by HELEN HARDT
And I’m right. By eleven thirty, a new supplier is located and a new contract drafted.
I allow myself a sigh of relief.
My stomach growls, and I chuckle out loud. I skipped breakfast this morning to get here and get moving on today’s problem. I haven’t thought about food until now.
I’m hungry.
For lunch.
And for something else.
Now that the crisis is handled, Skye Manning is back in my thoughts. It’s not enough that she plagued my dreams. She’s starring in my daydreams as well. And daydreams aren’t something I’m used to. I focus. I get the job done. I don’t waste time on daydreams.
Today, though, the daydreams are unusually persistent.
Which pisses me off.
Hell, it’s time for lunch, and I’ve earned a break.
I know exactly where to go…and what I’ll find there.
Chapter Seven
Addison’s office is locked, which is odd, but no matter. I’ve got today’s New York Times, and I’ll wait. I lean comfortably against the wall and peruse the headlines.
And then I see her.
Skye Manning.
She walks toward me, her hair bound in a ponytail again, her clothing similar to what she wore yesterday. Skinny jeans, but this time black sandals instead of pumps, a pink button-up blouse, and a navy blazer. The blouse is like a second skin, and those tits…
Damn.
She approaches me and clears her throat.
I lower my paper, and my lips twitch slightly, seemingly on their own.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“Sure. You can open the door.”
She quickly retrieves the key from her purse and unlocks the office. “Addie’s not here.”
“Good,” I say.
She opens the door, walks in, and sets her purse on her desk. She takes out her phone quickly and checks something, her ass looking delectable in denim.
My heart is racing, but I’m determined to play it cool. Just her presence affects me in a way that’s totally foreign to me. I affect her, too. I saw it in her eyes zeroing in on my lips before she scurried to her desk.
One of us must make the first move or we’ll both end up wanting…and though I’d love for it to be Skye, already I know it won’t be.
“Skye,” I say.
She turns. “Why are you here?”
I stalk toward her. “For this.”
Without so much as a thought, I grab her and kiss her. Hard. She gasps, and I thrust my tongue into her mouth, exploring at first but then taking. Another raw kiss, and she pushes her breasts into me, moves her hips.
I groan into her mouth.
And I’m lost. Lost in Skye, and all we’ve done so far is kiss.
My body’s on fire, and I push into her, letting her feel my erect cock against her belly. I’m ready. So ready to touch every part of her, bind her and spank her, fuck her hard. Fuck her fast.
And then fuck her slowly, savoring every minute.
She grabs my head and threads her fingers through my hair, pulls me toward her, and explores me as I explore her, our tongues locked in a sword fight, our lips sliding against each other. Nothing matters. Nothing except this amazing kiss.
Until I break away.
If I don’t, I won’t be able to stop. And I doubt she will be, either.
I draw several ragged breaths into my chest, my heart racing. Her lips are sexy and swollen, her chest rosy, her nipples hard and protruding against the clingy fabric of her blouse. I resist the urge to tweak one.
“Dinner tonight,” I say huskily. “I’ll pick you up here at seven. And this time, Skye, you’re coming to my bed. Get used to the idea. It’s going to happen.”
I turn and walk out the door.
…
Sitting next to me in the back seat of my car, Skye clears her throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”
“My place.”
“Oh? You cook?”
“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”
Skye nods.
Marilyn’s been with me a few years now, and she knows my tastes. Her skills as a chef are top-notch, and I pay her more than she’d earn in a five-star restaurant. The hours are better, too. She’s adept at all cuisines, but Italian is her specialty.
A robust Italian dinner will set the perfect mood for what I have planned for tonight.
Odd, how I want this woman—Skye—so badly. Is it the thrill of the chase because she turned me down last night?
No.
It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve been turned down before. I simply move on.
So what is it about her?
She’s an enigma to me. A woman who’s focused and values control, yet something about her screams submissive to me. My instincts about submission haven’t been wrong yet, so I trust them.
Beyond instinct, though, I know little about Ms. Manning and how she’ll react to my particular tastes in the bedroom.
I know only that I must have her.
We arrive and take the elevator to my place. Sasha greets us at the door.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I say, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”
“Is Annika the chef?” Skye asks.
“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.” I quickly send a text.
Within a few minutes, Annika, gray-haired and spry, whisks into the room, leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word. I prefer my staff to be the silent type. We get along well that way. Christopher’s the most talkative of the bunch, and he’s hardly a conversational wizard.
A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil from the Italian meal Marilyn prepared. I inhale the scent again, my mouth already watering. I specifically requested that she not cook lasagna. It’s too filling for what I have planned for later this evening. Penne arrabiata, full of spicy heat, and veal Marsala, less spicy and more filling but not so much to make a person uncomfortable after the meal.
