I focused on Mr. Bryant. “Valid points, Mr. Bryant, but what if opening a new line for darker, more edgier content brings in even higher sales?”
“Some things aren’t about money.”
My ass they aren’t, especially to people like you.
He sat back, the vest he wore under his three-thousand-dollar suit stretched so far over his chest and stomach I anticipated the buttons popping off any second. “As an owner, our company’s reputation means something to me. I won’t have it compromised.”
I sat up straighter. Stuffy, elitist, ass! I’d never liked Mr. Bryant, but Mr. Carlyle could persuade him if he bought into this expansion.
I ran a finger over the top of Jaxxon’s hand before bringing both of mine up, and interlocking them in front of me. He skimmed his hand back up my thigh.
Now or never.
I met Mr. Bryant’s condescending gaze. “Nor would I, but think of our reputation if we gave a voice to authors who are marginalized because their content is unfairly denigrated. These authors already have established audiences. I get countless submissions from authors who write edgy and provocative dark romance that incorporates BDSM, LGBTQ, and dominant and submissive storylines. These authors give a voice to those unspoken for, and sate their readers’ craving for the harder, darker reads.”
When he just stared at me, I pushed. “Why do you think self-publishing has reconfigured the face of modern publishing? Because authors can bypass staunch house structures and bring their stories straight to their readers. I believe adding a line of dark romance and edgy erotica is not only a financial benefit for the house, but it also builds our reputation as a house who knows their readers and delivers what they want to read, no matter the genre. If that isn’t an overall win for our house’s reputation, I’m not sure what is.”
Mr. Bryant glanced around the table. “I don’t think adding a line that caters to kink or those horrific novels that deal with captives and whatnot is an upgrade for our reputation.”
Captives . . . You holier-than-thou, self-righteous prick. You’re probably kinkier than half the population in this state.
“Why not?” I asked him. “There’s an audience for it. Why should we deny our readers what it is they want to read? Things change. The world changes. Your genre readers will stay in their genres because they’re loyal, but let’s offer the genre not offered. Let’s give readers the line that the sales prove they want. I think it’s worth the risk.”
Before Mr. Bryant could speak up, Mr. Carlyle sat forward, grabbing the table’s attention. “Toni. Have you read these authors?”
“As many as I can get my hands on, yes.” I answered. “When I became flooded with queries about stories I know houses traditionally consider controversial, I started researching and reading the top authors in those niches. Their fan bases are loyal and they’re voracious readers. Read the authors’ websites, look at their social media accounts, read their reviews. The facts speak for themselves. I have a file of established authors in this genre, and I have a separate file of submissions of both published and unpublished authors I think we should consider or court, should we launch this line.”
Mr. Carlyle studied me for a few minutes without saying a word. I hoped the perspiration heating my brow didn’t show. The catalyst was a toss-up—Jaxxon’s grip on my leg, or waiting for what felt like a death sentence. Mr. Bryant, or any of the other partners, could honestly fire or demote me for suggesting something this provocative. Mr. Carlyle was my lifeline.
At last, he nodded and sat back. “I like the idea. Henry.” He turned, addressing Mr. Bryant. “You, David, Stella, and I will weigh the pros and cons. I’ll go over Toni’s files, do some research of my own, and we’ll have a sit-down.” He turned to me. “Send it. Tonight.”
When Mr. Bryant grabbed his drink and acknowledged Mr. Carlyle with a salute, Mr. Carlyle leaned closer to me. “Well done, Ms. Durare.”
Polite conversation picked up soon after, and my lungs started working normally once again.
As dinner arrived, Jaxxon stood up, grabbing everyone at the table’s attention. The man couldn’t be subtle if he tried. He was too tall and too damn hot. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to take my lady outside for drink before dinner.” He pulled my chair out and I placed my hand in his.
“Toni.” Ms. Knolls, the head of art design, stopped us before we could turn to the balcony. “Does he model?”
