Tiffany: Of course. Oh, and boredom is not allowed. I dare you . . .
I see those three dots pop up and my breath comes faster, waiting to see what she types. I don’t even know what the dare is yet, but the anticipation and excitement are brewing.
Tiffany: I dare you . . . to tell him to put your skills to better use. I can’t wait to see if he takes the safe route and gives you some copies to make or if tells you get on your knees and suck him off. Proof’s in the pudding what kind of man he is, and don’t we all want to know? Wonder if he eats pineapples?
I gasp as I read it and then glance up at Colton’s throat clearing sharply.
“Miss Stryker, may I?”
He holds his hand out, and I get up, walking toward him. Uncertainly, I lay my hand on his, not sure at all that holding his hand is appropriate or why he wants to, but I do it anyway. His hand feels soft, strong against mine, an unexpected intimacy.
A smile blooms so slowly that I watch it grow . . . lips pressed firmly together, relaxing, tilting up, lips parting, and then the flash of white teeth. Oh, fuck, is that a dimple?
Colton squeezes my hand but reaches with his other. “I meant the phone, Miss Stryker.”
I grasp it my chest, out of his reach, but he uses the hand he’s still holding to pull me toward him.
“Company phone, company time, and I’m your boss. I believe I’m entitled to confirm that you’re upholding the rules and not divulging team secrets already.” There’s not a doubt in my mind that he doesn’t think that. He just wants to know what made me gasp, and instead of asking like a regular human being, he’s making a power play.
Pisses me off. But under the anger is embarrassment.
I push through the blush I can feel on my face and shove my phone his way. Fine, if this is how he wants it, he can damn well see.
His brows rise as he reads Tiffany’s last text. “First, explain pineapples to me. Is that an American idiom I’m unaware of?”
Oh, I thought I was blushing with embarrassment. But nope, this right here . . . this is embarrassment. I’m not shy about sex or anything, but this conversation is about to go seriously haywire.
I lick my lips, searching for the safest way to say this. “It’s an old wives’ tale. If you eat a lot of pineapple, it makes you sweeter.” I gesture vaguely to his crotch, hoping he catches the drift.
“Sweeter?” he says, but his lips are twitching again.
Motherfucker. He’s playing me again. Well, fine fucking dandy. Two can play this game. I lose the shyness and go straight for the jugular. I plaster a big, fake customer service smile on my face and explain crisply.
“If you eat pineapple, it’ll make your jizz sweeter so women don’t mind swallowing when you fuck their face and come down their throat. In return, if a woman eats it, her juices are tastier too. Encourages reciprocal oral sex. If there’s nothing else, sir, perhaps I could get back to work? If you’d like to actually give me any? I could order fresh cut pineapple to be delivered to your home, if you’d like?”
That’s it. He’s going to call HR in 3, 2, 1 . . .
His face goes blank and then his brows lift in surprise before they slam back down and heat takes over. He growls, his voice deep and rough. “Yes, order me a pineapple, Miss Stryker.”
Well hell, I didn’t expect that reaction to my outburst. I nibble my lip, knowing it’s a bad habit but feeling like I need to stop my mouth from running. I can feel the chaos churning through me. Or maybe that’s desire, hot and wild?
“And as for the dare?” He’s taunting me.
I stand straighter, smoothing my skirt with both hands now that he’s let them go. “I would like to stay busy and be of use—on the HQ2 project,” I add hastily and pointedly. “Put my skills and talents, as you so politely called them, to work.”
Dare done.
And we both know it. There’s a little extra fizz in the bubbles shooting through my veins right now, that familiar feeling of success and accomplishment, and he’s looking at me with what seems to be pride in his smile.
“Very well. I’ll send you a list of bullet points momentarily.” He lifts his chin, gesturing for me to return to my desk.
I’ll freely admit that I add an extra swoosh to my saunter across the room and that I take special delight in crossing my legs, knowing that though he’s looking at his computer screen, he’s all too aware of me.
Not just a dare done, but utter victory.
Ding.
