by HELEN HARDT
I expertly slurp the oyster I’m still holding and let it glide down my throat. Perfectly salty and briny, with the zing of tomato and horseradish from the cocktail sauce. An explosion of flavor on my tongue, but all I can think about is what Skye tastes like between her legs.
Sweeter and tangier than any oyster, I’ll bet.
Skye is eyeing me as if I’m starring in a porn flick.
Nice.
I dab my napkin to my lips. “Do you enjoy your job, Skye?”
She opens her mouth, but her phone dings. She quickly grabs it out of her purse, her eyes wide. It must be her notifications because I tagged her in the oyster post.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You’re famous.”
She stares at her phone as it continues dinging.
“Turn off notifications,” I say, “or it’ll drive you bananas.”
She follows my advice and then tucks the phone back in her purse. Good. She’s not a social media addict. Or she’s choosing to focus on our dinner over Instagram. Either way, respect.
“You going to answer my question?” I ask.
“Sure. What question?”
“Do you enjoy your job?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning…?”
She shrugs. “I get to take pictures, which is what I love to do, but I’m not exactly photographing anything significant.”
“Addie trying on scarves isn’t going to make it into National Geographic,” I say. “You’re right about that.”
She shrugs again. “I’m making good contacts.”
“That’s true. Maybe you can become the official photographer for Bean There Done That. Getting those sprinkles of nutmeg just right on cappuccinos.”
No shrug this time. She goes slightly rigid. “Did you really ask me to dinner to diss my job?”
My comment was a poke at Addison, not Skye. I should apologize, but I’m not ready to be quite so accommodating. At least not yet. “That wasn’t my intention. I asked you to dinner because I really want to fuck you.”
Man, those words are true. Were and are and becoming even more so by the second. Already I imagine her nipples sore from my attention, her ass gloriously pink.
“How am I supposed to respond to that?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I stare at her, right into those big brown eyes. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t go after what I want.” The rasp in my voice surprises me. The need.
God, I want this woman in my bed. Underneath me, writhing, moaning. Tied down, blindfolded, at my mercy, as I tantalize her with my fingers, lips, and tongue.
And then I’m going to fuck her. Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before.
How am I supposed to respond to that? I haven’t yet answered her question.
So I do.
I raise one eyebrow. “You can tell me you’d like to fuck me, too.”
She’s trying not to squirm. Already I know her pussy is wet. I can tell when a woman wants me, and this woman wants me as much as I want her. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the tenseness of her body. It’s in the way I know she’s squeezing her thighs together to ease the ache in her core.
“Because you do,” I say. “Don’t try to deny it, Skye. I see it in your eyes.” I slurp an oyster and lick a dab of cocktail sauce from the corner of my mouth.
Delicious.
But not nearly as delicious as I know Skye Manning will be.
She bites her lip. “If I were to agree to this… Where?”
“My place.” Or my office. My car. Hell, a bathroom stall here at the Oyster House for all I care. I want Skye more than I’ve wanted any woman in recent—or distant—memory. I find myself holding my breath, waiting on her response as if it’s a lifeline.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Sometimes it’s better that way.” True words, though they taste bitter tonight. I want to know her. I want to know Skye.
She cocks her head slightly. Is she waiting for some kind of explanation? I won’t give one. I want to fuck her, and I won’t apologize for it. Sure, she doesn’t know me, but she will. I have no doubt. I load cocktail sauce onto another oyster, slurp it, and again lick the dab of sauce from the corner of my mouth.
My pre-dinner drink is long gone, and so is Skye’s martini. Our wine arrives, followed by our meals. She takes a bite of her haddock, chews, swallows.
I could sit here and watch her eat and not once get bored. I could tell her my life story, how my brother, Ben, and I worked for our father’s small construction company in South Boston. I made some modifications to a pair of safety goggles, which turned out to be state of the art. I patented the design, and Ben and I started Black, Inc. when I was twenty-five years old. Now, at thirty-five, I’m a billionaire, and most construction workers in the world use my goggles. But I’ve gone far beyond goggles. My investments in real estate, luxury assets, public and private holdings, foreign currency, precious metals—you name it—have made Black, Inc. a household name.
I am the CEO, while Ben handles marketing, and our father, Bobby Black—yeah, he goes by Bobby—is chairman of the board.
Not bad for three guys who never went to college.
But Skye undoubtedly knows my story. Everyone does.
I could tell her what I want to do to her once we get back to my place. How I want to squeeze those round tits and bite her nipples. Tie her up and lick her pussy until she’s raw.
Fuck her until morning.
That would scare the hell out of her, though.
So I stay quiet.
No forced conversation. I’m good with that.
“Do you have any pets?” she asks after swallowing a bite of broccoli.
“A dog.”
She widens her eyes. “Oh?”
Does that surprise her? It does most, and I’ve never understood why. Can’t Braden Black be a dog person? I love dogs.