Skye stands, fidgeting with her hands and looking delectable.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say.
Her lips quiver just a touch, and she continues fiddling with her fingers.
She’s nervous, of course. But I don’t want her to be nervous. Perhaps a drink will help.
“Wine?” I ask. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” I pull a bottle from my ornate wrought-iron rack.
She nods and removes her blazer. “What’s for dinner?”
“Penne arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” I open the bottle, pour two glasses, and hand one to Skye.
She takes a sip. “Yes. Love it.”
“Good.”
She smiles hesitantly, and I get the feeling she’s trying to draw one out of me.
As much as I want to smile in Skye’s presence, some inner instinct tells me not to give in.
So I keep my lips together.
“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”
I lead her to the kitchen. She widens her eyes at the marble and hardwood as I show her to the island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.
“Please.” I wave my hand over the platter. “After you.”
“No, go ahead,” she says. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”
“Of course.” I take a skewer, load it up with the antipasti, and then drizzle olive oil over it. I hold a napkin to catch the drips and
pull the green olive off with my teeth.
And I imagine those teeth around her nipple.
My groin tightens further. The peppery and slightly bitter flavor of the olive oil always tantalizes my tongue. Why is Italian food so sexy? All I want to do at this moment is tear all her clothes off and drizzle olive oil over her naked body, lick it off in its peppery glory.
Damn.
She stands frozen, watching me intently, not making any move toward the food.
“Please,” I say again after swallowing.
She nods, grabs a skewer, and pushes a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. She moves it toward her mouth.
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
She lifts her brows.
“The olive oil.” Even I notice the rasp in my voice. Olive oil. Dripping over Skye. Glistening. Our bodies sliding together like—
“I’m watching my fat intake,” she says.
I eye her body. No problem with fat intake. None at all.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” I take the skewer from her and drizzle the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
She pulls the chunk of cantaloupe off with her teeth.
I inhale sharply.
Fuck, she’s sexy. That mouth. Those lips. That perfect way she parts them.
She pulls the next piece, the prosciutto, off her skewer.
I inhale again. “Your mouth. Watching you eat is better than porn.”
She widens her eyes and meets my gaze.
Her brown eyes are shining.
She’s turning me on…and she knows it.
Which turns me on even more.
My flesh is hot, so hot. Damn. We’re only on antipasti, and I’m ready to fuck her senseless.
She sets the skewer down on a napkin, takes another sip of wine, and winces slightly.
“You don’t like the wine?” I ask.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You made a face.”
She widens her eyes, which have darkened to a milk chocolate. Fuck.
“I did? I didn’t mean to.”
“You winced a little.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
She hesitates for a few seconds. Then, “Just thinking I’d rather be drinking Wild Turkey.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh. I really, really laugh, and damn, it feels good, and I can’t remember why I was holding back earlier. Wild Turkey? She’s a fan of my favorite bourbon? Perfect. Just perfect.
“Why didn’t you ask for it, then?”
“I don’t know. You offered wine.”
“Ask for what you want here, Skye. Trust me, I plan on asking for what I want and then taking it.”
I pick up her wineglass and leave the kitchen. At my bar, I pour a lowball glass of the distinctive amber liquid and then walk back to Skye.
“I’m a Wild Turkey fan myself,” I say.
“I know. You ordered it last night.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I like a vodka martini with oysters.”
“Good call, but this goes with everything.” I hand her the glass. “I added one ice cube. Hope you like it that way.”
“Yeah, I do. I think watering it down just a touch brings out the flavor.”
“A Wild Turkey connoisseur, huh?”
“I’m from Kansas, so—”
Her admission surprises me more than a little. I’d pegged her for an East Coaster like myself. “You’re not from here?”
She takes a sip of bourbon and smiles. “You didn’t notice my lack of accent?”
“Yeah, but I just figured you were from somewhere else on the East Coast. Not the Midwest.”
“Why?”
I could go into a long tirade about how she screams East Coast to me. How she’s fast-paced and focused, how she’s working toward a career in photography by taking a position where her photos will get noticed, how she dresses in body-hugging yet classy clothes. Of course, I’m generalizing, but most people I know from the Midwest or West Coast move slower. I simply shrug. “You look like a city girl.”
“Kansas has cities.”
“True, but not like the East Coast.”
“Also true,” she says. “I come from a farm, anyway.”
“A farm?” I lift my eyebrows. She astonishes me once more. “A real, honest-to-goodness farm?”
