Curvy for Him: The CEO and the Soldier (Curvy for Him Series Book 5)

by Annabelle Winters

  1

  ELLEN

  “Give me your panties, please.”

  I flinch and almost poke my eye out with my lash-brush as I hear Edge’s gravelly voice from the hotel-room bed. I don’t do makeup often, but this evening there are going to be cameras on me so I reluctantly agreed to paint my face. Now I’ll have to start over.

  “What?” I say as I glance into the mirror, frowning first at myself, then at the reflection of Edge sprawled on the bed, the square-jawed soldier naked to the toes, massive chest lined with scars old and new, stomach lean and tight with muscles that look like another set of ribs. His long, thick cock is still oozing from how hard he took me down on the carpeted floor, and I can see the sparkle on his lips and stubble from the way he brought forth my wetness with his tongue, licking me like an animal until I came all over his face. The man knows neither shame nor self-consciousness, and clearly he’s trying to teach me to let go of my own self-consciousness. Or maybe just my sense of decency.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” I say, exhaling slowly as I force myself to look back into my own brown eyes, study the reflection of my round face so I can get this darned makeup done right before it’s too late.

  “You did, and you will,” he says softly, his deep voice sending a shiver along every square inch of my flesh as I feel my nipples stiffen beneath my beige bra, my thighs tingle as I shift my soft ass on the cushioned stool.

  I force myself to ignore him, though it’s hard to finish my makeup while I’m trying desperately not to smile. He doesn’t say another word, and finally I’m done and I stand up and sigh at my own reflection. My dark business-skirt has risen up my thick thighs, and I scowl as I lean forward and pull it back down. Then I straighten my jacket, glance at my hair from either side, pat my wide hips once, and sigh again loudly. Slowly I step away from the mirror, my jaw clenching as I look into Edge’s steel-blue eyes, see the way his cock is filling out again as he glances at my crotch and then back up at my face. I can hardly believe what this man has done to me over the past month—a month where we lived a lifetime together, were thrown together by circumstance, by chance, maybe even fate . . . thrown into a situation where we were forced to lay ourselves bare to one another, to face our fears, our prejudices.

  We were forced to face ourselves: The best and worst of ourselves.

  Yes, thrown together by fate, I think as I stand as tall as I can in my heels, holding Edge’s gaze with all the strength and resilience in me, strength that I’ve built from years of struggle in the corporate world, resilience gained from hard experience as a smart, ambitious woman trying to win the game on a man’s playing field. And just when I think I’m there, that I’ve won, that I’m at the fucking top, what happens?

  He happens!

  Suddenly both of us blink at the same time, both of us smile together, and I feel myself almost buckle at the knees as I try to come to terms with how much my life has changed in just a month, one simple cycle of the moon.

  And without a word I reach up beneath my skirt, slip my thumbs beneath the waistband of my panties, and slowly roll them down my thighs, blinking as my own scent comes to me, Edge’s aroma still mixed in there, like we’re joined from the inside, one from the inside, inseparable, indivisible, unbreakable.

  “Because you won’t break,” he’d said to me at that moment of darkness, that point where despair weighed down on us like a fog so thick you couldn’t breathe. “That’s why I know you’re mine, El. That’s why I’m yours. That’s what fate means. That’s what love means. And I love you, El. I fucking love you.”

  “I hate you,” I mutter, my lips tight as I do my best to hold back that smile, stop the tears, control the sickeningly exhilarating feeling of my secret shame—delightfully secret, wonderfully shameful!

  Then I toss my panties at him and walk out the door, finally letting my smile break as Edge calls after me, his voice muffled because my underwear is on his big face:

  “Break a leg, babe. You’re gonna kill it.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” I reply over my shoulder, shaking my head and heading for the hotel elevators.

  Seven minutes later I’m in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria in New York City, standing alone on the raised dais, the lights hot and bright above me, cameras flashing from every angle as I look upon the filled-to-capacity crowd.

