Love Sincerely Yours

by Quinn, Meghan

  Shaking all thoughts of his crotch out of my head, I say, “You know why I’m here—to collect Lauren for lunch. Then she told me about Project Mountain. Since I’m in charge of marketing, even though for some reason you’re denying it today, I want to know what I’m dealing with here.”

  “You want to know what you’re dealing with,” he mimics me and shakes his head, both hands drumming the wooden top of his desk. Fingers thrum the surface. “We are dealing with a titan of a company that seems to have stolen every ounce of the product line right from under my nose. They plan on launching a week before us.”

  Shit.

  Rome is about to crack his teeth from the grinding of his jaw. This has been a huge project for him, the launch of a new branch for this company. A lot riding on this women’s division, so to have to deal with his top competitor launching one before us, is pretty much a kick to the balls.

  How the hell do I get my hands on that information from a competitor?

  I chew on the side of my mouth, trying to think of a solution. “Then we should do whatever it takes to launch before them.”

  “We barely have a marketing plan,” he huffs. “We can’t launch a week before them. We have media to schedule, commercials to finish, an entire campaign to finalize.”

  “Good thing you hired me then,” I say, walking up to him and pressing my hand on his arm, gathering the attention of those worried eyes. “I’m an evil genius.”

  He grips the back of his neck, his biceps pulling tightly on the sleeves of his shirt. “It’s too much.”

  “I literally have nothing else on my calendar. My sole focus is Roam, Inc. We can do this, Rome. Trust me.”

  My thumb rubs over the soft hairs on his forearm. God, his skin. My insides are churning, the need to pull him into my arms, rub his back, let him know everything is going to be okay is far too tempting.

  Rome studies my movements as I run the pads of my thumbs across his masculine skin; along the lines in his defined brow, his own hand still busy rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Trust me?” I ask, my breath escaping with every blink of his eyes. I can’t stop staring. I want him so bad.

  My thumbs knead.

  He takes a deep breath and slips his hand out of his pocket. When I think he’s about to push away from me, he surprises me. He places that hand at my waist, gently pressing me against his wall—a familiar position I remember being in right before I left Roam, Inc.

  “You want me to trust you?” he asks, his voice so low, it rumbles over every inch of my body, sending a wave of arousal through my veins. “I can barely concentrate when you’re around, Peyton. I don’t even trust myself around you. I don’t trust that I’m not going to ruin the professional relationship we have. I don’t trust myself not to peel that white blouse off your chest and suck your nipples into my mouth. I don’t trust myself to keep myself from sinking so fucking deep inside you that you have no other choice but to scream my name. And I sure as hell don’t trust myself to stay away from you, when all I want is to feel your soft skin against mine.”

  His hands are straddling my head, his eyes boring straight into my soul, his knee pressing between my legs.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t feel my bottom half.

  I can’t come up with one single word to say that will stop him.

  I don’t want him to stop, even though I know he should, even though I know we are bordering on crossing a professional line, a line we could never get back.

  “Rome . . .” I breathe out, reaching out and fishing a finger around one of his belt loops.

  He sucks in a sharp breath of air as his hips move closer. His forehead lowers, his breath just as erratic as mine.

  “I . . .” He pauses and licks his lips. “I need help, Peyton.”

  Everything around me stills. I need help, Peyton. All pretenses are gone. It’s just the vulnerable, worried CEO needing a strong advocate and business partner to steady him again. Me. God . . . he’s so . . . real. Raw. Incredible. The lust I have for this man is put on hold as his words sink in.

  He needs me.

  For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s asking for help and not in a boss-type manner, but with a hint of desperation.

  This is the Rome no one else has seen, the Rome I knew was trapped deep down inside of him, only present in his most vulnerable of moments.

  And I’m privy to see this beautiful man at his finest, raw, defenseless, and completely exposed.

  “How can I help?”

  Pushing off the wall a few inches, one of his hands comes to my cheek, and then he searches my eyes. “Have dinner with me, tonight.”

  “Having dinner with you is going to help?”

  “Bring work.” He lets out a deep sigh. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  I nod. “Text me where. I’ll be there and for now, I’ll start moving up media dates.”

  His thumb strokes my cheek, his brow softening, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Okay.”

  With one final stroke, he pushes off the wall and gives me some space, some unwanted breathing room.

  “I, uh . . . I have some work to do,” he says, going to his desk where he picks up my purse and brings it to me.

  “Then I’ll give you some space.” I take my purse from him, our fingers connecting for a brief second before I start toward his office door.

  His hand goes to my back, guiding me gently to the heavy door, sliding down until it rests right above my ass. I squeeze my eyes shut as his chest falls in close behind me, his masculine scent invading me once again. Leaning over, his mouth to my ear, he says, “Thank you, Peyton.”

  He reaches in front of me and opens the door, ushering me through. When I look behind me, he’s gripping the door and the glass wall, his gaze sharp and enticing.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he says, “Lauren, please make reservations for Peyton and me at Number 9. Seven o’clock.”

