Steamy: A Romance Anthology That Sizzles

by Johnson, Cat

  And three? Well. We’ll get back to that in a minute.

  Marco stares at me. I stare at him. The driver pulls away from the curb. Sudden silence fills the backseat, silence that screams with nearly twelve months of unresolved sexual tension.

  Marco trails one long look down my body. His eyes land on the box on my lap. He frowns in distaste.

  “Again, Danish?”

  “It is Friday,” I say through gritted teeth.

  His frown deepens. He pulls his phone out, checks the screen, then mutters something suspiciously like “damn shared ride.”

  After that, he proceeds to ignore me. Completely. He even angles his body toward the door and resolutely stares out the window, as if wanting to throw himself from the vehicle just to escape me.

  My name isn’t Danish, of course. But it is my office nickname because my dad’s from Denmark, and I always bring baked goodies to the office. It started as an occasional thing but then became so popular that despite being poor as fuck, I’m now stuck with the name and baking something every Thursday night.

  From everyone else, my nickname is an endearment. I’m like the cute office mascot. They seem to think the name is funny, although I find it annoying. Still, I can tolerate it. But coming from Marco, it’s a pejorative.

  Marco Vitale is a grump. He is a fun-sucker. He’s the Dracula of joy, sucking up all happiness in the office. He hates my treats and loves to tell me at every opportunity. Loudly.

  But he’s not stupid. He’s never banned my baking because even he knows there’d be outright mutiny. And I won’t give him the satisfaction of hanging up my apron, regardless of the hit to my bank account. Not when it’s the one thing the great Marco Vitale can’t control in his precious office.

  Marco loathes not being in control. I should know. Only I, out of the entire office, have ever witnessed him lose it.

  That’s how I know he can’t really be sitting here, mere inches from me.

  Because that third reason? Marco and I have avoided each other ever since that hot kiss in the elevator.

  Our mutual attraction had been a problem from the day he hired me. Sure, we danced around it at first, knowing that the CEO can’t go around screwing the office assistant. Marco even told me so during my first week after I discovered him looking at me yet again and he got all pissy about being caught. From then on, we steered clear of each other.

  But then came the elevator.

  Arriving at the office at the same time one morning, we stood on opposite sides, each studiously ignoring the other as had become our habit. Then a woman barged in with a huge potted plant, so I moved over. People kept streaming into the car, defying all laws of physics and fire codes, until I ended up squished in the corner, my face inches from the buttons.

  A hand crashed against the wall near my head. My eyes landed on the watch. I knew that watch, that wrist, the man they belonged to. A body drew flush against me. Marco Vitale slid up against me. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him.

  A full-body shudder rolled through me when he hardened against my ass. The softest groan caressed me as his chin grazed my ear. We remained frozen, anticipating the inevitable.

  The instant the last person filed out of the elevator, Marco hit the emergency stop button and spun me around to face him. We went at each other like animals, our mouths devouring each other, hands jerking shirts out of waistbands, legs wrapped around waists.

  Well, that had been me, the instant he picked me up and slammed me against the wall.

  Marco tore his mouth from mine, growling how much he wanted to fuck me as I squeezed my legs around him and moaned in his ear.

  And then the alarm bell rang.

  He nearly dropped me. My heels teetered as we stared at each other in shock. Marco’s face went deathly pale, his expression thick with regret.

  “That can never happen again,” he said and pressed the button before fleeing as soon as the doors opened onto our floor.

  But he couldn’t fool me. He wanted me as much as I desired him. And even though, nearly a year later, he pretends it never happened, the memory of it lingers between us whenever we’re in the same room together.

  Now he tries to avoid me whenever possible, and I take every opportunity to be insubordinate just to irritate him. It’s beyond childish, but also my guiltiest pleasure. Should I be attracted to such a douche? Hell no. But that was the hottest moment of my life, and the man absolutely refuses to do it again. It blows. For both of us.