I stifled the laugh and motioned to Jaxxon. “You can ask him.”
He inclined his head to Ms. Knolls. “I don’t. I’m an architect.”
“Pity,” she said and winked at him.
“If you’d have caught me fifteen years ago, I might have considered a career change.” With that, he led me toward the balcony doors, guiding me with his hand on my back once more.
Not only did my skin tingle where we touched, but the words my lady played over and over again in my head when I know he’d only said it to get me out of the room, for which I was more than grateful. That said, his presence, his hand, his voice, it was all strumming through my body like a seductive guitar melody.
“If I wasn’t already impressed with what I’d read online about you, you just took it to a new level. Well done, babe. That Bryant guy . . . fuckin’ tool. You handled him perfectly. Christ, even I was proud of you, and I had no idea about half the shit you were talking about. I did catch the kink part.” He held the door open for me with a wink.
“Of course you did. You’re male.”
“That I am.” He led me over to one of the small circular tables accompanied by two high-backed chairs. Pulling one out for me, he took the other one and brought it close enough so when he sat down, my legs rested between his.
“Can I ask you a question?” I studied his chiseled face. He’d pulled his long hair back in a ponytail tucked underneath the collar of his suit jacket. His eyes appeared almost a golden green against the black suit and olive shirt he had on under it.
“Anything,” he responded, moving his hands to rest on my knees.
“Is your oldest fifteen?”
“Almost. Brayden, my son, is fourteen. My daughter, Jessa, is ten. Why?”
I snickered. “Because you told Ms. Knolls ‘if she had caught you fifteen years ago,’ you might’ve considered her offer. Before you had kids. Your children might have had an issue with their dad being the next Fabio when they got older.”
“Shit, I’d crush that dude. He’s lucky I have kids.” He smoothed my hair behind my ear. “You look stunning tonight, fuckin’ gorgeous. I can’t keep my eyes off you, sugar.”
I uncrossed and crossed my legs before covering his hand with mine. “You’re kind,” I said, as the waitress approached.
“I’m honest. You want a drink? Might calm you down.”
“I don’t drink, but thank you. Ginger ale, please.”
“Ginger ale and a glass of water, when you have a second,” Jaxx said to the waitress before turning back to me. “So how much longer do we have to play nice?”
I sat back and moved my hands onto my thighs. “What do you mean?”
He roared with laughter before covering my hands again. “Do you misinterpret everything people say, or do you just do it with me?” He motioned inside with a nod of his head. “In there, babe. How much longer do we have to endure this?”
“Oh!” I covered my mouth with a hand, before waving at him. “It’s your fault. You set me up. Not long? They’re serving dinner now, but it’s not really our type of food—sorry about that. Let’s fake it for a bit and after dinner, I’ll excuse us. Is that okay?”
“Your call. I’m all yours tonight.” He took the drinks when the waitress came back, tipped her, and stood up. Handing me the ginger ale, he wrapped an arm around my back, resting his hand on my hip as he led me back toward the dining room. “Let’s make polite and I’ll call in an order to Jane Paul’s on the way back to your place.”
I smiled up at him, shocked at how comfortable
I was in his presence, and I realized something. I wasn’t afraid of him—I was afraid of my reaction to him. Jaxxon made me want things I’d never thought I’d want with a man. “You got a deal. Cheat night?”
He winked at me. “Oh yeah. Cheat night.”
16
Jaxxon
An hour after leaving the hotel, our town car pulled into Valentina’s driveway. The wind at the top of the hill whipped her hair around her face on her way up to her front door. Thank Christ my hands were full, because I didn’t think I could have stopped the urge to drive my hands through her hair and taste that mouth I’d been obsessing over the past few hours.
I held the door open and she immediately dropped down to greet the dogs. The back of her dress dipped lower, giving me a phenomenal view of the skin right above her ass. Fuck, did she even have anything on under that thing?