“Yeah. A rescue pup. She’s adorable.”
She smiles and lifts her eyebrows. “You rescued a dog?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Well…no.”
Again with the surprise. Animal rescue is something I feel strongly about. I’m very generous to local shelters. I pull out my phone and hand it to her. “She’s great. Part border collie and part Australian cattle dog with some other stuff thrown in. I did one of those doggie DNA kits on her.”
Her eyes go wide again, this time with appreciation. She’s definitely a dog person.
“She’s beautiful.” Skye gives my phone back.
“How about you? Any dogs?”
She shakes her head. “I love them, but my apartment complex doesn’t allow them.”
“Then move.”
“It’s not that easy when you don’t have millions sitting around collecting dust like you do.” She freezes, her fork halfway to her plate, and she looks away from me. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”
I shake my head. “No worries. I’m used to it. But, Skye, I’m not any different from the next person.”
“Except that the next person can’t buy whatever he wants.”
“I can’t, either.”
She returns her gaze to mine, her eyes almost taunting me. “Exactly what do you want that you can’t buy?”
I don’t even have to think about my answer. It rolls right off my tongue.
“You,” I say. “In my bed.”
Chapter Five
I’ve never paid for sex, and I never will, but from time to time, women have offered themselves to me for money. Or jewels. Or a luxury sedan. Or first-class plane tickets to Paris.
I’ve sent them all on their way.
Skye would never do anything so demeaning. She’s too challenging. Too sure of herself. Too independent. Too focused.
She car
ries a condom in her purse, for God’s sake. This isn’t a woman who puts herself in any situation where she’s not in control.
I respect her all the more for that.
I’m not interested in anything easy.
I’m interested in a challenge.
I’m interested in Skye Manning.
Very interested.
“No,” she says. “I’m not for sale.”
“That’s why you’ll come willingly.” I lower my gaze to her mouth.
That gorgeous mouth, lips glistening and parted just so…
Damn. My cock is already about to explode.
I’ve got to have her. Tonight.
She grabs her napkin and wipes her mouth.
“Let’s go,” she says, and my heart pounds.
I eye her plate containing about a third of her fish and a few broccoli florets. “You didn’t finish your dinner.”
“I’m suddenly not hungry. You want to fuck me? Let’s go fuck.”
Music to my ears.
“Works for me.” I motion to Cory. “We’re ready for the check.”
…
I’ll give Skye credit. She doesn’t gasp in awe at the sight of my downtown penthouse decorated in black and forest green. No. She’s more interested in the black-and-white ball of fur biting my ankles.
“Hey, Sasha.” I lean down and scratch the fur on her shoulders.
“She’s beautiful.” Skye kneels to scratch her behind the ears. “Hi there, Sasha. You’re so pretty.”
Sasha licks Skye’s face for a few seconds but then grows bored and heads somewhere else in the penthouse.
Skye nods toward the black lacquer grand piano that sits in one corner. “Do you play?”
“No.”
“Then why do you have a piano?”
“I hire a pianist for my parties,” I say. “Guests love it. Do you play?”
She shakes her head. “We didn’t have a piano. My dad plays the guitar, though.”
I lead her to the piano, where a guitar also sits. “I do, too. Just dabble really. But I love playing classical guitar and then of course some folk songs. All acoustic stuff.”
I hope she doesn’t ask me to play something, though. In truth, I haven’t touched my guitar in ages. My business occupies most of my time, a big reason why I’m not wired for any kind of long-term relationship. I have my own way of working off steam, something I hope will interest the gorgeous woman in front of me. For now, though? I’ll settle for a good old-fashioned fuck.
In and out, wham, bam, and thank you, Ms. Manning. I close the distance between us and gaze down at her, zeroing in on her mouth again. I trail a finger over her upper lip and then her lower. “I’ve wanted to kiss those full lips since I saw you at Addie’s office. You have the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen.”
I crush my mouth to hers.
Her lips are already parted, and I thrust my tongue between them.
She’s as soft and supple as I imagined, and she tastes of crisp wine and sweet spice. I deepen the kiss, and she kisses me back as if her life depends on it.
My cock is at full attention now. Full attention—from a goddamned kiss.
A tiny groan, more a vibration than a sound, begins in my throat. Her hands drift up my arms to my neck, and she entwines her fingers in my hair. I need a haircut, but with her next move, I may never get another. She grabs my hair and pulls slightly, a gesture I feel all the way to my toes.
I growl into her mouth and roughly tug on her ponytail, my tongue still tangling with hers. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss until—
“Bedroom,” I gasp, breaking the kiss. “God, I want to fuck you so bad. I need to get inside that tight little body of yours.”
I need to touch her—her face, her neck, her shoulders.
Undress her, lock my gaze onto those awesome tits of hers, pinch her nipples until she squeals, slide my fingers between her legs, feel how ready she is for me.