  A frustrated moan escapes me. Marco’s head whips toward me. His gaze drops to my mouth, where I’ve sunk my teeth into my lower lip in an attempt to prevent another moan from escaping.

  His face darkens with desire, and something like capitulation flashes in his eyes. He leans toward me, hunger drawing him closer as I slide across the seat myself. I’m going to—

  “This is it, right?” our driver says. “Both of you, same drop-off? Makes my life easier!”

  2

  Because I’m an unlucky bastard, Marco and I are forced into another crowded elevator. He must have found new strength to resist me because he’s back to pretending I don’t exist.

  But because he’s an unlucky bastard, I’m shoved up against him again. We face each other, my food container shoved between us. I stare up at him defiantly, daring him to say something. His jaw clenches in anger or maybe desire, his eyes locked with mine. They’re the delicious color of dark chocolate. Gorgeous, damn him.

  We say nothing. Neither of us wants to be the first to break, to admit our little game has become a lose-lose situation.

  Marco steps around me when the doors open on our floor, stalking into the office without another glance toward me. Rude bastard. Sheer force of will prevents me from hurling the cupcakes right at his smug head. While I’d love to watch him wipe the icing off his face, wasting these cupcakes would be criminal.

  An hour later, I drag myself into the conference room for the day’s morning meeting. As a company of only twelve employees—stateside, that is—everyone participates in all meetings. And since I’m the lowly office assistant, it’s my loathsome task to take copious notes.

  “Danish is here! What day is it?” our head of marketing exclaims the instant I enter the conference room.

  “Friday!” the rest of the office cheers.

  “Friday,” I mumble with much less enthusiasm.

  “And what does that mean?” says Aaron, the marketing asshole.

  “Food day!” goes the chorus.

  “Food day,” I repeat glumly.

  This is a weekly occurrence, right down to the stupid cheering. Everyone else in this office gets paid more than I do, but I get to have the expensive office routine. Do any of them ever chip in? No. Of course not. But I’d prefer not to be jobless, so who gets stuck doing this stupid song and dance every week?

  This girl.

  “What did you bring? What is it?” asks Sarah, head of publishing.

  “Cupcakes.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, but what kind?”

  I sigh. “Valrhona chocolate cupcakes with a sea-salt caramel fondant and coffee icing.”

  The chorus of exclamations rattles the conference room walls. Continuing my part, I say, “And what’s the rule?”

  “Everyone gets only one,” they sing.

  “That’s right.”

  And that rule is law. I draw the line at feeding these people more than one treat a week. If they want more, they can just suck it. For a year now, I’ve brought in twelve identical treats every Friday, one for each person in the office.

  Well, no. Marco categorically refuses to eat any of them. So it’s eleven treats plus one for the mysterious Sweet Tooth, the real asshole who always sneaks a second one. I went a month without a treat myself before I began making a twelfth one for me just so they’d stop swiping mine.

  I have to hide it in my desk, though, because if it became known that one of these assholes gets seconds every week, there’d be war. But one of
these days, I’m figuring out Sweet Tooth’s identity, and then there’s going to be hell to pay.

  Marco stalks in while everyone is still screeching over the cupcakes. “Enough about the damn food. Is Danish’s food the only calories you consume each week? No? Then shut the hell up about it. Stop making her make this shit. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you that my name isn’t Danish?” I say sweetly. “Have you forgotten it again? My name is Izzy Jenssen. Iz-zy Jeeeeenssen. Sound it out with me. Iiiiizzz—”

  “I’ll call my employees whatever the hell I want,” he snaps, sinking into his chair at the head of the table without deigning to look at me.

  “Not if you don’t want a harassment suit, you won’t,” I say.

  “Here we go again,” says Aaron.

  Sarah nods. “That’s got to be a record, right? Not even ten seconds into the meeting. A definite record.”

