Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  “No way. It was good for my first day at headquarters.” I want to tell someone what happened between Christian and me, but I hesitate. Carolyn knows him. He won’t want this shared freely among his circle of friends. “The office is…” I search for the words even as I give her a huge grin. “High energy.”

  “That’s awesome!” she says, relief spreading visibly across her face. “I hate to say this, but I—I kind of forgot it was your first day. It seems like you’ve been here forever.”

  I laugh out loud. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes,” my roommate answers sincerely. “Jess would approve.”

  She crosses into the kitchen and I hear her open and close a drawer, then I hear her pop a cork from a bottle of wine. She reemerges a minute later with two stemless wine glasses. She kicks off her black high-heeled shoes, and joins me on the couch, letting out a happy sigh as she hands me a drink.

  “Cheers!” Carolyn says brightly, before we clink the glasses together, then take a celebratory sip.

  “Tell me about your day,” I say once she’s leaned back against the cushions. “What was so great about it?”

  “I quit my job!”

  My jaw drops. Carolyn has a trust fund—she’ll never want for money—but this seems like a drastic lifestyle change. “What?”

  She waves her hand dismissively in the air. “No, no, it’s not what you think. I’ve been planning this for a while, but with Jess moving out and you moving in…What’s happening is—” Carolyn leans in like she’s telling me a secret, her eyes sparkling. “I’m opening a clothing boutique two blocks west of here. It’s going to be eclectic—fashion pieces I’m going to source from all over the country, plus some of my own artistic pieces. I’ve got the startup money, and if it goes under—not that it’s going to—but if it goes under, I can always go back to media production.”

  “That’s amazing, Care!” I say, and as the words leave my mouth, I’m overwhelmed by how much I want to tell her about Christian. But I can’t. “Wine isn’t enough! We need food. Lots of food.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Carolyn can’t stop smiling about her newest venture.

  “Chinese!” we both say in unison, and break down in giggles.

  Once we’ve finished up the sweet and sour chicken and egg rolls and the credits have run for the final movie, my lust for Christian starts creeping back in, slowly ramping up throughout the evening until my entire body throbs. By the time Carolyn says goodnight, I’m coiled tight around my desire. We move through the apartment, turning off all the lights, checking to make sure the door is locked, and then I make a mad dash to my bedroom.

  After hastily brushing my teeth, I strip off the yoga pants and slide under the covers wearing my panties and tank top.

  I want him so badly.

  I could text him right now.

  That’s the worst part.

  I have his cell number in case I need to contact him outside of business hours for a PR emergency.

  This is an emergency, but it doesn’t have to do with his reputation…at least not yet.

  Instead, I slip my hand down across the smooth skin of my stomach, down, down underneath the silky fabric of my panties until my fingers make contact with my aching clit. Then, while imagining Christian’s hard masculine body pressed against me, I get myself off—once, then twice, before I fall asleep.

  I’m wishing I could spend most of the day somewhere private. It doesn’t help that Christian is my one and only client, so all my working hours are dedicated to him. Looking at his picture. Piecing together a tentative schedule of social appearances designed to smooth out the rough edges of his reputation to convince the public that that he’s mature and professional enough to run a Fortune 500 company.

  My attention is focused on Christian, but I can’t concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing, only the hot, steady pulsing between my legs, begging for a release that can’t be satisfied in the office.

  Christian could help me with that, though, the voice in my head taunts me.

  “Ha.” I let out a short burst of laughter under my breath. Christian Pierce could give me what I needed at any time and in virtually any location. I’m positive about that.

  He said he would see me before our meeting tomorrow. That meeting is at ten o’clock.

  As the hours crawl by, the possibility of seeing him today becomes completely distracting. I want to do nothing but lean back in my chair and imagine all the things we could do together—all the things that he could do to me—but through sheer willpower, I force myself to doggedly keep building the schedule of appearances, keep writing sample press releases, keep my phone tucked into my purse.

  If he wants to see me, he’ll call.

  There’s always the chance that he didn’t mean what he said. I’ve met plenty of rich, arrogant guys who go back on their word or make promises with no intention of keeping them. I’ve been engaged to one such asshole who never meant what he said, so it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve fallen for someone like that.

  I’m wound so tight that by the time five o’clock rolls around and the office empties out, I can’t bring myself to leave. I stare at my computer screen, finishing tasks that could very easily be left for tomorrow, until it’s nearly six o’clock.

  He still hasn’t called or sent a message of any kind.

  My heart sinks as I ride the elevator down to the lobby alone. Unless he’s planning some early-morning rendezvous—and how could he do that without letting Carolyn in on it?—then his word was a playful half-promise, not to be trusted.

  My disappointment shocks me.

  Until I see the Town Car pulled up to the curb, the driver leaning against it.

  He straightens to his full height when he sees me coming. “Ms. Campbell?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” I answer, my heart starting to beat heavily. Whose car is this? I didn’t order a ride home. Should I be ready to run in case this is some kind of bizarre kidnapping attempt?

