The material of his shirt stretches across his chest. Long gone is the relaxed Mr. Merman. The man’s face is no longer filled with lust and temptation. His dark scowl is a little terrifying. He grounds out through thinned lips, “You deserve much more.”
My mouth drops open. “It was only stuff. Maybe it’s for the best. This way I get to start over.”
He stands, stacking the dirty dishes expertly like he has waited tables before. I suspect there is more to the billionaire standing inches away from me. The sight of his T-shirt sleeves stretched taut around the bulge of his biceps has me wondering how many push-ups he can do and what it would be like to be under him while he does them.
With the last plate stacked, he says, “I’ve got a few emails and calls to make before I head out. Feel free to use my office, laptop, whatever you need.” He smiles, but it’s totally strained. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” I’m not even sure why I’m thanking him. All I know is that in the span of twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from feeling like a loser for not knowing my fiancé was cheating on me to constantly fantasizing about having sex with a complete stranger and maybe, just maybe, falling a little in love with Mr. Merman. I give myself a mental shake. No man is perfect. His interest and attentiveness might have me entranced, but he’ll reveal his faults sooner or later. He’ll prove me right—all men are workaholic jerks.
Chapter 10
Damien
Walking into the empty kitchen, I dump the dishes in the sink. Eric’s nowhere in sight. Actually, it’s better he’s not nearby, or he might bear the brunt of my anger. I fantasize about slamming my fist into Clayton David Wesley Montgomery’s face. The weasel didn’t deserve Irene. A flash of guilt at having lied to her about having work to do spurs me down the hall to my office. I’m a goddamn hypocrite. No better than Clayton. Both of us are liars. Fuck me. I can’t believe I called her a know-it-all. What a douche I am!
I sit behind the desk and power up my laptop. Ignoring the notifications popping up, I shoot an email to Charlie, asking him to gather everything we have on Clayton. It’s not my usual MO to set out to fuck with some asshole’s life. After all, I’m a firm believer in karma, but dammit, what if Lydia had run into this jerk? Taking advantage of women is unforgivable. I’m going to ruin Clayton for all the women who believe themselves to be ugly ducklings. Liar. This urge to destroy another man’s reputation and business is purely for Irene. That can’t be right. I’ve only known her a couple of days. I run my hand through my hair. I’ll get revenge for Irene, yeah, but only because she’s one of those women like Lydia who assholes like Clayton prey upon.
I slam the screen shut before I get distracted by the emails sitting in my inbox. None of them is important. Assisting Irene is.
I swivel around to face the window. The glinting sun against the sand mirrors the heat blazing through my veins. Pulling out my phone, my fingers hover over the contact info of Mitch Talbot, President of Harwood Publishing. I never interfere with the running of a subsidiary, but the thought of Irene renting some dingy apartment sparks my caveman desires to protect her. A primal need strong enough to evoke thoughts of asking her to move in with me. I’ve never even asked a girlfriend to move in. Resting my head back against the chair, I close my eyes.
It’s insane to consider having a woman I only met days ago live with me. Why aren’t I worried about what might happen if things don’t work out? She really is a siren. Irene has cast some spell over me.
I’d be no better than fucking Montgomery if I manipulate her situation, so I tap the screen and instead of calling Talbot, I search for her books. Nothing. She must use a pseudonym. I hate the idea of calling Lydia again, but I have no choice. I pinch the bridge of my nose, pulling up my favorites.
It rings twice before my overzealous sister’s voice pierces my ears. “When do I get to meet her?”
“What name does she write under?”
“Oh my God, you own the publishing company that sells her books. How do you not know?”
“Funny thing, Lydia. Crestwater owns more than thirty subsidiaries. You can’t expect me to know every little detail about all of them.”
“But you work all the time. I thought you knew everything.”
“Not in the mood, Lydia.”
“Fine. Promise I’ll get to meet her, and I’ll tell you.”