  “Aw, man, that’s twenty bucks I just lost,” says Tom, the IT guy.

  “Well, duh. You should know by now not to bet longer than sixty seconds—”

  “I’ll fire the lot of you if you don’t shut up this instant!” Marco barks, interrupting our staff writer, Allie. We all go silent, but none of us worry about our jobs. Marco threatens our livelihoods on a daily basis. If there were any teeth to the threat, we’d long ago be employed elsewhere.

  “Danish, start taking notes. Aaron, what’s the status on the Everly account?”

  Aaron quickly fills him in, my fingers flying across the keyboard to keep up. Marco verifies not once, not twice, but three times whether “Danish” is keeping up with his report. Then Sarah goes next, then Ellie, all around the room, the entire office calling me by my stupid nickname without thought, as if it’s routine. Like I’m so unimportant I don’t even merit being addressed by my own name.

  And I don’t know why today it bothers me more than usual, but I’m done. If just one more person calls me—

  “Danish, make sure you get that dow—”

  “Stop calling me that!” I scream, my chair flying back as I shoot to my feet. I stab my finger at Marco’s irritating face, who’s just asked me for the millionth time to write down something I already typed. He doesn’t move, merely studies me coolly. “Not one more time, Vitale.”

  Everyone stares at me, then guiltily avert their eyes to the table. This isn’t my typical bickering with Marco. And they know, deep down, I don’t like my nickname. Cowards.

  But not Marco. A flicker of something indescribable flashes across his face, but his accented voice is calm as he says, “Ms. Jenssen, I suggest you remove yourself from this meeting at once.”

  3

  I pace furiously in the bathroom, where I retreated to after my dismissal from the meeting. Panic claws its way up my throat as I try to ignore the idea I may be fired. Sure, Marco and I frequently argue in meetings, but he’s never kicked me out of one before. He’s never kicked anyone out of a meeting, actually.

  Well, great. This day has sucked from the moment I opened my eyes to this very instant. Being fired would just take the cake.

  The door bangs open. Marco shoves it closed behind him, then flicks the lock. He stares at me silently for a long moment. There must be something awful in my expression because his hardens.

  “You can’t be in here,” I hiss.

  “It’s my company. I’ll go wherever I damn well please.”

  “It’s not your company,” I mutter.

  Marco flinches, ever so slightly, making me feel like an asshole. I might be furious with him, but it’s common knowledge that Marco took over Vitale Media after some trouble with his father, who founded it. Why he persists in running it from the U.S. instead of Italy, where it’s headquartered, I have no idea, but bringing it up is a low blow, even for our dismal relationship.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, turning away, heading for the sink and hoping he’ll just leave.

  He does no such thing. Instead, he stalks up behind me. His reflection shimmers in the mirror above me, but I keep my gaze fixed resolutely on the sink.

  “You cannot speak that way to me, Ms. Jenssen.”

  I whirl on him. “Like you don’t hurl insults at me.”

  “Oh, because a little nickname is so offensive.”

  “Damn right it is,” I snap, stepping toward him, “when you say it like you do.”

  He takes a step toward me as well. “Oh? And how is that, exactly?”

  The words roll off his tongue in the way only Italians can manage. They’re intimate, sensual. Sexual. They invade my senses and make me think of hot nights and cool sheets against my naked skin as he drives into me.

  For fuck’s sake.

  Even when this man insults me, I’m still attracted to him. He just stands there, like the arrogant little king that he is, dictating to his subjects what is and is not acceptable.

  “The rest of the office might pretend otherwise,” I snarl, taking another step closer until we stand mere inches away, “but you know I hate my nickname. You know it, and you say it derogatorily. That’s the difference.”

  Marco’s jaw clenches. That something flashes across his face again, but I still can’t identify it. He bends down, so close I can pick out each individual eyelash framing those arresting eyes.

  “If you didn’t bring in that damn food, people wouldn’t treat you like a walking refrigerator. Stop doing it.”

