Two Weeks in Geneva

by Lydia Rowan

  “We should go in,” she said when she realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “Soon,” he said, pulling even her closer.

  She didn’t respond, instead placing a soft kiss on his perfectly formed biceps, one that he returned with a gentle kiss to her neck. They stood for a while longer, not speaking, but somehow, she felt, communicating more than they ever had before. His gentle kisses became more heated and soon, she felt his hardness pressing against her. She mewled when he pulled back a fraction and lifted her gown, exposing her ass to the frigid air. She shivered at the cold and at the anticipation that flowed through her blood at the sound of the ripping foil and then again as she felt his warm flesh press against her, his covered cock slipping between her folds.

  He entered her in one smooth thrust, the slight tinge of pain at the intrusion heightening the sensation, making him, them, this feel more real than the pleasure could alone. She’d miss this—miss him—more than she wanted to admit, but she pushed the thought aside, along with thoughts of what would happen tomorrow, thoughts of being outside, exposed, and focused on the sweet sensation of him surging inside her, the sound of his panting breaths that mirrored her own, the tight, spiraling that started low in her belly and spread, a reaction that he seemed able to coax from her with minimum effort as if on some fundamental level, her body was particularly attuned to him, existed for him to manipulate.

  He sped his tempo, her pussy clenching around his unyielding flesh in time with her heart. They rose together and went over together, his low moan of completion mirroring in perfect harmony with her own. They stayed tangled like that, connected in the most intimate way a man and woman could be, for a long moment before he slipped out of her. Still silent, he turned her to face him and captured her mouth in a scorching kiss, trying, it seemed, to pour all of his thoughts and feelings into that one motion. Then he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he captured her gaze with his and didn’t let go, an outpouring of emotion flowing from his eyes, unreadable and intense.

  He led her off the balcony, peeled the gown off her and settled her on his bed, wrapping them both in his blanket and comforter, all without saying a word.

  None were necessary. They both knew what tomorrow would bring and by unspoken agreement, they stayed silent, enjoying each others company all night long, again and again.

  For the last time.

  ••••

  The next morning came much too soon for Alexander’s liking. But come it did, and after a near-silent breakfast and one more frantic lovemaking session, their time was officially over. They were quiet most of the day, but especially so during the drive to the airport.

  When they arrived, he parked and pulled out her bag, wanting to wait with her until the very last moment, but knowing he was unable. Instead, he grabbed her in the tightest hug that wouldn’t squeeze the breath from her and held on for dear life, trying to imagine how he’d go back to his cold, orderly life without her to brighten it. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, the longing and sadness in hers a perfect reflection of what he felt.

  “Call me, maybe,” she said with a laugh, though Alexander didn’t get the joke.

  Then she turned and walked away. And didn’t look back.

  ••••

  When the plane finally landed, she considered calling her mother for a ride, or maybe Verna, who would have been happy to, even if it meant missing work. But on second thought, given the hour and her melancholy state, she decided to take a cab, something she hadn’t ever done in Charlotte.

  The streets were the same, yet so different. They calmed her in some ways, the familiarity a welcome balm. It was good to be home, see the sights that were as known to her as anywhere, but she so missed Geneva, had fallen in love with the city, and she’d admit now that she was back in America where doing so would have no consequences, had fallen in love with the man himself.

  After she arrived home, she paid the driver, relief mixing with her melancholy. She’d missed her routine, her apartment, her ordinary life, so it gave her some comfort, made the pain of her parting a bit easier to bear.

  And she refused to think anything at all of the fact that she was happier than she had any right to be when she pulled Alexander’s shirt from her suitcase, caught the first whiff of his scent, still strong in fabric. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. She knew she shouldn’t, that she needed to make a clean break, but after she’d peeled off her clothes, she tossed on his shirt and crawled into bed.

  She had to get back to living her life without Alexander Montague.

  She’d start tomorrow.

  Chapter Nine

  One year later…

  Quinn hurriedly parked her car and ran-walked to her office, trying to convey an air of calm confidence while scurrying because of how late she was. She doubted it would have convinced anyone, but fortune had smiled on her this morning because she made it to her office without running into any coworkers or God forbid, her boss. It was a little ridiculous; she was the number-two person in design so she had a degree of autonomy that meant she didn’t exactly punch the time clock. Still, there were expectations, the dreaded, awful, godforsaken face time, and though things had been hectic, she’d been doing whatever she could to keep others from noticing.

  As she waited for her computer to boot up, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to absorb these few moments of quiet. The familiar chime alerted her that her system was up, and she opened her e-mail program as she did first thing every morning, sometimes before she even made it into the office.

  You have fifty-eight new messages.

