Mogul

by Katy Evans

  “Haunting” by Halsey

  “Stitches” by Shawn Mendes

  “Strangers” by Halsey

  “Turn Me On” by David Guetta

  “Heartless” by The Fray

  “Body Party” by Ciara

  “Skin” by Rihanna

  “Faithfully” by Journey

  “I’m Gonna Getcha Good!” by Shania Twain

  “Story of My Life” by One Direction

  “Wait for You” by Nelly Furtado

  “She (For Liz)” by Parachute

  “This Time Around” by Tove Lo

  “Steal Your Heart” by Augustana

  “Burnin’ Up” by Jonas Brothers

  “The Scientist” by Coldplay

  “How Deep Is Your Love” by Calvin Harris and the Disciples

  “All In” by Lifehouse

  Sara

  “Four Seasons concierge, this is Sara speaking.”

  “Sara, this is the gentleman from room 1103.”

  “Oh, yes. How can I help you, sir?”

  “I’d like your panties in a little wad in my pocket and you thrashing in my bed.”

  Blush. “Right away, sir.”

  “Sara, did you manage to get those tickets for Hamilton?”

  “Yes, I sent them over,” I tell my coworker Viktor as I lower my head to keep him from seeing how flushed I got after the phone call. Keeping my loose hair falling in a curtain over the sides of my face, I log out of my computer and grab my cell phone. “I need to take something to one of our guests and am stopping at the ladies’. Be right back,” I tell him.

  I step out from behind the concierge desk in the lobby, already starting to perspire from what I’m about to do. I head to the restrooms and hurry into a stall, lock myself in, and take off my panties. I wad them up in a tiny ball.

  “Damn!” I have no pockets to stash them in.

  I grit my teeth and slide them back on, then I head outside and wait until the elevator bank is empty so that I can ride upstairs alone.

  At the last minute, a guest joins me in the elevator. “Good evening,” she says.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” I say.

  Sara, what are you doing?!

  I can’t believe I’m riding the elevator up to his room. Every floor my heart pounds harder and harder. And when the woman steps out, I can barely suppress my excitement. My whole body trembles with adrenaline and desire as the elevator doors close, and I slip my hands beneath my skirt and take off my panties again. I wad them in my palm and stare anxiously as the floor numbers keep creeping upward.

  If I’m honest with myself, I will admit that my body hasn’t felt normal since I met him. It hasn’t felt at peace. Oh no, it’s felt sort of shivery, a little too warm, and a little too amped up with female sex hormones.

  I arrive at his floor, step out, and walk toward room 1103. I knock twice and then wait, glancing around in paranoia of getting caught.

  The door opens—and tall, dark, and decadent stands on the other side—and I’m absolutely breathless.

  The kind of breathless you get when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster about to dive down—when no matter how much you want to breathe, you can’t. Not really. Only to let out a scream—if you can find your voice at all. It’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling, but there’s something about this guy that has been pushing all my buttons.

  The button that says: I haven’t had sex in a while.

  The button that says: I like unavailable men even though I don’t want to.

  The button that says: I think men in suits are hot.

  The button that says: When I meet a guy that makes me feel fireworks, I’m not going to be a pussy about it and run away. No! I’m going to light up a match and see how high the flames can go.

  And so here I am, staring at a hotel guest, unaware of his name—not that it’s important. The room is booked under a Californian corporation. They regularly send executives here, but this is the first time that I’ve seen this particular executive.

  The first time I’m lighting that “match.”

  For some reason, it’s easy. It’s so easy that I can’t believe how quickly I blew off work when he called and asked for me, and how fucking eager I am to drop my panties in his pocket.

  I smile up at him as I brush past his shoulder and let myself into his room. He grabs my wrist to halt me, tugging me around to face him. The surprised breath that surfaces gets caught in my throat. He looks down at me, slowly shutting the door with his other hand.

  The guy looks gorgeous in a suit. He looks just as gorgeous without the suit jacket, in only slacks and a white shirt. So what? A lot of men look great in suits.