  And give up the one thing he can’t control? The one way I can maintain a scrap of power in this place? The sole thing that forces him to acknowledge my existence for some reason other than just to take notes and assign tedious work?

  “I would walk through ten thousand fires and then swim in a river of lava before I’d ever stop making my treats.”

  He glares at me. “Even if it means pissing me off?”

  “Especially if it pisses you off.”

  Something like hurt flashes in his eyes. “It’s good to witness such insubordination from my own staff. And here I came in to tell you I put an end to your office nickname.”

  Really? Why on earth would he do that when he’s the first one who’ll use it? “I’m capable of telling people to stop.”

  His mouth thins. “I’m well aware of that. But you haven’t, and I couldn’t stand their disrespect anymore. I should have stopped it long ago and never said it myself. I apologize. So from now on, you’re Izzy to the office. Or Ms. Jenssen, if you prefer. Or even Danish, if people say it with respect. Whatever you want.”

  I gape at him. Has he actually just apologized to me? Should I be recording this for posterity? Or blackmail?

  Before I can say a word, he continues, “Now, Acceleron Innovation Systems called last night about working with us. I need you to conduct a market analysis and create a preliminary campaign prospectus for them to study before we set up a meeting.”

  Great. Recently, Marco’s been ordering me to do client research for potential clients considering Vitale Media for handling their marketing campaigns. Like I’m not already busy enough. It is interesting. But it takes forever.

  “Fine. I’ll have it to you by end of day, Monday.”

  “I need it today.”

  “But that’s going to take hours! Can’t it wait?”

  “No. Their potential business is too important.”

  He’s got to be kidding. This research usually takes days, not hours. “Is this some sort of punishment? For me saying those things to you? Because if so, I apologize.”

  “No.”

  “Then why have me do it? It’s literally above my pay grade. Get Aaron to do it. Or Sarah. Or literally any—”

  He slides an arm around my waist and hauls me clear off the floor. My feet dangle uselessly as for once in my life we meet eye-to-eye.

  “No,” he whispers, his voice low, rasping. “You’re the only one I—the only competent one in this place, I mean. No one else.”

  My mouth drops open, but no sound emerges. My ability to speak has disa
ppeared somewhere in the space between those passionate words and the hard lines of his body crushed against mine. Not once since that day in the elevator has he come close to touching me like he is now. Why now? What’s changed to make him think it’s okay to hold me like this?

  Marco’s gaze drops to my mouth. A groan escapes his throat. He lowers me to the floor, then steps away. I feel every inch separating us. A blush steals across his cheeks before he turns away and stalks toward the door.

  “Just do the report,” he mutters, but for the first time, his words sound more like a plea than an order.

  4

  I stumble my way back to my desk, still reeling from the bathroom … confrontation? Foreplay? What was that? I thought he’d fire me, and instead, he gives me an important project and apologizes. It’s almost like he actually cared that everyone using my nickname hurt me. Has the man lost his mind?

  Have I, for that matter? Because no way he actually lifted me off the ground. Marco hasn’t touched me in months. It must have been a delicious hallucination.

  But my body disagrees. The length of his form is imprinted on mine, his hard thighs, the vibration of his massive chest, the warm breath that caressed my face. That was no hallucination.

  I sink into my chair, staring at my blank computer screen and pushing thoughts of Marco aside. This report is going to suck.

  “Izzy?”

  Maybe if I work through lunch, I’ll get this stupid thing finished early enough that I’ll still have a Friday night.

  “Um, Izzy?”

  “Hmm?” I say, then realize someone’s called me by my real name. “Wait, what?”

  Sarah and Allie are standing in front of my desk, faces guilty.

  “Did you need something?”

  Their guilty faces get guiltier. They pull something out of their pockets and then toss it on my desk. It’s money. Like, fifty from each of them. I blink at the cash, then look up and blink at them.