My email chimes, and I look over his to-do list, but I feel his gaze and glance his way to find him eyeing my legs. Oh, yeah, Big Bad Wolfe, two can play this game and I’m a fucking winner. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on this,” I virtually purr.
I swear I hear the tiniest, quietest groan as he goes back to work, and I take that as a sign that he’s conceded this round. I get to work on the bulleted list.
The first item is actually to order a pineapple, and I jealously wonder who’s going to be swallowing him down, but then Colton has me running from one thing to another. Whether it’s going downstairs to retrieve a report, on my own computer doing research, sending emails, making copies, or more, it gives me time to think.
My computer clock ticks over to five o’clock, but Colton looks like he could go another eight hours fresh as a daisy except for his sexy, grizzled jawline.
Meanwhile, the only thing I want to do right now is get some Epsom salts and the big bucket under my sink and soak my feet. These heels are gorgeous and make my ass look fantastic, but they’re more ‘entrance’ shoes. As in, make your entrance and then sit your ass down.
They’d look sweet up in the air while you’re getting plowed, too, that devil on my shoulder says. Damn, Tiffany is such a horndog. Okay, maybe I am too, but I’ve been sniffing Colton’s pheromones all day.
In so many ways, he reminds me of Dad. Driven, hard-working, professional, all traits I admire. In a lot of ways, working with him today has made me ashamed of my antics with Tiffany downstairs. How could I think I was doing a good job when people like Colton are up here making me look like the class clown in the back of the room?
But then isn’t that one of the reasons he wanted me up here? To add a little bit of that crazy lightness to his day?
“Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe?” I ask as I set the latest report on his desk. “Will that be all?”
“Yes,” Colton says, not even looking up from the papers he’s reading. “Thank you.”
Deflated, I go to my desk and collect my things. Great . . . I didn’t do anything to note. Give me three weeks, and I’ll be back on the front desk—if I’m lucky to last that long.
“Miss Stryker . . . I spoke too soon,” Colton says, causing me to turn around. “What I meant was that your office work is done for the day.”
“Sir?”
Colton flashes that full-dimple grin, the one that says he knows he’s the shit and is also well aware that I know. “We’re having dinner tonight. Go home, relax, and change if you’d like. I’ll send a car around eight.”
“What?” The shout is not pretty or dainty in the least. It’d be enough to get Helen in here in she hadn’t already left for the day.
Colton’s left eyebrow, dark and inky, lifts. “I dare you . . . to have dinner with me. Let’s have some fun.”
The words rush through me, leaving heat in their wake. He’s got me and he damn well knows it.
“No car. If we’re going out for fun, I dare you . . . to give me a ride in that gorgeous Lotus, or no deal.” He knows I’m going with him regardless, but I can make some rules of my own.
“You like cars?” he asks, seeming surprised.
“I like speed and barely controlled horsepower under my foot, just waiting for me to let it run wild. You’re lucky I’m not daring you to let me drive that machine, which I’m barely holding myself back from because I do know my own limits, especially those of my insurance. They’d shit a brick if I dented that monster. So Lotus at eight or I’m going back inside, putting
on my least sexy pajamas, drinking a glass or two of wine, and watching Friends reruns.”
“I’ll take that dare. Eight, my Lotus, no not-sexy pajamas.”
He holds out his hand for us to shake on it, but when I place mine in his, he turns our grip, placing a gentlemanly kiss on the back of my hand. It’s old-fashioned and not especially intimate at all, but I can feel the brand of his lips on my skin.
“See you at eight . . . Elle.”
I turn and leave, my mind in a daze. All day long, I’ve been Miss Stryker to him.
Now I’m Elle?
I float down the hall toward the elevator, only to run into interference in the form of Billy. He waves a finger in the air, telling me to turn around. I knew it was too good to be true. There’s no way I was getting out of here today without this conversation with Dad, even though I’d hoped and wished and begged fate.