  “Mr. Pierce sent me to pick you up. He’d like to meet with you.”

  I bite my lip, hesitating. This is so wrong. It’s such a risk. I should leave right now and put an end to this whole thing.

  “Can I see your I.D.?” I say, buying myself a little more time.

  The man produces an I.D. wallet and shows it to me, smiling so that his expression matches the photo on his license. His name is Louis.

  “How do I know you work for Mr. Pierce?”

  He pulls a cell phone from his jacket pocket and presses a single button. Waits for one second. Christian’s voice sounds from the other end of the line. “Pierce,” he says.

  “Ms. Campbell would like to make sure I work for you.” Then he hands me the phone.

  “Hello?” I say, trying to keep my cool.

  “It’s me,” Christian says, and the sound of his voice makes my insides melt. “Come to me. Right now.”

  I hang up the call.

  I can still walk away.

  This could all be over.

  But I don’t.

  I give Louis a single nod, and he reaches across in front of me and pulls open the door of the Town Car. I scramble into the back seat, and he closes the door behind me.

  Here goes nothing.

  16

  Christian

  Even after the phone call, I’m still not entirely certain that she’s going to show. Louis sent me a message saying that they were en route, but it’s not like he’s going to flip her over his shoulder and haul her up here if she changes her mind. This entire thing is taking much longer than I thought it would. I’d figured Quinn for the type who would leave the office right at five, and instead Louis lingered out by the curb for a full hour before she showed.

  A full hour of me, pacing this apartment, my heart pounding like it’s banging on the door of my chest.

  I take another lap around my space on the Upper East Side. It’s significantly smaller than my penthouse in Midtown, but it serves its p
urpose: having a place to entertain women that reveals nothing whatsoever about the real me.

  I chose all the furniture, of course. Well, I chose the designer who chose the furniture according to my specifications. I have the place cleaned once a week, but it’s more like a hotel suite than a truly lived-in space.

  I have plenty of personal things here. The closets are stocked with my clothes, and the bathroom has a full complement of towels embroidered with my initials. The design still looks strange, after all this time, but the towels are plush as hell and the cleaning woman arranges them perfectly every time she’s here.

  There’s nothing truly personal.

  There are no family photos and only a few token books. For a while, back in high school, I kept a journal—who the hell knows why—but I’ve long since broken myself of the habit of writing down any kind of detailed accounting of my life.

  It’s too risky.

  Jesus Christ, how long does it take to drive here?

  I’m desperate to see her, even though the smallest part of me hopes she won’t arrive.

  If Quinn sidesteps this like a true professional, if she puts that insane, hot connection between us second to her work priorities, it will make my life significantly easier in the long run.

  Would it?

  The pesky devil’s advocate taunting me from the back of my mind can’t shut his mouth. I don’t know. That’s the bitch of it. I don’t know if it would be easier, in the long run, to live without someone like Quinn.

  That’s a cop-out. To live without Quinn.

  There’s something about this woman that I can’t shake. I can’t go on without fully exploring her and learning everything there is to know about her. Who knows—maybe we’re a total mismatch, but the way her body felt against mine, the way her mouth opened to let my tongue have its way with hers, the way she kissed me back—it all tells me that we’re perfectly matched, we’re so compatible that it would be an utter waste to stay away from each other.

  It’s like lighting a match near gasoline. One of us is going to go up in flames, and I have no doubt that person is going to be me.

  I can never tell her.

  What would Quinn even say if she knew? If she knew the truth about me?

  I am one hundred percent certain that she would react coolly to finding out that—

  I shake my head, ending it there. I can’t go there. I can’t. It’s been too long. Nobody would take that kind of news in stride, much less someone who was in love with me.

  Oh, my God. She’s not in love with me. We’re not in love.

  Aren’t you?

  I flop down on the sofa, putting a hand to my forehead.

  I can’t deny there’s a current of something running wild and deep and true between us, but what does that mean for the future? There are no guarantees. Not ever.

  I’m restless. I sit down and get back up again to look through the window at the street below.

  Out of the line of traffic, I see a black Town Car disengage from the main flow of traffic and head for the curb.

  Spinning on my heel, I turn away from the window. I don’t want to see if she’s standing me up.

  Taking in a deep breath, I try to force myself to be calm, cool, collected. The truth is, I remind myself sternly, this, right now, is about the fact that the two of you need to have your hands on one another. There’s no point in speculating about what that means. There’s no point in getting hung up on the possibility of a relationship you can never have. You are still in control.

  I’m in control.

  There’s a soft knock at the front door of my apartment. My heart pounds, control or not.

  I make my way to the door with slow, measured steps. I won’t give myself away by rushing to open it.

  The doorknob is cool and smooth under my hand as I twist it, pulling the heavy door open.

  She came.

  Quinn stands in the hallway wearing an all-black ensemble that emphasizes the lithe lines of her waist and hips. Her dark hair is pulled back into a gleaming twist at the back of her head.

