by Meghan Quinn
I want to reach out and touch him the way he’s touching me.
I want to run my hand up his chest; explore the soft fabric of his cotton shirt. Fiddle
with the waist and pull it up; expose the tan and muscled chest I know is hidden under the
thick fabric of his designer t-shirt.
Desperately, I want nothing more than to loosen his belt, undo his pants, and shove
them down his hips until they’re falling to the floor. I want to caress him, hold the weight of
his arousal in my hand, stroke him, lick him, and suck him.
Pleasure him until he can’t take it anymore—right here, in his office—until his tightly
wound control slips and he has no choice but to take me over his desk and make every
fantasy of mine come true.
He moves his mouth to the other side of my head where his nose leads the way down my
cheek to my ear.
“How long have you wanted me, Peyton, hmm?” His voice is deep—so sinister I feel
light-headed with every sentence. It leaves me breathless just hearing my name fall from his
lips.
“How long have I wanted you?”
Years. I’ve wanted you for years.
He breathes in and nods. “Yes, how long?”
My palms press against the wall, my chest rising and falling, my nipples so incredibly
hard.
“I can’t re-remember,” I stutter. Lie. “Ballpark it for me. Humor me.”
“Maybe, um . . .” I lean forward, catching a whiff of him. God, he smells so freaking
good. “Uh, a couple years.”
“How many? Be specific.”
“Do details turn you on?”
“Yes.”
“Three years.”
He sharply lifts his head from its bent position, brows shooting into his hairline. “Three
years?”
“Give or take.” My lip gets caught between my teeth.
He makes a humming sound and moves one of his hands to my hip, his thumb pressing
into my hipbone, anchoring me against the wall.
“And during those three years, how many times have you envisioned me pressing you
against this wall, spreading your legs, and fucking you while you bite down on my tie to
keep quiet?”
My eyes squeeze shut as I try to catch my breath, the erratic beat of my heart making it
difficult. I try to wiggle under his grasp but his hand pinned to my hip doesn’t let me move.
The need for him between my legs grows stronger and stronger.
I swallow hard. “Almost every damn day,” I answer honestly. “Given a few different
positions.”
He takes a moment, letting my words sink into the silence. When he speaks, it’s rough
and ragged. “Then what are you waiting for? If this is what you want, take it.”
Take it.
He makes it sound so easy. As if my entire career doesn’t fall on this one little decision. To him, it’s nothing,
probably just another random fuck, but this random fuck is built on a truckload of sexual
tension.
For me, there is so much riding on this.
If I give in, if I take what I’ve wanted for so damn long, it might be one of the most
passionate moments of my life but with huge consequences awaiting me post orgasm.
As much as I would like to say I trust him, I don’t. Like he said, he’s ruthless, and even
though I’m desperate to know what it feels like to have his lips all over my body while he’s
buried deep inside me, I can’t take that chance.
Do I trust him not to fuck me over after? Or to fuck over Gen?
He’s angry. Probably embarrassed, and even though it would be good at the time, I can’t
give in to this all-consuming passion in the off-chance that he could ruin my reputation
after.
Pulling back, meeting my gaze with his, he searches my eyes and for a brief moment, I
see it, that vulnerability, the uncertainty he carries deep within his soul that he doesn’t dare
show anyone. But I see it.
“Take me,” he repeats, this time, his thumb rubs across my hipbone, the gentle touch
erasing all thoughts I had of him betraying me.
No, there is no way he would do that to me.
But that doesn’t mean I can allow for this to happen. I want his business, I want to work
with him professionally, as a partnership, and for that to work, there is no way I can give in
to my feelings even though I want nothing more than to throw caution to the wind in this
moment and finally feel his lips pressed against mine.
Hating what I’m about to do, I let out a long breath and say, “I can’t.” “You can’t?” His brow creases, confusion written all over his face.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
With my second dismissal, his face hardens. Confusion vanishes with anger quickly
replacing it. He pushes off the wall and turns his back toward me, his hand tightly gripping
the back of his neck.
Needing to explain, I take a step forward and say, “Rome—”
“Leave.” He walks to his desk, not sparing me another glance.
“Rome, please.”
Snapping, he spins on his heel and points to his door. “Fucking leave. You’ve fucked
around with my head enough to last a lifetime.”
“It’s not like that.”
He sits in his chair and moves his mouse, the telltale sound of his computer coming to
life filling the silence.
“Please let me explain.”
He scratches the side of his jaw, his movements jagged, harsh. “Either leave in the next
three seconds, or your friend is fired. Don’t fuck with me again, Peyton.”
“Rome—”
He reaches for his phone and before I can say one more word, I quickly sprint out of his
office, tears welling in my eyes.