  She was unable to suppress the groan that burst forth. Maybe fortune didn’t favor her after all. The thought of what lay ahead today, of all of the land mines and time sucks and divergences that would keep her away from her actual work and make getting home at a reasonable hour a near impossibility made her want to run away screaming. But given that doing so wasn’t an option, she opted for coffee instead, hoping it would make a dent in her brain fog. She yawned and stretched. Yep, she needed coffee stat. It would at least give her a fighting chance. As she wandered down the hall toward the break room, she noted the unusual buzz of activity as her office mates scurried here and there.

  “Quinn. There you are.” Her direct supervisor and VP of operations Rich waved at her as she passed.

  “Morning, Rich. Were you looking for me?”

  She noted his harried appearance, a departure from his generally unruffled demeanor and felt the apprehension begin to stir in her chest.

  “Yeah. Meet me in the conference room in thirty. We have a bit of a fire drill.”

  “Anything in parti—” But she stopped short when Rich skittered past her, barking orders on his way.

  The fog was clear and now, fully awake and very nervous, Quinn headed to her office sans coffee and went over her notes for the last several projects. With no clue what the impromptu meeting was about, she had no idea what she was looking for, but it gave her something to do and helped pass the time. She worried her bottom lip furiously, her fears about her recent performance making it nearly impossible for her to focus. Yes, she’d been distracted, but still tried to maintain her quality and availability; she was in no position to jeopardize her job.

  A quick glance at her clock revealed it was time for the meeting, so she stiffened her shoulders and headed down the hall. She could do this, even if she just faked it. She entered the crowded area, apparently one of the stragglers since all but a few seats at the very front of the room were taken. She sighed and squeezed down the aisle before settling in her seat and striking up a chat with her neighbor, one of the new junior designers. When the loud roar that filled the room dulled to a quiet murmur, Quinn turned and looked toward the door.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  Several sharply dressed men had entered, with Alexander Montague leading the charge.

  ••••

  He saw her the instant she turned, h
is gaze drawn to her as if she were the only person in the room. A flash of surprise sparked in her eyes before she quickly looked away. Alexander tried hard to hide a smile and used every ounce of his will to squelch the wave of desire he felt rising. Quinn was no less potent now than she had been then, and he looked forward to remaking her acquaintance. As he walked up to the podium, he idly wondered if some American man had come to his senses and claimed her, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

  Quinn was his.

  He managed to focus on the presentation, though Quinn was ever present, more noticeable because of her blatant unwillingness to look at him and the rigid way she held her body, which was so lush and welcoming, ankles primly crossed, hands palm down on her knees, her arms framing her breasts and torso beautifully. But he also noticed the dark circles under her eyes, noticed how, despite how still she held herself, she seemed frazzled, worried, so unlike the bubbly, exuberant woman he’d spent those magical days with. Maybe she was overworked. The partnership had been more successful than he’d anticipated, that success and the resulting work part of the reason he hadn’t spoken with her since Geneva. It made sense that she would be as preoccupied as him.

  As soon as the meeting was adjourned, Quinn cut out like the devil was on her tail, and in some ways that was true because Alexander was right behind her. She was so intent on getting away, she didn’t seem to notice that he followed as she weaved through the halls and then ducked into an office and closed the door. Alexander paused at the door for a moment, enjoying the anticipation of seeing her again, of feeling her body pressed against his, before he opened the door, entered the office, and closed it behind him. She looked up sharply at the sound of his entrance, her mouth slightly open, eyes bulging comically. He chuckled as he walked over to her, his cock thickening with each step. He tried to take her in all at once, his greedy gaze shifting from her the top of her head, her hair, longer now and pulled back into a ponytail, down her curved body, and then back up to her full, sensuous lips as he stopped and stood directly in front of her.

  Those lips had been prominent in countless fantasies over the last year, trailing kisses over his body, closing around him and pulling him in, the soft flesh a contrast to the hard. He’d even imagined her in more mundane circumstances, the soft upturn at the beginning of a smile, the way she pursed and chewed them as she worked out a problem.

  But now, with her in front of him, he could only do one thing. He leaned down and her lips parted on a slight inhale as she realized his intention. Slowly, so slowly, he pressed his lips against hers, loosed a moan at the contact, at the realization that they really were as soft as he remembered. Fully hard now, he pressed closer to her and thrust out his tongue, seeking entrance. She complied and he swept his tongue into her mouth, tracing every inch of the warm cavern, relieved and content at being with her again. She sighed and placed her hands on his chest, which spurred him to touch her, trace the narrow dip of her waist down the flared curve of her hips, fuller and rounder than he remembered.

  Suddenly, she broke away and turned her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling in time with her harsh breathing. He reached out to touch her, and she pulled away at the contact.

  “Not happy to see me, Quinn?”