  Three thousand women leaders from around the world are gathered here today. Gathered to hear my words of wisdom and encouragement, hear the story of how I made it on my own, how I played the game without sacrificing my integrity, without compromising my dignity, without bending, without yielding, without submitting . . .

  Without submitting, I think as I shuffle my notes and silently clear my throat before looking up, a beaming smile on my round face, my naked crotch tingling beneath my formal business skirt like it’s smiling too, reminding me that being a woman is complicated. Damned complicated.

  Damn you, I think as I take a breath and then start to speak. Damn you, Edge.

  2

  ONE MONTH EARLIER

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

  EDGE

  “Edge? You mean Ed, right?”

  I frown and narrow my eyes at the curvy woman standing in my commander’s office on the top floor of this repurposed, half bombed-out building. There aren’t any bombs falling in Kabul these days, of course (‘coz we won the fucking war, remember?)—but we never rebuilt this building. I think the boys like the feel of it, actually. Nothing like busted walls riddled with bulletholes the size of your fist to make sure you don’t lose your edge in peacetime.

  “No, Ma’am,” I say, swallowing my anger and narrowing my blues eyes even more as I do my best to keep my focus on her face and not let my gaze travel down her body. I’ve been here almost a year, and although some of the boys like to spend their American dollars at the underground whorehouses of Kabul, I stay away.

  Though maybe I shouldn’t have stayed away, I think, swallowing hard and blinking as my cock moves in my uniform. I’m not staring directly at this woman, but the outline of her body in my peripheral vision is making me hard. Perfect fucking hourglass shape, I think as I grit my teeth and force myself to look up at the ceiling. But all I can see is her: Big boobs, solid waist, nice wide hips that I can hold onto while I ram into her from behind. Oh fuck, it’s been too long, Edge. Careful you don’t shoot your cannon off in your fucking camos, you idiot! Breathe, dumbass! Breathe and remember that you’re a soldier, that discipline is everything, that control keeps you alive, keeps you sharp, keeps you—

  “Edge?” she says again, and I flick my gaze down at her. She’s at least a foot shorter than me, dressed in a khaki pantsuit that’s fitted just right, the jacket stopping above her hips, her thick thighs highlighting a perfect V that pushes against the thin cloth of her pants in a way that make me want to pant. Pant like a fucking dog. Why isn’t it acceptable for a man to push his nose into a woman’s crotch and sniff as a form of greeting? Even the most sophisticated dogs do that in polite company, don’t they?

  Maybe I should do exactly that, I think as a tight smile comes to my lips. My breath catches as I realize I’m now staring at her thighs and crotch, and quickly I glance over at my commanding officer. He’s on the phone—I guess a call must have come in. Didn’t even fucking hear it with the blood pounding in my ears.

  “What?” I say, blinking and looking into this woman’s pretty round face, realizing that she’d said something t
o me before I lost myself in some fantasy of turning into a goddamn dog and licking her pussy like the animal I am.

  She’s frowning, her eyebrows raised, and immediately I know she didn’t miss the way I was staring. Fuck. She’s pissed, I can tell. I don’t know why I was called in here, but clearly this woman has something to do with it. What is she, military? State Department? Fucking CIA?

  She’s still frowning, her soft jaw tight like she hates my guts for the way I looked at her. She turns to my commanding officer, tapping her foot and biting her lip like she’s annoyed he’s on the phone. This woman isn’t used to be kept waiting, and I can see she’s this fucking close to stepping forward and pulling the phone away from my officer’s hand so she can say what she wants to say.

  She glances sideways at me once more, and immediately I know she’s about to tell him that she doesn’t want me, that he needs to assign someone else to whatever the hell this mission might be. Normally I wouldn’t give a fuck—my conduct and performance has been rock solid, and I’m not worried about that. But for some reason the thought of being dismissed from this room makes me tense up and clamp down, like I can’t be away from this woman, like I want to be near her, need to be near her.