And she’s ready. Already her musk has perfumed the air in my penthouse. I inhale, close my eyes, inhale again.
Then I grab her hand and guide her down the hallway toward the closed door at the end.
My bedroom.
I touch the brushed brass doorknob, ready to turn it.
She bites her lip. “No.”
Frustration wells inside me, and I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”
She clears her throat. “No. I can’t do this. We barely know each other.”
I stare at her. Force myself not to glare at her.
Why is she resisting?
She’s turned on, clearly. Her heart is thumping so hard and fast that I can actually see her breasts move. Her cheeks and chest are red with blood flow, and— I inhale. Yes, no mistaking the fragrance.
Fuck. Now I want her even more. I didn’t think that was possible.
But it’s her choice.
I may have blue balls, but I’ll never force a woman into my bed.
I’m gazing at her, into her, and though we’re only inches away from each other, the distance seems like miles.
I don’t want to be miles away from this woman.
I want her in my arms. In my bed. Underneath my body.
It will happen. Sometimes, patience comes in handy. I don’t have a lot of it, but I’ve learned to fake it. The business world requires patience. Sometimes the personal world does, too. Anything worth having is worth waiting for, and Skye Manning is definitely worth having.
And worth waiting for.
I say nothing. Instead, I take her hand and lead her back to the living area. Sasha prances around us, and I lean down to give her a pat on the head.
“I’m sor—”
“Not a problem, Skye.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, clear my throat, and call my driver. “Christopher? Ms. Manning needs a ride home.”
Chapter Six
Cold showers suck. They don’t work on aching balls, but they do make sure sleep never comes. Not a huge problem. I always have work I can get done.
I’m toweling off my hair when Christopher calls.
“She get home all right?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about her place.”
“It’s downtown, a decent apartment building. Walking distance or a short ride on the T to the Ames Hotel where she works.”
“Did you walk her up?”
“Of course. It’s late.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t see much. Just made sure she got in okay. I heard the dead bolt click, and I left.”
“You didn’t look inside?”
“Not really. No.”
Fuck. I sound like a horny schoolboy. Did she say anything about me? Do you think she likes me?
I stop myself before I actually ask those questions. Since when do I care if a woman likes me? I can get twenty women over here to take Skye’s place in a heartbeat.
“Thanks, Christopher,” I say. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Black.”
I set my phone down on the counter and continue drying my hair. I throw the towel in the hamper and put on a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt. I slide into my slippers, grab the phone, and leave my bedroom. Down the hallway is my home office.
Guess where I’ll be spending the night?
Not a problem. I love to work. I love the ins and outs of business, finance, marketing, investing.
I see it as a game—a game I almost always win.
Funny. That’s usually how I see my female conquests as well, and it’s usually a game they’re more than willing to play, obeying my rules. And I have some very particular rules. Very particular tastes.
But Skye Manning? I can tell she’ll be a challenge.
She may not like my rules.
But
she’ll succumb eventually.
I’ll make sure of it.
Because I can never resist a challenge.
…
After spending a good portion of the night dealing with the shitstorm that resulted from yesterday’s meeting with Legal, I finally fall into bed around three a.m.
But my sleep is anything but restful.
Dreams of Skye Manning plague me.
That kiss—how perfectly her lips aligned with mine, the delicious flavor of her mouth, her intoxicating scent of raspberries and roses. Red roses.
So much of her is still a mystery—the color of her nipples, the taste of her pussy, the way she’ll look lying naked, her wrists bound to my headboard.
Regardless of my sleepless night, I rise at six a.m. sharp because my day is full of more meetings to deal with the fallout from the supplier who’s in breach of contract. Another cold shower. They still suck, but they give me the burst of energy I need to face each day with renewed vigor. My personal physician recommends them for stress tolerance, but I learned the benefits of cold-water bathing long ago, when I was just a kid. Our water heater broke, and we couldn’t afford a new one, so it was cold bathing for several months. I hated it.
But looking back, in the midst of the shitshow that was my childhood, I recall feeling better after those cold showers.
Alert.
Ready.
Alive.
From that time on, I knew if I wanted to make something of myself—and I had a burning desire to do so—cold showers would be a part of my life. They taught me willpower and courage—it takes sheer will to stay under the cold when the dreamy hot water is only a flick of the faucet away.
But as I said, despite the myth, cold showers do nothing for aching balls. Nothing to ease the desire for Skye Manning, either.
No matter. There’s work to be done, and I have never let anything—or anyone—interfere with my goals. An hour later, I’m dressed to the nines in a navy-blue custom-tailored suit and sitting behind my desk at my offices in downtown Boston, answering emails and doling out tasks to staff members.
“Find me a new supplier,” I tell them. “We’ll pay whatever’s necessary to get this damned contract filled with time to spare.”
A chorus of Yes, Mr. Blacks later, I’m confident the job will be done and done well. I tolerate nothing less.