I steel my back and let Billy march me down the hall. It doesn’t escape my notice that this is the opposite of yesterday when I’d come up to talk to Dad and then been dragged into Colton’s office. Let’s just hope there’s not another dare in this conversation. I’m all for them, but at this point, I need to make sure I can keep everything straight.
Dad doesn’t smile when I enter this time, nor does he offer me a gross green juice. Small favors, I guess.
Instead, I have that little girl sensation of shrinking as he looks at me with disappointment.
Billy closes the door, and though I’ve been locked up with the Big, Bad Wolfe all day, only now do I feel in danger. “What’s up, Dad?” I say brightly, employing my nothing-to-see-here tactics. Hell, they worked when I was a teenager. Maybe they’ll work now. I cross my fingers behind my back.
“What the hell, baby girl?” Dad thunders. Billy cringes, and I fall to the leather couch. Quieter, he bites out, “I asked you to let me know if you heard anything sketchy. I specifically said not to do anything shady or go above and beyond, and what do you do? Go and get yourself assigned as Wolfe’s right hand for his HQ2 project?”
Dad plops to the other end of the couch, eyeing me like he can’t imagine what fanciful shit is going through my brain.
“Did it occur to you that this assignment might have absolutely nothing to do with you?” I know I sound bitter and pissy, but seriously? How narcissistic can my dad be? “Or that maybe, just maybe, I might actually be of help to his project?”
“So you think it’s a coincidence that Wolfe pulled my daughter out of the available clerical pool? You think this isn’t all about me, about my HQ2 presentation, about his HQ2 proposal?” He shakes his head, incredulous.
I grit my teeth. “Of course it’s not coincidence. He told me matter-of-factly that my last name on his project would irritate you and paint his project in a positive light comparatively. Not that it needs it, based on the tiny bit I’ve seen and what you’ve already said.”
Dad scoffs, knowing I’m right. They’ve both got good proposals, and either one would be a good choice for Fox.
“I’m well aware that I’m a pawn in whatever dick-measuring pissing match you have going on with him. What I expected was for you to be able to handle that and win anyway. You don’t need me and have been doing this longer than Colton. Just do your best, Dad. Isn’t that what you’d tell me?”
I raise my brows, daring him to dispute me. “Remember when I tried out for volleyball in junior high? What’d you tell me then?”
He sighs, lost to the past for a moment. “That you couldn’t control what Madison Kirkland did on the court, but you could control what you did and do your best and let the chips fall where they may. But she sprained her ankle before tryouts even happened, so that’s not exactly the same thing.”
Oh, shit. I forgot that part.
I look at Billy, who’s damn near whistling Dixie as he scans the ceiling for God knows what. I had made the volleyball team as a starter that year, and Madison hadn’t even tried out until the next year. Because that sprained ankle? It was an honest mistake, a real and true oops, but that might’ve been because Billy and Ricky were up to no good and Madison was an accidental casualty of the unsanctioned slip ‘n slide we’d popped up on the football field. She’d had no hard feelings about the matter, especially when Billy carried her books and backpack to class every day for weeks afterward.
“Just do your best, Dad, and let me do mine. In the end, it certainly won’t be me who has any real effect on the outcome unless you let this get to you. Trust me to be able to handle Colton and whatever game he’s up to.”
It’s a plea for sanity. And that’s just for the professional piece of this big clusterfuck. I haven’t mentioned that we’re going to dinner, nor am I going to, because I don’t think that’s relative to the situation at all. I’m not so green as to not consider that Colton might be manipulating me from every angle, but my gut—and other areas of my body and his—tell me that part of our arrangement is different.
“Colton? You’re calling him Colton? I like that even less,” Dad fumes dangerously.
I glare back just as dangerously. I learned it from him, after all. “Dad. Enough. You . . . work. I’ll work.” I wave my hands around like we’re beleaguered elves trying to make the deadline on Christmas Eve. “And it’ll be fine.”
I stand. “If you’ll excuse me, Tiff’s waiting downstairs for a ride.” I move to the door, but Billy doesn’t budge from his path-blocking battle stance.
