I knew it would never be a one and done like we agreed on.
Since she reclaimed her job—and let’s face it, I didn’t really have the heart to let her go—this past week has been tense. We are both being overly professional, our words crisp and efficient. Miss Robbins or Mr. Blackwood are the only names to leave our lips, although I do wonder if she still calls me Dicklan in her head.
Fuck, that’s funny. It’s a nickname that would often be deserved, as I don’t spare my thoughts and actions to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.
As she enters my office, she schools her face into one of pleasant helpfulness. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood.”
But despite the air of submissiveness she attempts to cloak herself in as my employee, I can still see, simmering just in the near depths of her eyes, a bit of hostility. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me for firing her, but that’s okay. I’ve not forgiven her for forcing her way back into my world and making my life a bit more miserable for it.
I decide to test her, just now, to see if she’s really indifferent as she likes to pretend. As I describe a current dilemma with a linen supplier for the resort’s restaurants, I undo my cuff buttons and make a show of rolling up my sleeves.
My goal is to see precisely how affected Bailey still is.
Because she’s shown signs.
Sometimes, I catch her staring. When I’m working in my office with the door open, I’ll glance toward my door. Almost pensively, she’ll be covertly studying me. It’s obvious she’s not thinking about business because her cheeks redden, then she’ll hastily jerk her gaze back to her computer screen.
Just two days ago, when I had her attend a business lunch with me, I caught her staring at my mouth. And not in a way that implied she found capital investments interesting, but rather in remembrance of what those lips did to her.
Christ, her dreamy expression had thrown me off my game. For the remainder of the meeting, I fantasized about dragging her to a bathroom stall and fucking her.
And the staring obviously went both ways, except I was more subtle.
She even invaded my dreams at night. On more than one occasion, I woke from a sound sleep with clear recollections of erotic dreams, starring Bailey. They’d be so realistic my cock would be achingly hard and ready to erupt. Within moments of jerking myself, I’d explode all over my stomach, yet be left with a horrid empty feeling after release.
Bottom line—because I can’t have her, it only makes me obsess over wanting her more. I could head off to The Wicked Horse, then fuck her memory out of my system. Hell, I could do it with a different woman every night.
But I haven’t.
And I don’t know why.
It just… it doesn’t hold any appeal right now.
Goddamn it… Bailey Robbins fucking broke me.
About the only thing that would make me feel better about it would be if I broke her, too, which is why I’m playing this little game. To see how she reacts to me.
“I have a new spreadsheet to start organizing data in,” I say, continuing to roll up my sleeves.
Now, I’m not saying my forearms are the sexiest part of my body. If someone asks Bailey Robbins, I hope her answer would be my cock. But I work out seven days a week, so I know my arms are great. Revealing them little by little, I watch closely for a reaction.
And there it is… her eyes drift down as I do the right sleeve, then the left, which I fold over my Bvlgari watch. Typically, the watch alone would catch a woman’s eye as it cost six grand. It’s definitely not the most expensive in my collection, though. I have a Patek Philippe worth over eleven million, which I only bring out on special occasions.
Not that it would impress Bailey. I realized early on that she’s decidedly unmoved by name brands.
No, I’m hoping it’s the muscles in my forearms and the way they were braced on either side of her body last week while we fucked that will make an impression.
She observes me as I finish, seeming to have no clue she’s even fixated. It’s only after I put my arms down and her attention snaps back to my face that she realizes I’ve caught her watching me.
It gives me satisfaction to know she’s still affected. Pathetic, maybe, but oh well.
At this point, I realize I’m torturing myself since I won’t do anything with this knowledge. Not like I’m going to make a move on her or suggest we return to The Wicked Horse. I refuse to cross that line again.
“The spreadsheet?” Bailey prompts. I wince, feeling like a dolt for having drifted off into my own internal quandary.
What in the hell am I doing? Torturing myself and probably Bailey at the same time. Feeling a sense of accomplishment and validation by proving she still wants me, but to no useful purpose since nothing can be done about it. It’s the most exceptional exercise in futility possible, and I’m an idiot for engaging in it.
Moving on from her is my only course of action. The best way to do that is by replacing memories of her with someone else.
Resolved, I decide to hit The Wicked Horse tonight. I’ll fuck until I can’t fuck anymore.
“Actually…” I say dismissively. “I’ll just email the spreadsheet to you. It’s self-explanatory. Try to change it to fit our department reports. If you need any help with the intricacies of the formulas, you can see Mr. Pierson’s secretary, Gayle. She’s a whiz at it.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood,” she murmurs. After a slight dip of her head, she starts to back out of my office.
I have to physically restrain myself from watching her go. I’d most likely have failed at such an endeavor since she has an amazing ass, but I’m saved by my phone ringing.
The ring tone is my buddy August Greenfield’s, whom I haven’t seen in a while. I nab my phone from the desk, then make sure Bailey is out of earshot when I answer with a hopeful invitation. “Wicked Horse Vegas tonight. Meet me at eleven. You, me, and a woman with loose morals. You in?”