  But this one makes my heart pound so hard that I can’t stop feeling it in my rib cage.

  This guy is supernova. And his whole look screams workaholic. Now Hot Workaholic’s eyes land on the pulse at my throat, and he raises his arm and curls his hand around my neck, stroking my pulse point with his thumb.

  “Are you turned on already, Sara?” he asks.

  His face is a little arrogant, his expression reserved, revealing nothing. His shoulders are wide and proud, the kind of shoulders that can hoist you up all day. His lashes are prettier than a girl’s. Not that I’m jealous or anything.

  There’s pure inky blackness in his eyes.

  As black as his hair.

  His features could not be more symmetrical or captivating.

  The guy looks so comfortable in his skin, you’d have to wonder if he knows he’s this attractive. He’d have to be blind not to know. But does it even matter to him at all that he is?

  He looks like a Suit, the hottest Suit you’ve ever seen, and I wonder if he does anything but work.

  His mouth is curled as if he’s on the edge of laughter, and he smiles a little more, flashing me straight, even teeth.

  As I press closer, he grabs me and boosts me up to the console by the foyer of the suite, and I realize he can definitely get more stuff done than work.

  He ducks his sooty head and his lips barely—barely—caress mine. A thousand tingles rush down my body. My lips open—waiting. Eager. He inhales, growls, and then opens his hot, hard, made-for-sex mouth and presses it fully to mine. Our mouths dissolve in a crazy-as-hell kiss, and his tongue flashes out to set mine on fire with a lick. With one pull of his strong arms, I’m squished against the flat plane of his body and against the wonderful, toe-curling evidence of how freaking hot and stiff this man is for me already.

  “Do me hard,” I whisper, unable to stop kissing him, sliding my fingers into his hair.

  “I’m doing you hard.” He shoots me a look so full of sexual innuendo that I expect to turn to cinders any minute. “And repeatedly.”

  The man takes my lips again and gives my tongue the best massage it’s ever gotten. A massage that promises my whole body a happy ending.

  I stroke my fingers along the front of his slacks, and I cannot even measure how big he is, because he’s huge, and something about him being this well endowed, and about him being ready to give it to me, makes me wetter and wetter. I stroke up and down and feel myself pant, my whole mind on fire with thoughts of him—how good he feels, smells, kisses, because this is so lit.

  He is LIT.

  Sara

  The day before…

  I’m back in New York after a delay in Houston and a storm above Manhattan that kept us circling for an extra half hour. I’m beat and moody, but glad to be home, as I head out the terminal with my suitcase rolling beside me.

  I’m ready to fill up the tub and forget this weekend entirely, including the fact that my family has broken apart in what feels like a blink.

  I never saw it coming.

  I thought my parents would age together, right to the end. I thought they were happy. I thought they
were one of the precious few couples in the world still in love with each other.

  But it turns out that my dad no longer loves my mom. I don’t know who’s more devastated, my mom or me.

  Distracted by the thoughts, I realize too late that I’ve walked down the taxi line—a line that indicates at least an hour wait—to the front. “Line’s back there,” a moody older man grits out through his teeth.

  Startled, my eyes scan to the back of the line and my heart sinks. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. Last time I tried grabbing an Uber at the airport, it was hell. The guy couldn’t find me and I couldn’t find him, and I still got charged. Nobody likes to get charged for a service they never enjoyed, so I hesitate.

  Scanning the area, I notice a man in a suit about to board a taxi. I approach, wondering if I can ask where he’s headed and if I can share a ride.

  The man is bubbling hot, and he knows it, but I try not to get caught up in that. I am too exhausted.

  As the taxi driver loads his suitcase into the trunk, the man’s gaze slides to me. He lifts his brows expectantly and I open my mouth and quickly blurt, “Nolita. Going anywhere near?”

  He steps back and purses his lips as if annoyed, but motions for me to board.