I can’t believe how horribly I screwed this entire thing up. I wish I never sent that stupid
email, because not only do I think he’s never going to work with me, but I have a strong
feeling I hurt him, and that realization just about kills me.
CHAPTER 16 ROME
“Sir, everyone is waiting for you in the conference room.” Lauren peeks her head
through my office door.
“I’m well aware that everyone is waiting, Lauren.” I just don’t give a shit at the moment.
My secretary hesitates outside the door, unsure. Not wanting to poke the bear. “Uh, are
you going to join them?”
“Not right away. I need a few minutes to myself.”
“Okay . . .” Her voice drags out the word, concerned. “Should I tell them you’re in the
bathroom or something?”
Why is she asking so many damn questions? She’s not my babysitter; she’s my assistant,
for fuck’s sake.
“No, Lauren. Don’t tell them I’m in the bathroom, they’ll think I’m taking a shit—just
let them sweat it out.”
“Okay.” She lingers. “Do you need anything? Lunch? Water? A chill pill?”
Jaw ticking, I make eye contact with her, unable to muster anything but a scowl. “Want
to keep your job, Lauren?”
I’m only half joking and she knows it.
She nods.
“Then leave. Now.”
She scurries away, slipping out the door so fast it slams on its own, leaving me in peace.
Once she’s out of sight, I lean back in my chair and pull on the collar of my dress shirt
that’s choking my neck. I hate it; I hate the rat race and having to find partners.
And I hate that I still
look for Peyton in the damn break rooms.
Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks since Peyton left. Three blasted weeks of piss-poor marketing
pitches. Three weeks of no erotic and funny emails. Three weeks of zero excitement in my
life. Three weeks of me acting like a goddamn moody bastard.
I don’t know if it’s because I miss the interaction with Peyton, if it’s because I’m at a
total loss with this women’s line the company is launching, or if it’s because I’m so goddamn
hard up and itching to bury my dick inside Peyton that I’m being a “hormonal bitch” as
Hunter so kindly put it.
“I can’t, Rome.”
I can’t.
Fuck. I can still hear Peyton’s words on a loop in my head. She can’t. She wouldn’t. How
the fuck is that possible? Were her emails just a way to break me down, to show my
vulnerability, to try to learn about me on a separate level so she could take me down when
she was ready?
Well, it fucking worked, because I feel like I’m losing my damn mind.
She’s all I think about.
I find myself rereading our messages and emails over and over again at night. I stare at
her company picture, at the Whitney Houston shirt picture, at the ass picture. I’m a pathetic
mess of a man who is supposed to be running a Fortune 500 company and yet, here I am,
staring at a company picture of a former employee.
Pathetic.
And yet, I’m angry as fuck too. I feel betrayed, like she chipped away at all my defenses
so I would share personal information with her, and then she . . . she left.
Had she planned to tell me who she was before she no longer had access to her emails? Or was she just going to finish that day and never contact me again? Why list all the things
she liked about me if was never going to talk to me again?
Why tell me she wanted to bang me if it was all a lie?
Even though it felt so very real. Raw. Honest.
She exposed me, made me want to find her . . . and then she just left. After all her talk of
wanting me, she left.
I shake my head and push my hand through my hair. Shit, my emotions are running
more erratic than a teenage girl’s at this point.
Pushing from my desk, I straighten my tie and try to be the professional that I am.
Adjust my pants, tighten my tie, check my cufflinks, put on my jacket.
Take a deep breath.
I got this.
I make my way to my door just as Hunter comes through, wearing a red flannel shirt,
jeans, and boots. “Dude, everyone is waiting for you in the conference room.”
I grind down on my teeth. “I’m aware.”
“Laughlin and Associates is ready to leave.”
“Then let them. They need my business. I don’t need them.”
Hunter scoffs. “After last week’s lackluster ad copy ideas, I’m going to guess you need
them more than they need us.”
I hate that he’s right even though I won’t admit that. My marketing department is
lacking in creativity. If they’re not copying Nike, they’re coming up with grade school-type
ideas that make me want to pull out every last strand of my hair.
“Well, I’m on my way now.” I push past him but not before he can take me by the arm
and stop me. “You have to let it go,” he whispers.
“Drop it.”
“Rome. It’s over. She’s done with. Let it the fuck go and move on because this brooding,
it’s not doing anything for you or the company. She fucked with you, I get that, but you can’t
keep harping on it. She’s not worth it.”
“I’m not harping on it.”
“You’re sulking.”
“Fuck you, Hunter.” I try to pull away, but he keeps me in place.
“Prove me w rong then. Get your head out of your ass and be the Rome Blackburn I
know.”
Why does this motherfucker always have to be right? Drives me crazy.
Freeing my arm from his grasp, I straighten my suit and say, “Are you coming? I want
you in this meeting.”
