugh. Partly because he never had nor would need my assistance in the woman department. The rest was unfamiliar to me. It was a longing that started where lust begins and radiated outward until I knew. I wouldn't be on the prowl tonight because there was one woman I was still reeling from.
I didn't even have to close my eyes to remember the taste of her on my tongue. Her moans vibrating over my skin. Her wetness gripping my cock so tight that my whole world was her pleasure.
I slid into the elevator beside Joe and hit the button for the executive offices. "Drinks sound good. Not too late though, it's a school night for me."
Joe rolled his eyes and huffed, "Old man."
I took the dig gladly, because whatever array of women strutted across my path that evening, I knew I'd be counting down the minutes until I could make an excuse to get back to The Tower.
I had to see her again.
Chapter Two: Sadie
Out of all the things I should be doing right now, thinking about him was unacceptable.
From the scowl on my manager's face, she agreed.