  I bristle in defense, a New Yorker’s instant reaction to the hostility we face on a daily basis, but I hastily pass my suitcase to the driver and quickly hop inside the cab. The man slides in behind me and shuts the door while I tell the driver my address.

  My defenses begin to drop once we’re on our way and fantasies of my hot tub return to my mind. I turn to thank the man, but he already has his phone to his ear. He speaks with a deep voice and his answers are a series of curt grunts.

  He seems like a bit of an asshole. Like the type of man with expectations who isn’t used to hearing the word no.

  During my years at the NYU dance academy, a lot of the male performers I ended up dancing with expected to go to bed with me. I became an expert at fielding them off. I even had a special move I used when they went in for the kill—I’d push my arm out, palm up, and quickly turn my head. I called it the “hell no.” It was enough to get the message across so I thankfully didn’t need to say it; the hand move was far more subtle.

  Will I need to use the hand move with this guy?

  Excellent question, Sara. Though something about him is making me think of a different kind of hand move. I shiver as I stroke my gaze up his hard body.

  “Yes, and FedEx a copy to the hotel,” he barks.

  I shift, and his gaze drops to my miniskirt.

  I feel my brows rise in disbelief, but he’s too intent on staring at my thighs to notice. When he speaks into the receiver again, I feel as if he’s speaking to me. “I’m telling you just open it up, pull it out, and get it to me as soon as possible.”

  I squirm in my seat.

  His eyes lift and his lips curl at the corners.

  I try not to audibly pant when his eyes trail downward again. I swear I see a glimmer of lust in his eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

  “Thanks. And have Roberts call me when she gets in.”

  He cuts the call and pockets his phone.

  He glances at me in silence.

  He looks like business, but underneath his suit is an appeal so raw I can only wonder how it would feel to claw my nails under that white button shirt, undo his tie, grab him by the collar, get that perfect black hair mussed, and feel his damn gorgeous hands on me.

  He narrows his eyes when I lick my lips; then he looks away, out the window, and sighs, dragging a hand over his face. He curses under his breath, shaking his head and twisting his lips sardonically.

  I start to wonder if I hallucinated the sexual looks between us when he curves his lips higher and knowingly says, “Come closer.”

  I start and let out a small laugh. “Does that usually work for you?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know. Does it?” He shoots me a lazy look, and his inky black eyes reveal a glimmer of mischief.

  He sighs, tugs on his tie to loosen it a fraction, and leans back against the seat of the car. “Had a long day.” He kicks his feet out and looks at me as if expecting me to massage him or something.

  “Yeah? And I had a long flight.”

  Despite my better judgment, I’m running my eyes over his rather gorgeously wide, flat chest and his handsome boy-next-door face mixed with porn star smile and the elusiveness of some workaholic that clings to him like that damn hot black suit.

  He sighs in exasperation. “Come closer,” he says again.

  I’m debating whether to offer him a sassy comeback or shock the hell out of him when I do as he asks, but my phone rings, and I wonder if it’s my roommate confirming he’s finally vacated my apartment.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Is this Sara Davies?”

  “Yes, this is Sara.”

  “Sara, this is Carly. You know, the new girl? I was wondering if you could cover my shift for me tonight at the hotel.”

  “I just got back into town, and I’m exhausted, and my shift doesn’t start until tomorrow—”

  “Oh, thank you so much for doing this for me! I know it’s a lot to ask,” she squeaks as if I just agreed and hangs up.

  Ugh.

  I glower at my phone. I’m not ready to go back to work. And what about my bath? Ugh.

  “Sara, huh.” He watches me as I tuck my phone back into my purse.

  “Do you have something against my name?”

  “Nope. Just pictured something more exotic.” He fiddles with his phone, tucks it back into his pocket, and says, “I want to fuck you in the back of this car, Sara.”

  “Yeah? And I want to fuck up your filthy mouth with my fist.” I smirk, but my body clutches and shivers inside. I hate the idea that he might be able to see through my smart remark and intuitively know the effect he has on me.