I fully intend to try and set up a lunch or something, but there is a real possibility Irene might refuse my invitation. Dammit. I hate disappointing Lydia, so I remain quiet.
She sighs. “Fine, her pseudonym is Christina Hannover. Not that you couldn’t have just searched for books with her real name.”
“I did search for Irene Gilliard.” I squint at the search bar. Fuck me. I typed in Gillard and missed a fucking I. I’m a moron.
“Then you would have seen Irene hits both the New York Times and a USA Today bestsellers’ lists with every book she releases. She makes you a ton of money.”
None of it is adding up. If her books sell that well, it can’t really amount to mere pocket change.
“Damien?”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m here.”
“Please don’t tell me her breakup is making her think about quitting. Millions of tweens need her books. You have to fix this.”
“What makes you think I can do anything?”
“You’re my big brother.” Like that fact means something.
“Don’t worry, I think she’s planning on taking some time to sketch while she’s here.”
“You know I was joking last night about getting into her pants, right? I can’t imagine what made her decide not to show up for her wedding, but no matter the reason, it must have been hard. Oh, and just so you know, the gossip columns say she and her fiancé are getting married somewhere private.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Montgomery gave a statement saying he loves her, and he’s going to give her the secluded wedding she always wanted. The tabloids are eating it up as the most romantic story ever.”
“Fuck that. He’s never going to get close to her again.”
“Wow, she’s either amazing or a damsel in distress. You never could resist a woman in need.” Lydia pauses, and in a tone she rarely uses, says, “You said she needed a friend, Damien. Go with your gut. You’re always irritatingly right.”
“Glad to hear you think so. But maybe you’re right . . . I should try to get into her pants.” Everyone knows rebound sex is fun. Exciting with no strings attached. I shake my head. Irene isn’t the type to have casual sex. And if my intuition is right, I doubt I’ll be satisfied with a one-night stand with her.
“Like I said, go with your instincts, big bro.” Matt calls out to her to hurry up. “I gotta go. Call me later if you can.” Lydia is gone. She never says goodbye before hanging up the phone.
I stare at the blackened screen of my laptop. It’s unbelievable that cheating bastard is spreading lies about what is going on with Irene and him. Fuck. Every fiber in me wants to protect her from him. My caveman instincts kick into gear, and all I want to do is stomp outside, drag her to my bedroom, and fuck her until she forgets all about the asshole.
The door swings open. A distracted Irene walks in, headphones in her ears and her pretty mouth partway open. She sees me and freezes just as the door clicks shut behind her. “Oh, sorry. I thought you’d already left.”
Instinctively, I groan. How many times have I been cornered in a room by a woman hoping to track me down alone? But the groan isn’t because I’ve been found, but from guilt at my lack of control over my imagination. Her genuinely surprised look makes me feel two inches tall.
I stand and offer my spot. “I’m done. I was just deciding if I should . . .” I can’t tell her the truth, and I suspect she’d know if I was lying.
“It’s okay. I’m in no rush and can come back later.”
I grab for her hand like I need to touch her. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
She gives me a weary look even though she lets me guide her to the chair behind the desk. I crouch down and focus on our joined hands now resting on her perfect thigh.
“Why are you acting all weird?”
“I was talking to my sister, and she said the tabloids . . .”
Irene cuts me off. “Are having a field day? I’m sure. No doubt running corny headlines about me running or hiding again.”
“Uh . . .” She must have read them yesterday before her phone died. “No. Today’s story is more like you and Mr. Cheater are marrying in secret somewhere.”
“What?” She pulls her hand out of mine and swings around to face my laptop.
The bizarre need to protect her makes me pick her up, depositing her on my lap and wrapping my arms around her waist.
She peers over her shoulder with a frown. “Is it really that bad?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t search for myself, but from what my sister said, it might be bad. Do you mind if I hold you?”
Her lips curve into a smile, but as she turns to face the laptop screen, she takes a deep breath. I wait for her to touch the keys, but she’s quiet, leaning back a little. The feeling radiating in my chest is better than sex. This woman provokes the things in me I often read out loud to my grandma.