“Uh…yeah. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Do you milk cows and everything?”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t grow up on a dairy farm, Braden. I grew up on a corn farm. You know, knee-high by the Fourth of July?”
“That’s interesting.” Not the corn so much as the fact that Skye Manning is so not a farm girl in my eyes. She’s the antithesis of a farm girl.
“Why did you leave?”
She lets out a short laugh. “Because I’ve taken about all the photos of corn I want to take in my career.”
I resist the urge to join in her laughter. “Right, photography. Makes sense.” I gaze at her, my eyes never leaving hers, as I take the last sip of my wine. “Ready for dinner?”
“Sure, let’s eat.” She takes another small sip of the bourbon, sets the glass down, and licks her lips.
God.
That mouth.
My cock is straining against my pants. I’m done waiting. So done.
I meet her gaze and burn her with my own. Her eyes are wide with an answering need, her lips parted and glistening.
I stalk toward her, my chest already rumbling with a groan.
“Fuck dinner.”
Chapter Eight
I grab her hand and lead her to my bedroom.
I gaze at her for a moment as we stand in front of the closed door. The door to the room where I’ll finally fuck Skye Manning. Maybe get her out of my system.
But I know already it will take way more than one fuck to get this woman out of my system. The thought both frightens and exhilarates me.
Her ponytail has come slightly loose, her cheeks are pink, her nipples hard. A lovely picture, but again, my gaze is drawn to her mouth.
That fucking amazing mouth.
I pull her toward my body and push my erection into her belly. “Feel that?” I whisper, tugging on her earlobe—God, her flesh is like silk beneath my tongue—with my teeth. “Feel what you do to me. You won’t leave me wanting tonight, Skye. I’m going to fuck you.”
I let her go and open the door to my bedroom.
She walks forward, her demeanor almost trance-like.
Not the first time a woman has reacted with awe at seeing my bedroom. It is truly spectacular, decorated in mahogany with navy-blue and ivory accents. All my furniture is custom designed and my bedding made of the finest silk imported from India. But the pièce de résistance is the window—which is actually a whole wall that overlooks the Boston Harbor.
Skye walks toward it, still moving as if an unseen force is manipulating her.
Little does she know that unseen force will soon be me.
I stand next to her, looking out over the yachts in the marina.
“One-way glass,” I say. “We can see out, but no one can see in.”
“Is one of those yours?” she asks.
“The Galatea, yeah. Ben’s got her out tonight.”
“Ben your brother?”
“Only Ben I know. He’s more into the boat thing than I am.”
“How can you not be into the boat thing? They’re so beautiful.” She sighs softly.
“They’re a damned lot of work.” True words, but I want to take Skye out on the Galatea. Just the way her eyes are shining makes me want to buy her a fucking armada.
“But don’t you—”
I tug on her ponytail, resisting the urge to give it a harder yank to bring her to her knees. “Do you really want to talk about boats right now?”
She turns and assesses the decor with wide eyes. She seems to zero in on my headboard—or rather, the notches and blunt metal objects placed just so. The design is my own, and each piece serves a vital purpose.
One I hope to share with her.
She turns and regards my highboy dresser and chest and then the mahogany wardrobe next to my walk-in closet. I keep secrets in that wardrobe—secrets I’m definitely going to share with Skye.
She turns toward the opposite wall where two wingback chairs in navy with gold flecks sit. Then she returns her gaze to the bed.
“This is amazing,” she says.
Oh, she has no idea. I’ll introduce her to all the pleasures of pain and submission. And if she takes to my lessons well…
New York.
Black Rose Underground.
But that’s way in the future.
Damn. The future. I don’t think of women in terms of the future, so why the hell am I considering any of this?
For now, I’m going to fuck her into tomorrow.
“It’s a nice place to come home to at night,” I finally reply.
“I’ll say. If this were mine, I’m not sure I’d ever get out of bed.”
I resist the urge to groan as I remove my suit jacket. “I like the sound of that.”
I stand in my white shirt, tie still knotted but loosened, pants, and glossy black leather oxfords. I don’t plan on undressing anytime soon, even though my cock has other plans and really wants to be free.
“Take off your clothes,” I say, “slowly.”
Will she obey?
I swallow as I wait to find out.
Then she begins to unbutton her blouse.
I warm all over, and I’m abruptly aware of the thumping of my heart.
One button. Two buttons. Three—
Was slowly my idea? Big mistake.
I yank the shirttail out from her jeans and finish the job by ripping the two halves apart. Buttons fly, one pinging the wardrobe door but most of them falling quietly onto the plush ivory carpeting.
“Couldn’t wait,” I say huskily.
Her nipples press against the lace of her bra.