  I tap the glass and tell the driver, “Change of plans. Drop me off at the Four Seasons Hotel downtown.”

  The stranger in the car next to me seems to bite back a smile as he reaches out to touch a bit of my loose dark hair. My heart begins to pound. I want him to touch more of me.

  We ride like this, for minutes. Hours. The guy simply twirling a strand of my hair around his index finger. His long, thick, tanned index finger with the perfectly trimmed, really short nail.

  I don’t know why. But maybe it’s because I know that we’re arriving very soon. Or maybe because I want to shock the hell out of him because the guy looks unshockable.

  I slide down the seat, inching closer to him, and once our hips meet, I shift sideways and, ever so slowly, swing my leg out and straddle him. I hold my position, our eyes locked, considering the boldness of my move while something very hard presses prominently between my legs.

  I swallow, bend my head, and whisper in his ear, “Maybe I do want to get fucked in the back of this car, too. Problem is… we’re about to arrive.”

  I rock my hips against him, causing his erection to grow more pronounced. His hands possessively lock onto my ass, his fingers biting into my hips.

  The car halts. We’ve reached my destination.

  I swallow again, trying to cover my panting desperation for more.

  “I hope that improved your day a little,” I taunt with a smile as I slide off him.

  He laughs and watches me narrowly as I grab my carry-on.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “That’s my line,” he says, and shifts his position as he adjusts himself in his slacks and follows me out.

  Wow. What a gentleman.

  He heads to the back of the trunk and removes my suitcase. “That’s really not necessary. But thank you,” I tell him, taking my bag.

  He grabs his own case, and my eyes widen when he pulls out a bill and pays the driver. I gape at him. “Umm, what are you—”

  “Sara, thank goodness!” Carly interrupts, coming up behind us. “Here, I’ll bring this in for you.” She grabs my bag while eyeing
the hot motherfucker I rode in with.

  “Who is he?” she gushes, shooting a look past my shoulder as we shuffle inside.

  “Nobody. And you’re going to owe me big time,” I growl under my breath.

  As I settle in behind the concierge desk, my gaze follows his movements. I watch him check in at the VIP counter. Then he walks across the lobby toward me. When I realize where he is headed, my heart starts drumming crazily again.

  He reaches my desk and leans forward. I didn’t think it was possible, but he looks hotter and taller from where I am standing.

  “You’re an interesting discovery, aren’t you?” he says, unsmiling but obviously curious.

  “I’ve existed for a long time; you didn’t discover me.”

  “Oh, but I have. Or you me.”

  Maybe he’s right. It feels like my existence was all so dull and monotonous until I climbed into the back of this guy’s cab.

  “I’m tired. Had a long day. I was going out to get a glass of wine and a light dinner before heading off to bed. Would you join me?” He raises his brows.

  “I’m on the clock until midnight.”

  “I understand. What time do you have free tomorrow?”

  “I’m covering for a friend, so not until 9 p.m.”

  He nods and walks off.

  Boo. He must not be as interested as I thought. Suddenly I want to wail.

  Instead, I pull myself together and get busy behind the desk. I field a couple of calls regarding tickets to Broadway, directions to a restaurant, and in-room Netflix access.

  I am finishing up with a family when the phone rings. I’m the only concierge on the night shift tonight, so I leap up to answer.

  “Concierge, this is Sara speaking.”

  “Here’s the thing. At 12:01 a.m. sharp I want you upstairs, in my room. Pantyless. Braless. And with that sexy smile of yours. Oh, and wear your hair down.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr.… Who is this?” I know exactly who it is, but I want to tease him. And I want to know his name.

  “Just be there. Dinner and drinks will no longer do.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry your evening has been—”

  “I’ll allow you to appease me in my room.”

  “I apologize, but I’m swamped.” In my panties. “But there’s room at the hotel restaurant if you’d like to come down for dinner,” I say as professionally as I can and hang up with trembling hands.