“Actually, I’m way out,” August replies. Weirdly… I find myself a bit relieved. “In fact, I hoped I could see you for a drink. I’m actually close to your resort now. Got a few minutes to spare?”
Ordinarily, I’d say “no.” August is a friend, but no closer or distant than my other casual friends. We’ve shared some great times at The Wicked Horse, most recently with his girlfriend, who’d come back into his life. August was my go-to guy when I was in the mood for a threesome.
But no one gets an audience with me during my workday without pre-approval and planning. My time is precious, and I guard it fiercely. Admittedly, Bailey has become very adept at defending it for me. Had she answered this call, she would have flat-out refused him, then offered to book him next week.
Yet, I don’t say no. When I glance at my watch, I realize it’s almost five, which means someone is having a drink somewhere. August has a lot going on in his world—an old flame newly out of witness protection with potential bad guys after her and a kid sick with cancer. Only because of that, I decide to spare him a few moments.
“Yeah, man,” I reply. “Just head over to Farina’s bar. I’ll meet you there.”
When I hang up the phone, I glance out my door. Bailey is back at her desk, head bent over her work. If I don’t have any evening requirements for her, she usually stays until at least six. I have no clue where she goes or what she does after that. Hell, I don’t even know if she has a boyfriend. I never thought to ask.
But surely not.
Not after what we did together.
Mentally, I make myself shrug off my curiosity. I have to stop thinking about her outside of our working relationship.
For my own sanity, it’s imperative.
♦
August is already nursing a beer when I get there. When I sit, the bartender moves my way, clearly surprised the head boss is gracing the establishment. I rarely eat at my own restaurants. Not because they aren’t stellar, but because I don’t like making a spectacle of myself, which I tend to do in my own resort. I want my employees to give top-notc
h service to our customers without worrying about me watching over their shoulder.
I lift my chin to the bartender before nodding toward August. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Right away, sir,” He says, but my gaze is pinned on August. He looks fine.
Great, actually, as he holds out his right hand with a smile.
When we shake, he says, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Was worried something was wrong,” I say. I put my forearms on the bar, but angle my chair slightly his way.
August shakes his head. “Everything is mostly great. Sam is fine. Leighton’s great. I mean… we’re great.”
“I sense a ‘but,’” I say with a laugh as the bartender sets my beer in front of me. I spare him a short glance. “Put both of these on my tab.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Blackwood.”
Turning my attention back to August, I wait for him to tell me why he’s here.
When he does, I’m not prepared for what he says.
“I’m leaving town,” he informs me in a matter-of-fact tone. “Tonight, actually.”
“Permanently?” I inquire, just to clarify.
He nods, picks up his beer, and takes a sip. “Yeah… Leighton’s father was made by some of the mob family he testified against. They have people pouring into Vegas to look for them. No clue if they’ll be successful or not, but I should get Leighton and Sam out of here.”
“Her father too?”
“Yeah,” he says. “All of us. We’re headed to Pittsburgh. I’ll transfer to that branch of the Jameson office, but I don’t think I’ll be back in Vegas anytime soon.”
I hate that. August isn’t my best friend because I don’t have one of those. The downside of being American royalty with a demanding job. But he is a friend, one I’ve shared numerous debaucheries with at The Wicked Horse. Plus, he’s confided in me about the pain of his past.
I feel something akin to sadness at his news, which is odd. I’m not a man who easily forms personal attachments. It’s a product of my upbringing. I was raised by a nanny, not by my parents. My sister is eight years older, so we led separate lives from the start. I went to an affluent, obnoxiously snobbish boarding school with other like-minded kids who were also raised by nannies and had no concept of what it meant to develop deep friendships.
“I do believe I’m going to miss you,” I admit. Granted, our time hanging out was exclusively limited to The Wicked Horse, but after our fuck sessions ended, we’d spend hours nursing glasses of bourbon or scotch while we talked. We developed a friendship during our conversations, which is why I never hesitated to help him out when his son got sick. I let him borrow one of my private planes to pick up his newfound son, then bring him to Vegas for cancer treatments.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he says with a fond smile. “Not the club, per se. Those days are behind me, but the memories of our adventures will always be well regarded.”
“Indeed,” I murmur, mind immediately going to my last adventure there. With Bailey.
“So how has it been at the club?” August asks conversationally. “Managing to survive there without me?”
Still adrift in my memories of Bailey, I end up admitting, “Actually… I haven’t been in over a week.”
August laughs, clapping me on the back. “Are you sick or something?”
Or something.
It hits me then… August could be a great sounding board about my problem with Bailey. He recently went through a similar situation. He’d gotten involved with a woman when he’d thought doing so wasn’t a good idea.
Never before have I shared anything personal with anyone. I’ve always chosen to handle my problems on my own. But August is a friend of sorts, and there’s no shame in having girl problems, right?
“There’s a girl,” I say, and August blinks in surprise. He knows I’m a firmly entrenched bachelor who hates the idea of monogamy.
I explain about Bailey, starting at the moment in my suite when she caught my attention with yeah… first her body, then her intellect… all the way to when she ambushed me in my office, demanding her job back.
“And so you hired her back?” August asks. He’s so intrigued he’s leaning forward, listening in rapt attention.