  I swallow hard as I try to figure out what the fuck is happening to me. Yeah, I’m hard up and backed up and horny as a bear in springtime; but this isn’t just my cock talking. This is something else in me talking. This is the man in me talking. The essence of the man I am whispering up from my depths in a way that I fucking swear is real and undeniable. Yeah, it’s whispering loud and clear. Whispering words that I can almost hear. Words that I can almost see. Words that I can almost feel!

  She’s mine, come the words from the depths of my body, maybe from somewhere deeper than just my body. She’s mine.

  I glance at my commanding officer again. He’s still on the phone, his back turned and his tone hushed. He’s nodding like he’s getting ready to end the conversation, and suddenly I realize time is running out. I need to say something before she does. I need to say something now!

  “You’re mine,” I blurt out, almost choking on the words as I see her turn, her mouth opening wide in either astonishment or pure fucking indignation. Probably both. Court martial, here I come. Fuck me.

  “Excuse me?” she says, her eyes narrowing in rage as she turns to face me dead on, her soft round cheeks filling with color. She places her hands firmly on her hips, and I can see she’s ready for battle. “What did you just say to me?”

  Incredibly, my commanding officer is still turned away from us, one finger in his ear like he’s got a bad phone connection. For a moment I consider backing down, maybe denying I said anything, perhaps apologizing, even groveling. But instead I decide to double down. Fuck it. Maybe I’ve snapped, but there’s something inside me bubbling up like it’s waited forever for this moment, a part of me coming alive that’s so primal and wild I can’t fight it. I won’t fight it.

  “I said you’re mine,” I say softly, letting my gaze wash over her like the rain. “I’m Edge, and you’re mine.”

  3

  EL

  You’re mine.

  The words don’t even register, I’m so shocked. Like any woman, I’ve had weirdoes and perverts whisper all kinds of sick shit to me over the years. I’m not sure if I want to slap him myself or just calmly make a statement that will destroy his career. But I’m dumbstruck, and I just blink and stare, my lips moving silently like I’m a goldfish who’s just been plucked from her bowl.

  I glance at the man’s commander. He’s got one finger in his ear and is still on the phone against the far wall. Then I slowly turn back to this man. Edge. Edge? What the hell kind of name is that? What kind of parents name a kid Edge? No wonder he turned into some monster who thinks it’s acceptable to say things like . . . like . . .

  My train of thought comes crashing to a halt as I finally look into Edge’s blue eyes and feel his gaze bore through me. Like I said, I’ve looked into the eyes of all kinds of sexist sickos over the years, faced off against them everywhere from bar-rooms to board-rooms all over the world. But I don’t see that in this man’s eyes. And the incredible truth is, he didn’t whisper that offensive statement to me. He just straight-up said it! Said it like he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself.

  He said it like he believed it.

  He said it like it’s true.

  “What did you say?” I hear myself asking him, my voice trembling with not just anger but an excitement that’s shaking me from the inside, sending tingles through me, making me hot in a way that’s perplexing, infuriating, confusing as hell.

  He swallows and blinks, but he doesn’t break his focus. Still, behind those blue eyes I swear I saw him make a decision. He made it quick, trusting his instinct, following his gut.

  “I said you’re mine . . . Ma’am,” he says, his body tensing up like he knows he’s just sunk his career but is following through anyway, doubling down on whatever made him blurt out that shocking statement in the first place.

  The way he added the word “Ma’am” at the end almost makes me laugh out loud. It actually does sound respectful, the way he said it. He isn’t mocking me. He isn’t messing with me. He actually sounds honest and confident, calmly stating a fact that’s undeniable and obvious, like he’s a muscle-bound weatherman standing in the desert and saying today will be sunny.

  No, he isn’t mocking me, I realize as I blink again, mesmerized by the absolute certainty I see in this soldier’s blue eyes. I have to look up to actually meet his gaze. Like way up, I think as I realize he’s easily a foot taller than me and twice as broad. His chest looks like a brick wall, his arms are the size of cannons, and his fists bear a remarkable similarity to sledgehammers. He’s got a sidearm on his equipment belt, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’d be more comfortable with a caveman’s club than a Glock.