He eyes me up and down, trying to gauge my mood. I put on my mask and put Peyton
on the backburner. I can’t bring her into this meeting.
“Right behind you, boss.”
***
I hate that I want to know what Peyton thinks about these campaigns. I hate that with
every presentation, I try to imagine what Peyton would be saying, how she would pick them
apart like George said she’s done with previous campaigns we’ve done in-house. Yet I never
knew who she was. Not that I want to admit it, but she has an eye for this stuff and that
drives me crazy because that means she was right, and the last thing I want is to admit she
was right. Although, I know she would hate all of these, just like I hate them.
There is nothing special about them. They don’t highlight the line or make them stand
out. They don’t even touch upon the hiking, kayaking, or rock climbing portions of the
clothing line, only focusing on the running aspect. Running is a drop in the pool when it
comes to my company. We are outdoors adventure, not a goddamn running company.
What is so hard to understand about that?
“And that just about wraps it up,” the bald man from Maxwell Agency says. “What do
you think?”
It’s shit.
It’s all shit.
You lack creativity and basically you should retire because you have nothing special to
offer to our field of work.
But I don’t say that.
I take a sip of my water, swallow slowly and then cap my bottle. “Thank you for your
time.” I stand from my chair and button my suit jacket. Hunter follows behind me. “Thank
you all for your time. We have a lot to discuss. We will get back to you shortly.”
I give them all a curt nod and make a beeline for my office, Hunter hot on my heels.
The minute the glass door shuts behind us, we both let out a long, pent-up breath.
Staring each other down, we both break out in a laugh at the same time, not something I
partake in very often. But fuck, I can’t help it.
“That was a nightmare.” Hunter goes to my mini fridge and pulls out cheese sticks,
hands me one and takes one for himself. “Like a living nightmare. Did those people even
review their campaigns before presenting?”
I unfold the cheese stick and knock it against Hunter’s—Cheers!—before biting off half of it. “I don’t think anyone knew what the hell we were looking for in that meeting.” I think
back to the ideas thrown at us. “You have to admit though, the idea of matching what dog
you are according to your interests in the clothing line . . . that had real potential.”
“I think an intern from Buzzfeed came up with that shittastic idea. But I couldn’t help
but wonder—”
“What dog you would be?” I finish for him.
“I keep leaning toward huskie. Is that weird?”
“Nah, I see it.” I shove the rest of my cheese stick in my mouth.
“You’re totally the chihuahua.”
Both my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “You’re kidding, right? No way in hell I’m the
chihuahua. Pit bull, that’s me.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Hunter sits in one of my chairs and asks, “What are
you going to do?”
I take my seat across from him. “No fucking clue. Those were the top agencies in New
York City
, and the best idea was a dog test.” I run both my hands over my face. “Christ, are
we in trouble. I blame kids show—like Paw Patrol—they’re corrupting our society.”
“How do you even know what that show is?”
“Farrah is obsessed. It’s all she talks about when we FaceTime.” Naturally, I never miss
FaceTime chats with my sister Bailey, or niece Farrah. She is far too adorable.
Hunter nods. Farrah also has Hunter wrapped around her five-year-old, pint-sized
fingers.
Hunter nods. “How is Bailey doing? Still have the hottest legs in town?”
“Talk about my sister like that again, see where it gets you.”
He chuckles and presses both his hands behind his head, leaning back. “Well, looks like we might have to put the launch on hold, unless . . .” His voice trails off.
“Unless what?”
Why do I know where this is going?
Reaching into the pocket of his flannel shirt, he pulls out a business card and tosses it
on my desk.
Without even looking, I know what it is. Through my teeth, I say, “Over my dead body
am I calling her.”
“Because you’re a stubborn asswipe? Great, our women’s line is going to tank because
you’re too prideful to give her a call.”
“We can do better than her.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I hear George cry in his office every day over the loss of
Peyton. She was a huge asset to the team. We need her on this.”
“She left us.”
“To pursue her dreams, just like you did so many years ago, so you can’t fault her on
that, man.” He raps his knuckles on my desk when he leans forward. “If anything, call her so
we don’t have to use the dog test people. That’s company suicide right there.”
CHAPTER 17
PEYTON
Thirty-six.
That’s how many emails I’ve sent today to prospective clients, the list on my notepad
glaring at me because I have thirty-two more contacts to message.
I wanted every one to be personal, tailored to each client’s needs, and I’ve been at this table all damn day long. Pounding the pavement, as one would say.
I’m my own boss.
I work for myself.
I have my own office . . .
That’s a lie—I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and thank God they haven’t kicked me out
for loitering, because all I’ve bought from them was a medium ice tea, and that was at ten
o’clock this morning.