  She looks gorgeous.

  Her breath is already coming hard in her chest, and for a long moment we both stand there, staring into each other’s eyes. There’s pink color rising in her cheeks, coloring her creamy skin with a delicate blush.

  The moment shatters, breaks, and then the pieces spin back together.

  I reach for her hand.

  I pull her inside.

  I close the door behind her.

  Then she’s on me like an animal, arms flung around my neck, grasping, her mouth crashing against my mouth, her teeth biting at my lip. Her shoes fall from her feet and onto the floor as I lift her up in my arms. She wraps her lithe legs tightly around my waist, and I flex my muscles, bringing her in closer even as I taste her so deeply that it makes the kiss we shared in the office seem like a peck on the cheek.

  I’m drowning in her.

  I love it.

  I’m so fucked.

  17

  Quinn

  I am silent on the ride from Midtown to the Upper East Side, but my mind buzzes and hums with thoughts of him. My lips still burn with yesterday’s kiss. The space between my legs has been soaked with my desire since he left me.

  He could be my downfall, but my body can’t resist him.

  The moment I got into the car, it was all over.

  Once the decision was made, my mind went into a kind of sexual overdrive, and as Louis steers the car through the New York City traffic, I look out the window but see nothing. Not the buildings, not the people hustling by, not an ounce of the life that teems here in the concrete jungle. I am consumed with imagining Christian and his touch, his kiss, his body.

  Maybe he’s already dismissed what happened earlier and intends to show me, right now, that it was a one-time mistake that won’t be repeated. Maybe he’s going to sit me down across from a desk in one of his private buildings somewhere and ask me to discuss the plans I’ve come up with to enhance his image. Maybe that’s how he works—he draws you in and then, when he has you where he wants you, hook, line, and sinker, he lets you dangle before cutting the rope and watching you fall.

  I shake my head, my lips pressed together. No. This can’t be related to the work I do for him in the office. I felt the passion in our kiss. I felt the mutual need, so hot it almost scorched the walls of my office.

  He’s summoning me because he can’t bear to be away from me one second longer.

  I know how he feels.

  I don’t know what it is about him that’s making me so crazy, so willing to disregard my commitment to professionalism and sneak away to do God knows what with one of my clients on the second day at my new job. And it can’t be that his body makes my mouth water even when it’s hidden under tailored suits, not an inch of skin showing. It’s more than that, but what? Is it the look in his eyes when he talks to me? Is it the electricity that charges through our veins when we both touch? Is it something deeper, wilder?

  The car comes to a stop, parking curbside somewhere north of Midtown.

  We’re here.

  Louis gives me a key card. “Use this to access the elevator inside. The doorman is expecting you. Top floor.” Then he turns and gets back into the Town Car without another word.

  I take a deep breath, force myself to stand up straight, and lift my chin in an attempt to gather a burst of confidence before moving inside the building.

  He wants me to be here, and I want to be here. The only thing left to do is let this scene play out.

  I stride confidently into the lobby of the building, It’s fairly nondescript, although there are small touches of luxury everywhere I look—marble flooring and countertops in the lobby, a uniformed doorman who gives me a wink and a smile as I go past, my heels echoing with every step, whisper-quiet elevators. The air inside is cool and comfortable, a welcome break from the summer heat.

  The elevator doors slide open as soon as I wave the card in front of one of the scann
ers embedded in the wall. Blessedly, the car is empty, so I’m left in peace to push the button for the eighth floor. The penthouse.

  Moments later, the elevator deposits me in a silent plushly carpeted hallway. Five steps away from the elevator, a single door is set into an alcove in the wall.

  If I lose my nerve now, I’ll never go in. I step up to the door and rap on it lightly with my knuckles.

  Then I wait.

  It seems to take forever before the door opens, the moments dripping languidly down the chain of time as if my heart is not pounding, as if my mouth is not suddenly dry.

  The door swings inward.

  There he is.

  I look into his crystalline blue eyes for one long moment. Finally, he extends his hand to grasp mine, and he pulls me inside the entryway, closing the door behind us. He turns to face me.

  I cannot remain silent and still.

  My need, my overflowing lust boils over.

  No, I cannot remain silent and still another second.

  I throw myself at him. As soon as our bodies connect I wrap my arms around his neck. Our lips lock together like we’re on a plane plummeting toward the ocean and have only moments left to live, and I plunge my tongue deeply into his mouth, I bite at his lip. He responds to me in kind like he can’t control his animalistic urge. Without realizing it, I wrap both my legs around his waist, hiking my skirt up around my hips. His arms flex against me, pressing me even tighter into his hard body. We fit together. Perfectly.

  He lets out a low groan and puts one hand to the back of my head, taking control of the kiss, forcing his tongue into my mouth to taste and devour, and then he’s moving us, still hooked together, through the apartment. Moments later, we’re in his bedroom. He tips us both onto the bed, crawling on and over me, his arms on either side of me as he dives in for another kiss that draws a whimper from me.

  I need him and he knows it.