  OK, now I’m the one mocking someone, I think, clenching my jaw as I remind myself that sexism cuts both ways, just like violence, just like hate. You don’t stoop to someone else’s level—not in your words, not in your actions, not even in your thoughts.

  But what are my thoughts, I ask myself as I swallow hard and force myself to breathe before I start hyperventilating. I have a short fuse, but I’ve learned to control my anger over the years, learned not to take the bait and fly off the handle when some hot-shot finance guy “mansplains” to me like I don’t know the difference between a balance sheet and an income statement. When a dog barks at you, the best thing to do is ignore it. Pretend like it doesn’t exist, like it doesn’t matter.

  But this does matter, I tell myself as I realize I’m just staring like an idiot into this man’s blue eyes. I’m frozen in place, but hot inside. Uncomfortably hot. I can feel the perspiration trickling down the insides of my arms, down the ridge of my lower back. I pull at the collar of my khaki top, frowning as I glance at the air-conditioner rattling away in the cracked, grimy window. Didn’t we win this war? Why the hell is the U.S. Army camping out in this bombed-out hovel?!

  “Sorry about that,” comes the commander’s voice, jarring me back to the moment, back to reality—a reality which I swear has changed dramatically over the past two minutes. He nods at Edge and then glances at me. “Like I was saying, Edge knows the city, speaks Pashtun, Urdu, and Arabic, and . . .” He trails off, grinning as he turns back to Edge and looks him up and down—mostly up, because Edge dwarfs even his commander, who is by no means a small man! “And he’ll keep you safe in case there’s trouble.”

  I’m about to say something, but Edge speaks first. “Trouble, Sir? I’m sorry, maybe I missed the memo.”

  The commander rubs the back of his head and then strokes his clean-shaved chin. “Right. This all happened so fast I didn’t get a chance to brief you beforehand.” He nods up at Edge. “Ms. Ellen is the CEO of a . . . of an . . .” He turns to me and frowns. “What does
your company do again? I’m sorry. I’m not an Internet guy.”

  I take a long breath, my mind still reeling from what Edge said to me with such certainty. I know that what I should do is ask the commander to dismiss Edge so I can tell him about his soldier’s unacceptable behavior. But for some reason I allow myself to get drawn into this conversation, and before I know it I’m answering the question.

  “Online education,” I say excitedly, my mind snapping into focus because there’s nothing I love more than talking about my company! It’s my baby, for all practical purposes. I gave birth to it. I nurtured it until it got strong enough to stand on its own, to generate enough revenue to fund its own growth. It took me five years, but now I’m CEO of a company with two hundred employees and annual revenues of $10 million! “We provide a technology platform that connects teachers with students in hard-to-reach places. It all works over the Internet, and our technology can handle video even where Internet connections are slow. A lot of American colleges and universities are licensing our platform to expand their own online education capabilities.”

  Edge grunts, raising an eyebrow even as I see a smile tease the corner of his mouth. Again I get the impression that he isn’t laughing at me or mocking me or thinking “Oh, that’s sweet!” like so many investors did when I took my idea to them. He actually seems impressed. Maybe even interested.

  “This place needs it more than anywhere,” he says in that gravelly, deep voice that sends ripples through my body, tingles down to my toes. “An Afghani girl is risking her life just by showing up in a school building. Imagine if these girls could attend class from the safety of their homes! On their phones! With real teachers, not some idiot who thinks women are nothing but . . .”

  Edge trails off as I cock my head and frown at him. “Thinks that women are nothing but a man’s property?” I say firmly, that anger coming back so quick I feel the blood rush to my face. And now I don’t give a damn about whether or not this Neanderthal is interested in my work or my goals or the betterment of little girls in a war-torn country. He was out of line, and he’s going to pay the price. For all I know, he’s just playing it up in some futile hope that it saves his muscle-bound ass. Sorry, bud. Game over.