“Technically, I never got around to putting in the termination paperwork, but yeah… she’s still my assistant.”
“And you two… are back to being professional again?” he guesses.
“Yup,” I clip out.
August tips his head back and laughs, a deep booming sound. When he gives me his regard again, he chuckles. “I see what’s going on. You don’t want to just be professional. You want more with her, and you don’t know how to go about having it.”
“I don’t want a goddamn relationship,” I growl, annoyed at his keen observations. “I just want to fuck her again. Preferably at the club, so there’s no mistaking this is anything more than sex.”
“So tell her that,” he says with a shrug.
Is it just that simple?
But doesn’t it go against everything I stand for, and, more importantly, contradict the firm line I laid down between us? What kind of respect would she have for me as an employer if I go back on that?
Instead, I offer up an excuse for why that might not be the best idea. “In most businesses, me telling her that I want to fuck her in a sex club would be a solid foundation for a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
August’s expression turns somber, and he nods. “That’s a consideration, for sure. But I guess it really depends on whether she wants the same thing. If she does, then she’s not going to be offended by you suggesting it.”
“And therein lies the problem,” I mutter. “How does she feel about it?”
“I feel the need to point out,” August continues, holding his beer up to take a sip but wanting to make the point first. “You could totally just lay it out to her and ask her how she feels. People have conversations all the time.”
I roll my eyes, which is not something the heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune does often. But August isn’t wrong. It’s the easiest way to determine what Bailey wants.
CHAPTER 12
Bailey
Stepping out of my parents’ house, I consider my next move. It’s either to the grocery store, as I have nothing at home to eat but cereal, and I’ve eaten that for the past three days. Or I can order takeout using GrubHub, which is a luxury I couldn’t have afforded before my promotion in the Blackwood corporation.
But I deserve it. I work hard for the money I’m making, I rarely eat good food consistently, and it’s not like I’m considering ordering a burger or pizza. No… I’d go with a salad or maybe a turkey wrap. It’s way more convenient than going to a grocery store, where I’m more apt to get lured down the snack section where I’d load up on Little Debbie cakes.
I trudge to my car and add onto my list of things to do tonight, after I eat a healthy but satisfying meal, to take a hot bath. One of the downsides of my job is the aching shoulders caused by the stress and tension I bear each day. Of course, that has nothing to do with the actual work I do for Declan and the Blackwood Resort. I find my job to be enjoyably challenging.
No, the stress comes from the incredible amount of tension between my boss and me, due solely to the fact we were idiots who indulged in each other. While I can’t speak for Declan, after experiencing something as thrilling as our night at The Wicked Horse, the rest of my life seems dull and lacking.
What does that even mean?
Well, it obviously means I want the experience again, but I can’t have it. Some would say it was the thrill of being in a sex club I enjoyed. That I should go back and do it with someone different.
But I don’t think that’s it.
I think Declan made the experience so monumental. If we were crammed into a janitorial closet with only five minutes to get the deed done, I have a sneaking suspicion it would be just as good.
It’s the man I want to try again, not the locale.<
br />
Growling, I fling my body into my car. I have to stop thinking like that, but damn if Declan doesn’t make it impossible when he’s continuously doing sexy shit. Eyeing me in carnal ways. Rolling up his shirtsleeves in a deliberately sexy way, so I get a gander at the fantastic muscles in his forearms.
Hell, he came into the office after having worked out in the resort gym a few days ago. He said he’d just come by to pick up a few things, but had ended up taking a call. I’d been forced to watch him pace back and forth while he talked to someone. God, he’d looked amazing all sweaty with his gray t-shirt clinging to every defined muscle.
I’m doomed.
Doomed, I say.
The drive from my parents’ house to mine doesn’t take but about ten minutes. Before I even get out of my car, I pull up my GrubHub app and order a chef’s salad from a deli not far from my house, but give in to temptation and order a cookie to go with it. I’ll give into a fraction of stress eating, because if I can’t have Declan and the astronomical orgasms that come with him, then I can at least have a cookie.
With the order submitted, I move from my car to my house. It’s not much, but it’s home to me. Or at least it has been since my divorce when Caleb and I split our property. He didn’t want the house we owned because he was moving to California with Felix. I didn’t want the house because of the memories in it, the worst being that I caught him and Felix in our bed together.
Also, I couldn’t afford it on my own, so we sold it, applied the very tiny profit as we didn’t have much equity, toward our joint debt—which barely dented it—and I rented this little bungalow less than five miles from my parents on the southeast side of Vegas. It certainly made it easier to see them a bit more frequently and help out more now that I had no husband to go home to. Of course, with Caleb’s exit and the massive amount of credit card debt he’d accrued, I’d had to pick up two more jobs to compensate.
My little house is cute, and I made it mine with quirky decor. I didn’t want anything we’d accumulated during our marriage, so I’d had to buy my own. I couldn’t afford a lot. I’d bought most of my stuff thrift, but it had ended up eclectic and comfortable. Maybe if my job with Blackwood pans out in the long run, I can afford better stuff once my debt is drilled down. Hell, maybe I can buy a home again one day.
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