All I knew was I wanted to run my tongue over the dimples at the base of her spine and feel her tremble under my touch. Jesus, my greatest temptation had taken on the form of a dress.
Standing up, she closed the front door before reaching out for the bags. “I’ll set it up in the living room. I just have to shoot off that email first.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot.
She’d done a bang-up job of battling those heels all night, but her feet had to be killing her. She was more a gym-shoes-badass than stiletto-vixen, although she’d worked it like a pro.
“I got this,” I told her. “Go take off the stilts and do your thing.”
“Thank you,” she groaned, already reaching for one of the shoe straps. “Be right back.”
As she shuffled down her hallway, I brought the bags into the kitchen. Jesus, her home was insane. Black granite countertops ran two walls, the far side L-shaped with a bar counter that overlooked the living room. A huge-ass island sat in the middle of the kitchen with a rack hanging above it. The pots and pans were pristine like she never used them, yet still looked warm and lived in. Everything had its place and was immaculate.
I would’ve loved to see her lose that control she held onto like armor. I wanted to hear how her voice changed when she came. I wanted her fingernails in my goddamn back as I buried myself inside her heat—those toned legs locked around my waist, taking me deeper . . .
For fuck’s sake, it was like I hadn’t been laid in the last two months.
“You don’t want to eat in the living room?” she asked, her bare feet padding on the kitchen floor behind me.
“Let’s eat here and hit up TV after if you’re not too tired. That cool?” I had questions I needed answers to before I pressed this thing between us further.
Fact was, something about me unsettled her. I would damn well find out what the hell it was and squash that shit by the time I left this house.
She’d been comfortable with me all night. No problem with my presence or my touch at all, but that could have been the nerves. I had a different kind of touching in mind now, and I wasn’t sure if she’d be on board.
We sat down at the counter and I scooted my stool closer. Her gaze jumped to mine before dropping to my lips for a second. She did that a lot, and my blood pressure went strato-fucking-spheric every time. I knew desire when I saw it, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t give in to it.
I don’t know when I’d crossed over from keeping my shit contained with this woman to saying “fuck it” and giving it free rein. What I did know was she’d become something close to an addiction over the past month. She was a paradox I couldn’t figure out. I liked a challenge as much as the next asshole, but she was complex. I saw it in the insecurity behind her eyes every time she glanced away from me. A striking contradiction to her sharp tongue, iron will, and the confident businesswoman I’d witnessed in action tonight.
She’d hold eye contact with me until I said or did something to make her uncomfortable. I needed to know if it was a good or a bad uncomfortable.
Why? I wanted her. Straight-up.
Loading up one of the plates she’d taken down from a cupboard, I slid it in front of her.
“Thank you.” She glanced back at my mouth again before shifting her focus to the food.
I dropped a hand to her knee and squeezed. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna redefine your definition of dinner.”
She snapped her eyes to mine, her lips slightly parted. “Looking at you like what?”
I leaned in closer, her sweet cherry blossom and peach scent enveloping me. “Like you want me to kiss you, but you’re afraid of it.” I traced a circle around her knee through the slit of the dress. “For the record, that will happen, so you should get straight with it.”
“Oh!” She dropped her head into her hands. “Sorry. No. I didn’t mean to.” She glanced up at me, and for a split-second, something dark flashed behind her eyes. She gave a half-hearted laugh and turned away from me to refill her already full water glass, then situated her plate and silverware in front of her until they were perfectly symmetrical.
What in the good fuck . . . She was so fuckin’ anxious. My gut said not to push yet. But she’d been married almost ten years. Not like I was dealing with a virgin. How could she go four years without dating, without—fuck, without being with someone? Without fucking?
No question she was attracted to me—there was a serious attraction on both sides. It was in her body language, the way I’d catch her watching at me at times. She was fighting the hell out of whatever it was she was feeling and that shit needed to end.