  Lauren pops her head up and nods. “On it.”

  Never wavering, he says, “See you then.”

  And then he shuts his door, sending my heart into a tailspin.

  Seven o’clock can’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ROME

  I take a sip of my wine and lean back in the curved booth I’m sharing with Peyton, completely and utterly exhausted. We took a twenty-minute break to eat, but the rest of our time here has been spent nailing down all the fine details of the campaign.

  Despite the fact that we’re at a five-star restaurant in the heart of New York City.

  It’s been meticulous and time-consuming, but for the first time today, I feel at ease—and optimistic—and it’s all because of the beautiful woman sitting next to me, sipping on a glass of red wine.

  “How do you feel?” she asks, eyeing me, her gaze falling to my neck; the spot where my shirt is unbuttoned. Peyton wets her lips, mouth parted, eyes sparkling.

  I stare, my own wineglass inches from my lips.

  Sip your wine. Drink it all, you fool.

  This woman just saved your ass. Do not hit on her—it’s not professional. Jesus Christ—that’s something Hunter would do.

  Not me.

  Then again, I can’t think of a better way to thank her by taking her to my apartment and stripping her down bare so I can roam my hands and tongue and body over every last inch of her.

  “How do you feel?” she repeats, assuming I didn’t hear it the first time.

  “I feel,” I say it slowly, choosing the words. “Relieved.”

  “Really?” Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Relieved?”

  “Yeah, relieved.” I nod. “You did good, Peyton.”

  “I . . . you don’t know how much that mea—” She pauses and takes a deep breath, getting choked up. “Thank you. That means a lot to me, Rome. I worked my ass off for you once I left the office. I wanted to make sure that this was all going to be okay.”

  She really is amazing.

&
nbsp; Why did it take me so long to see it? Apparently because I didn’t lift my eyes from my desk. Something else this woman in front of me has taught me. Beautiful and intelligent.

  “It shows, and I really can’t thank you enough.”

  Smiling, she slightly tilts her head to the side and takes a sip of her wine, a playful look in her eyes that’s making me feel a little uneasy, makes me squirm in my seat.

  “What?” What’s the look she’s giving me? I don’t want to misinterpret anything. I’m trying to be professional, but it’s just so damn hard.

  “Rome Blackburn, you are really nice when you want to be.”

  “You think I said all that just to be nice?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You did a damn good job. You are saving my ass, and possibly the company. You’re really fucking good at what you do, and I’m pissed at myself for not seeing it while I had you at the office.”

  “What do you mean—not seeing it while you had me in the office? You mean . . . how good I am at my job?”

  She’s fishing for compliments, but I let it slide. I’m feeling so fucking fantastic right now I want to pick her up out of that chair and spin her around in circles.

  Do I tell her that the job isn’t the only thing she’s good at? Maybe she’s good at other things? Like making me feel like I’m not such a dickhead, after all? It bothers me now that employees tiptoe around me—and that they see me as unapproachable—more than it ever did in the past.

  Everyone always thinks they can do a better job running a company; everyone thinks it’s so goddamn easy having that many people depend on you for their livelihood.

  It keeps me up at night.

  That’s why this bullshit with Project Mountain scared the living shit out of me. Sure, everybody thought I was pissed—and I was—but mostly I was out of my goddamn mind with worry. I can’t lose those quarterlies to that company; I need them in my pocket, for my people. My employees.

  “You’re not just good at your job, Peyton—you’re . . .” Shit. Why are the words getting lodged in my damn throat? What do I want to say? “You’re good for me.”

  It’s dark in here, but I swear, her face gets red. “I am?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Define ‘good for you.’” Her smirk is knowing, her fingers using air-quotes around the words good for you, and for once, I’m happy to oblige her with an explanation.

  I lean forward, resting my hands on the table in front of us. Clasp them. “You make me want to be . . .”

  Okay, so this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

  “Nice?” Peyton supplies hopefully.

  “Uh, no.” Not the word I was looking for.

  “Kind?”

  “Not that one either.”

  I laugh, then she laughs, and soon, we’re both staring at one another like complete morons. Anyone watching would think we were love-struck fools. Because right now, I feel like one. Jesus, shoot me now.

  “What then? How do I make you want to be?”

  She’s staring at me so expectantly, and I really want to say something profound; something damn good—but it’s harder pulling emotion from an ass that hasn’t spewed anything sweet or meaningful in ages.

  “You make me feel . . . like I’m not a giant asshole.”

  Not the most profound answer in the world, but it resonates with her because instead of cringing from my choice of words, her face softens.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, but I think that came out all wrong.” I resist the temptation to run my fingers through my hair. “You make me fucking excited. You excite me.”

  “I do? Me?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I do. It’s just that—no one has ever said that to me before.”

  “Then your other dates have been idiots.”

  “This is a date?”

  My mouth gapes. Is it? No. Yes.

  I look around at the surroundings, well aware that it’s a sophisticated place, and we’re at a secluded table. The lights are dim. The menu is sublime.