He glances over my head and must get silent permission from Dad because he opens the door. I stick my tongue out at him like we’re kids again. I just can’t help it with him and Ricky. We grew up together, but somehow, when we get together, it’s like we never grew up at all.
He doesn’t do it back, though he licks his lips like he wants to but is oh-too-mature for that shit now. He’s not, so Dad must still be watching us.
“Tell Tiffany I said hello,” Dad says offhandedly from behind me.
“Sure thing,” I toss back, having zero intention of doing so.
Chapter 10
Colton
Leaving my suit for a moment, I head into my bathroom, showering quickly. The shower is always a great place to review my day, and as I do, all I can think about is Elle.
From the first moment I saw her this morning, looking like any gentleman’s vision of a professional, beautiful woman, to the way she kept up as I pushed her to do more and more, it was difficult today not to praise her.
She worked hard, and it was actually a boon for both me and Helen to have another pair of hands and set of eyes, but all day, Elle was distracting me. I’m sure I did a good job of hiding it, but every time she twisted in her desk, my eyes were glued to the way her breasts stretched the fabric of her blouse, the way the texture of her demure but sexy bra would imprint itself against the thin cotton. And the silky swish of her legs as she crossed and uncrossed them was nearly my undoing. I wanted to trace the polka dots on her hosiery like a connect-the-dot puzzle, seeing where they led.
By the time lunch came around, it was all I could do not to bend her over my desk and spank her bum pink before shagging her senseless in just those hose, the ridiculous heels, and that pearl necklace.
She even found time to gab a bit with her mate downstairs with a conversation that had initially befuddled me but then amused me quite a bit.
And that mouth! Not just the plump fullness of her lips but the wildly inappropriate things she says. The discussion about pineapples and the filthy words on her tongue had damn near sent me running for the en suite again, not giving a single fuck whether she could hear me jacking off. Hell, maybe I’d even want her to hear . . . to watch . . . to help.
As much as I want her, I’m intrigued by her. She knows exactly what she’s gotten herself into, or what her father and I have gotten her into, but she’s not resting on her laurels, letting herself be used. No, she still wants to work, wants to be useful and learn, and I can admire and appreciate that.
I consider wanking off before dinner tonight, knowi
ng it might be the prudent course of action after a day of blue balls. But I want to wait, want to see what adventures the evening holds. Not that I think I’ll be getting off with Elle tonight, but a man can fantasize.
I get dressed, pulling a navy suit from my closet. I refuse to call the trousers pants. I’ve not been that Americanized just yet, but I do give in and skip the tie, leaving the top two buttons casually undone before pulling on the matching jacket. The suit’s just right for the evening, slightly less formal than what I wear for work but still slim fitting and showing off my broad shoulders.
I sit in my Lotus, letting the purr of the engine work its magic before I pull out of the garage and into the street. The traffic is slightly lighter this late, but what little there is, I’m able to dodge as I eat up the road and the minutes until I can see Elle again.
Of course I checked on where Elle lives, and it surprised me when I traced the address from her file.
Her flat is in a reasonable, middle-class part of town. But that’s just it. Daniel Stryker’s an executive for Fox and the man dotes on his daughter, from what I hear.
So why is his daughter living in a little one-bedroom flat?
The only reason I can think of is that Elle’s so fierce, so independent minded, that all she wants is to not accept her father’s help. And that fascinates me, especially given my own family’s tendencies to use their trust funds as fluffy cushions against being even as lowly as the upper class.
All thoughts of Elle’s living situation evaporate as I pull into the carpark at her complex and see her standing outside, waiting on me. Any disappointment I might have at not seeing her personal space is washed away by her sheer beauty as she takes my breath away.
The ‘little black dress’ might be a bit cliché, but it’s cliché because it works. Especially on a woman like Elle, whose curves become even more accentuated by the clingy hug of the fabric.
She’s let her hair down too, still with those sexy curled strands framing her face, but now the rest of her blonde hair hangs loose and sexy down her back, perfect for burying my hands in as I hold her close while driving myself deep inside her.
The Dare Page 10