Her avoidance had much less to do with hunger and more to do with the physical need I saw surface for a second. The attempt to ignore it by rearranging her dish, glass, and silverware about three goddamn times confirmed it.
The soft moan she let out after trying her food grabbed my attention, and didn’t do dick for any remaining good intentions I might have had.
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “I forgot how good Jane Paul’s garlic mashed potatoes are.” She shook her head and took another bite.
The fork took way too long to leave her mouth. If she were any other woman, I’d have said she was teasing me on purpose and she’d already be on her fucking back on the floor. But Valentina wasn’t. The rare thing was, especially at her age, I got part innocent, part locked up sex-kitten from her and I needed to release the latter.
“I love cheat night.” She moaned to me.
“You don’t cheat often, do you?” I asked.
“I don’t,” she admitted with a frown. “I’m rethinking that right about now. You?”
I served her more asparagus and the potatoes that had her moaning in a way I planned on being responsible for the second she’d let me. “When I have my kids. They’re sugar fiends. Can I ask you a personal question?”
That succulent mouth worked a bite of chicken as she nodded.
“Sex. How many partners?”
The choking stopped me cold. I spun toward her and ran a hand over her bare back.
Great timing, asshat.
Caught somewhere between choking and snorting, she took a long drink of water before glaring at me through wet eyes. “You genuinely have no filter. And I think you might be the most inquisitive male I’ve ever met.” She covered her mouth with a napkin and cleared her throat. “I thought men didn’t like too many questions either way. How did we go from sugar fiends to . . . sex? And why is this important?”
“No time for filters and I’m not most men. Take another sip.” I nodded at the water again. “It’s important, because I want to know you better.”
“You know enough about me.”
“Not even close.” I tucked her hair behind her ear. “You stay locked up fuckin’ tight.”
Her eyes widened and she shifted on her stool. “There’s not much to know. I’m boring.”
I didn’t even fight the urge. I reached up slow, giving her time to stop me, when she didn’t, I ran my thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re anything but boring.”
Taking my hand in b
oth of hers, she rested it on her lap and turned her upper body toward me. “Jaxx. The real me would bore you.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “But to answer your extremely personal question . . . My ex-husband, Rick. Just Rick. My sexual history begins and ends with him. I got a late start on the sex front. I met him when I was twenty-five.” Her shoulders rolled forward and she glanced down at our interlocked hands. “So . . . one.”
Shock settled in the pit of my stomach like freshly poured concrete. She could have said she turned into a motherfucking werewolf on a full moon—that might have been easier to digest. Twenty-five? She was twenty-fucking-five her first time? No goddamn way. But her slumped shoulders, downcast eyes and—Jesus, if I wasn’t wrong—shame that shut her down screamed she was serious, and explained a hell of a lot about her anxiety around me.
“Wasn’t any good for you, sugar?” I rested my hand on her shoulder and ran my thumb along the indention there. I wanted her familiar with my touch, because I wanted to fucking touch her when I wanted and how I wanted, selfish prick that I was. I wanted her used to me on every level. I’d never wanted inside a woman like I did her, and not just her body. I wanted to crack that nervous, tough exterior. Crack it—not kill it. I wanted to unleash her.
“It was what it was,” she spoke softly and turned back to her plate, cutting an asparagus stalk into even smaller pieces. “You know how my marriage ended, so you have your answer.”
The bite in her tone—oh, yeah. We had some issues there, but I wasn’t about to give her an out or let her shut down on me now. “Not really. It confirms he’s an asshole, but doesn’t say shit about you. You’ve slept with one man and the word man isn’t worthy of him. No man does to a woman what he did to you. He mans the fuck up and ends shit first. That’s the way I see it. So, is it sex you’ve been avoiding for four years, or something else?”
When she shifted to fully face me again, the slit in her dress caught on the wood of the stool and pulled the material so both legs were exposed to the top of her thighs. She frantically yanked on the right side to entirely cover that leg.
Phoenix (Flames & Ashes Book 1) Page 13