  His voice sounded thick, even to his own ears. Quinn turned back to face him, and the sadness—and was that fear?—in her eyes drained his ardor. She pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk, reached in, and retrieved her phone. She fiddled with the black rectangle, the glow of the screen visible on her face even under the industrial office lights, and shoved it into his hands.

  “His name is Ethan.”

  Thank You!

  Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the beginning of Quinn and Alexander’s journey. The continuation of their story Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Two is available now, and the conclusion Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Three is also available now.

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  •Please read on for an excerpt of Beneath the Boss: Omnibus, available now.

  Beneath the Boss: Excerpt

  The insistent beep of her phone pulled her out of her reverie. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. 1:46 a.m. She knew who it’d be.

  “I could have been sleeping,” Layla Grayson said by way of greeting.

  “But you weren’t, were you?” her employer Leighton Means responded.

  “Good morning, Leighton. Have you been arrested? Do you need me to rush you to the hospital? I can’t imagine why else you’d be calling at this hour.” Layla knew her gentle barbs were of no consequence. Leighton called whenever he pleased and had never, ever, given her subtle, or not so subtle, hints about boundaries and propriety even a passing concern.

  Leighton’s voice dropped an octave from its already deep timbre. “Pity your imagination is so limited. We have a ten o’clock with Smythe. I need your report by eight.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Layla lay flat on her back staring at the slow-rotating ceiling fan. It was late spring, and she appreciated the cool breeze during the balmy Dallas night. She’d been wired up, too amped to sleep, but still hoping for a few moments’ rest. Now that he’d called, she knew those hopes were futile.

  Layla sighed and climbed out of bed. Another all-nighter wouldn’t hurt.

  After she pulled on a pair of cotton lounge pants, she headed downstairs to her home office. As her computer booted up, she thought about Leighton.

  Leighton Means. Billionaire corporate-finance maven. He’d taken over his father’s fledging financial-services company fresh out business school, and in twelve years, using a combination of grit, intelligence, and sheer ruthlessness, had managed to turn it into one of the most profitable firms in the country. Leighton was notorious for his business prowess, and his reputation with ladies wasn’t far behind. When he wasn’t crushing the competition, Leighton cavorted with supermodels and socialites from Dallas’s finest families.

  Layla was one of the few who got to see the man behind the headlines, and the reality of Leighton every bit of his reputation and more. His business acumen was unparalleled, but combined with his charm and looks, he was unstoppable. A fact that she, officially senior financial analyst for Means Financial, and unofficially Leighton’s girl Friday, was too keenly aware of. She couldn’t really trace it, but somehow, over the past five or so years, Leighton had pulled her closer and deeper, and before she’d known what was happening, she’d found herself at his beck and call, almost fully subsumed in his universe. What else could explain why she was sitting at her computer at two in the morning?

  True, there were perks. Leighton compensated her generously, her salary affording her, for the first time in her life, a degree of financial independence that wouldn’t likely have been attainable otherwise. Sure, she still drove a Civic—she loved that car—but she had a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood, didn’t want for anything, really.

  But lately, she’d felt restless, dissatisfied. Lonely. She had a good group of friends that she didn’t see nearly enough, and she didn’t even want to think about the sorry state of her love life. She tried to chalk it up to any number of things. She was a big girl, much larger than acceptable to most, and she had a weakness for sarcasm that, especially coming from an African American woman of her physical stature, some people found off-putting. She was no nagging shrew, but she certainly didn’t hold her tongue. She’d mostly accepted her size and personality, telling herself that if a man couldn’t handle h
er outside of bed, he’d probably disappoint in, so why waste the time.

  These were all excuses.

  Her current solitary state was solely attributable to one thing. Leighton. As he’d sucker her deeper and deeper into his world, she’d started to neglect her own, and only recently had she realized that while Leighton went out and did whatever—and whoever—billionaire’s did in their spare time, she was alone. And while she occasionally hoped it was worth it, that he, on some level, valued her, that little voice inside her head always reinforced what she already knew: She was totally dispensable to Leighton, only as useful as the work she did. And yet, she stayed, ever faithful.

  Pathetic really. There was no denying that, but in truth, despite the stress and agitation, how insignificant she was to him, Layla knew she owed Leighton everything. And if she had to sacrifice sleep, friends, hell, even love and sex to repay him, well, that was what she’d do.

  Do you want to read the rest? Beneath the Boss: Omnibus is available now.

  Lydia’s Other Works:

  Beneath the Boss:

  Book One

  Book Two

  Book Three

  Omnibus

  Playthings:

  Devil’s Plaything

  Stand-alone Short Stories

  Feel & Obey

  Guardian’s Heart: Omnibus

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are invented by the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.