“You don’t have to do this, now or ever. Tell me what you need done, and I’ll have my assistant arrange everything.”
She shifts in my lap and faces me. “You’re sweet, but I’ll have to deal with it eventually. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”
I place a soft kiss upon her shoulder. She gasps.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have,” I quickly apologize.
She cups my face. I can’t look away from her glittering blue eyes. Her gaze is lit with . . . Dammit. Every descriptor falls short. Irene leans in, and all the muscles in my body scream to get closer to her. But I want her to know she’s in control and it’s safe to be herself with me. When her lips gently brush against mine, I stick my tongue out for a quick taste. Heaven. I knew this would be delectable, but fuck me, I want more. Pressing my lips to hers once more, they part just enough for me to run the tip of my tongue over her bottom lip.
I’m an ass for wanting her lips on mine, especially knowing she’s vulnerable right now. But instead of doing the right thing like I always do, I let my hands roam and cup her breast. Her soft flesh molds into my hand and creates a desire within me that brings stars into my peripheral vision. My fingers tense as the urge to lick and suckle her until she moans my name increases. Irene’s kisses are soft and artless. Years of mastering the skill of kissing goes out the window. I do as Lydia suggested—I kiss the shit out of Irene. Or is she the one kissing me senseless?
With her hand on my chest, Irene pulls back for a breath. I let my hand fall to rest on her thigh, although I’d rather hike up her dress and fully touch her, skin on skin. Stealing her lips for another kiss, the word forever replays over and over in my mind. Flinching backward, Irene stares at me. “Did you just say . . . ?”
I cut her off before she can confirm I’d lost all control over the situation. “Ignore me.”
She searches my face. Her eyes are a little glassy, which makes me crave her even more. I’m pretty sure she can feel my erection pressing against her ass, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Irene grazes her top teeth over her rosy bottom lip. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Giving me the confidence and strength to do what I need to.” She wiggles and shifts to face the desk. With her ass firmly pressed into my groin, she leans forward and types her name into the search bar.
I grip her hips because it’s the safest place to put my hands right now. Peeking around her, I see the fake headlines. Wed at a mystery location. Romantic getaway wedding. As I read each one, my fingers dig into her and I tamp down the urge to reach out and slam the screen down so she doesn’t have to read more torrid lies about her life.
Irene’s shoulders shake. Fuck. She’s crying, and my dick is still rock hard, aching to be inside her. But then a giggle escapes her, and I relax my fingers as I rest my forehead against the center of her back. “What do you find so funny?”
“My imagination.”
My confusion must be because of the lack of blood flowing to my brain. “Huh?” Great, now I can’t even make a complete sentence. The prodigal grandson who inherited a legacy can’t put two words together. My grandfather is probably looking down at me, bent over in laughter at the fact his grandson is struck speechless by a woman.
“It’s hilarious they think Clayton is marrying me on some exotic island when he’s probably nailing Melissa somewhere.”
“Are we allowed to use names now?”
“Sorry, momentary slip. But I wonder where Mr. Lying-Cheating-Ass took Miss Homewrecker.”
“Ooh . . . you’re good at the name thing. But what if Mr. Not-Good-Enough-For-You really is looking for you and wants to win you back?”
She frowns and gives me the as if look Lydia has trained me to identify.
“No, seriously. Would you take him back if he promised he’d never cheat again?”
Please say no.
“I know we just met yesterday, but do you really think I’m that stupid?”
“I would never suggest you lacked intelligence, but you kinda seem the trusting sort.”
“Hmm. I admit I’m trusting, but once a person loses the trust, there is no gaining it back—ever.”
The steel edge in her words tells me she’s not referring only to her ex. Better to not use real names. It’s safer and less personal.
“Should I trust you?”
I nod because, again, my brain isn’t functioning. She reaches for my hand and leads me out of the office and down the hall to her room. I walk close behind her. There is no way I’m letting any of the staff see me with a full-on boner. It’s been years since my cock had a mind of its own. Yet the occasional brush of Irene’s ass against me tests the tenuous hold on my self-control.
She doesn’t strike me as the type to initiate kisses or sex, but her intentions are clear when she pushes me back to sit on the bed. Sliding to stand between my legs, she pulls my T-shirt over my head and then drops to her knees. As a teenager, I fantasized about having a girlfriend with girl-next-door looks and innocence go down on me. It never happened, but finally, at thirty-four, my dreams might come true. With an innocent yet wicked smile, Irene reaches for my waistband. I haven’t wanted anything so badly in years. After helping her get my shorts and briefs off, she licks her lips and I nearly lose my load.
Irene glances up at me, the tip of her tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth. “Can I . . . ?”
“Fuck yes,” I croak out before she can even finish her question.
She doesn’t hesitate, wrapping her hand around my cock and guiding the tip over her lips, spreading the pre-cum like she’s applying lip gloss. Dammit, I’m so close to losing it. I groan as she slides her mouth all the way down my shaft, wanting her to take all of me. She shifts her hand lower, her lips slipping up another half inch, but I’m not all the way in. To avoid choking her, I pull back a little, but she tightens her grip and I freeze. Threading my fingers through her hair, I pull it to the side. She’s beautiful. I grip her hair in my fist as she slowly bobs up and down on my dick. I’ve had plenty of blow jobs in my life, but the sight of Irene between my legs swallowing my cock causes wild thoughts to flash in front of me like a neon light, like how to fucking make this woman mine forever.
Chapter 11
Irene
The gentle tug on my hair, the pure bliss on Mr. Merman’s face, and the fact he isn’t jamming his dick down my throat has me wanting to give this man a blow job for hours. When I was basically dry humping him in his office, I knew he’d be big, but my estimations were far from accurate. No matter how much I try to relax, there’s just no way I’m stuffing all of him in me. My courage and confidence swell with each deep grunt. I’m soaked bet
ween my legs. It’s obvious to me now that I prefer men who are vocal in the bedroom. And when he tries to pull out, all I can think about is taking him in deeper. I can tell Mr. Merman is holding back.
When he tugs a little harder on my hair, I relent and release him. Except I’m not totally done tasting him. I run my tongue around the tip of his cock one more time, licking off the salty pre-cum I think might be my new favorite flavor.
“Fuuuck,” he hisses. All I can think of is how I’m going to get this man to scream my name. No one I’ve ever slept with has even uttered my name during sex. I’ve heard babe and sweetheart occasionally, but never anything reinforcing they were having sex with me. I’d love nothing more than for him to lose all control since I’m pretty sure Mr. Merman never lets his guard down all the way. No doubt he’s always the alpha in a room.
His thick, muscular thighs twitch beneath my palms as I glance up at him.
He leans forward to kiss me and helps me to my feet. Standing over him, I get to dictate the kiss. Hovering over this powerful man sends a surge of adrenaline through me. I can see the appeal of being the one in control. His hands graze up along the outside of my legs, hitching up my dress. I don’t hesitate. Free to crawl onto his lap and straddle him, I make the most of the opportunity. I’m not wearing panties. My skin is still tender from the sun yesterday, meaning I didn’t torture myself with wearing either a bra or panties. I’m extremely grateful for that now. I could sink down on his hard, thick cock. Years of rejection and lack of interest from men spark doubts. Does he really want to go all the way with me? I settle back on his thighs instead.
A little breathless, Mr. Merman lifts my chin and stares down at me. “I want you.” He didn’t say my name or even come close to screaming it, but the way he says you pierces my heart. He isn’t referring to the timid me who never initiates intimate contact. No, he wants the me who needs to experience it all.
I nod and lean back slightly, raising my arms up in the air. He skims his hands over my sides as he lifts my dress over my head and throws the slip of material behind me.
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