  I invited her under the pretense of work, obviously—that’s my MO. It’s what I do. Work. Work. More work.

  But if I’m being honest with myself, yes—there was some romantic intention when I had Lauren book this table, at this restaurant, and I do both Peyton and me a favor by not denying it.

  “Yes. I guess this was like a date, wasn’t it?”

  Her eyes light up, this time not from surprise. They’re excited and sparkly and alive—and beautiful.

  “Wow,” she says with a little laugh. “I can’t believe you just admitted that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re such a hard-ass all the time. You have way too much pride, Rome Blackburn, and sometimes you do things just to spite yourself.”

  That’s probably true.

  “So. A date, huh?” Peyton rests back in her chair, crossing her legs and shooting me a flirty look. “You couldn’t just ask? You had to pretend we were only here for a meeting? So typical.”

  “We did have a meeting,” I can’t help pointing out, physically pointing to her portfolio and my notes.

  “We’ve been doing nothing but meetings since I offered to take on this project and crush all competitors’ skulls.” Peyton pantomimes what she probably considers “crushing skulls” in her fist, grinding her left hand into her open right palm.

  God, she’s adorable when she talks trash. Or tries to.

  Cute.

  Sexy.

  Self-conscious now because I’m watching her, Peyton ducks her head and bites her bottom lip, shying away from my intense gaze. But I can’t help it. I want to suck on her lip and brush her hair aside and suck on her neck, too.

  For starters.

  We’re through with our meal and when the waiter comes back with a dessert menu, I offer it to her. You want? I question her with my brows.

  Do you?

  No.

  “I have a bottle of wine at my place.”

  My place, which is just around the corner—within walking distance. How convenient.

  “Just the check.”

  “Very good, sir.” The waiter nods, pulling a narrow, black leather folder out of his apron. Lands it on my side of the table, and without hesitating, I hand him my credit card.

  “Dessert at your place?” Peyton asks. “Do you actually have any?”

  “Not really.” I’m looking at it, though. “Want to come over for a nightcap?”

  She visibly swallows, brushes the hair falling over her shoulder to one side, and sits up straighter in her chair. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  PEYTON

  We’regonnabang, we’regonnabang, we’regonnabang. I can’t keep the chant out of my head. I just know we’re going to—I can tell by the way Rome is watching me; like I’m the tastiest thing on the menu.

  His hand singeing the small of my back, we walk the dark, damp streets of New York, dodging people the entire three-block walk to his place.

  By way of necessity, because I’m wearing high heels, I grasp his forearm and hold steady after the first time my heel gets caught in a sewer grate and almost snaps.

  Rome steadies me the remaining block.

  One. More. Block.

  My heart wants to vomit, it’s fluttering so fast.

  We’re at a building with a doorman wearing a green jacket; he smiles, nods, and pulls the heavy door open with a flourish, ushering us inside the opulent lobby.

  Somehow, the building too feels demanding; too high-end. Too glossy and cold, as if it has high expectations of anyone walking through the door.

  I tilt my chin up.

  Brace my back against the cool metal elevator walls when the doors open and we step in, riding to the top floor. When it dings and slides back open, Rome sheds his coat by the door.

  I do the same, and hang it by the door, and turn to face him.

  Just like everything e
lse he does, he wastes no time focusing on what he wants and taking it with precise movements. Sure and confident, he walks to me, hands settling on my waist.

  I back up until I’m pressed gently against the wall, his hot mouth settling on my neck just below my ear. He sucks on my earring, earning himself an eye-roll—the erotic kind, where my eyes damn near roll to the back of my head.

  “Wanna tour of the place now, or in the morning?”

  Whoa.

  We’re doing this.

  It.

  Banging.

  “In the morning, after you feed me pancakes with lots of butter and syrup,” I moan, luxuriating in the feel of his warm breath.

  “I don’t have any pancake batter,” he murmurs back.

  “Mmm. You better get some, or these clothes aren’t coming off.”

  He rears back to study my expression. “Are you fucking for real?”

  I laugh. “Yes. I want pancakes.”

  His grumble is hilarious. Sexy. “Fine. God, you’re bossy.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I pull his mouth back down, square on mine, opening for him so his tongue can slip in. It does, and mine dances with his, rolling. Twirling.

  Wet and hot.

  Kind of dirty, we lap each other up. I am kissing Rome Blackburn. Kissing. Rome. And it’s even hotter, even better, even more intense than I thought possible. But now there is a need alive in me that I have to take. Now.

  “Show me your bedroom.”

  Holy crap, did I just say that? That is so unlike me. I might think about saying things like that, but I’ve certainly never said anything like it out loud to a man before.

  Nevertheless, Rome clearly likes it, because he reaches down, and before I know it, he’s scooping me up and carrying me down his entry hall. Doesn’t stop until he enters a dark room, bumping the outlet with his elbow and two bedside table lights flicker on.

  They’re dim—more mood lighting than for efficiency—casting a beautiful glow over his dark bedroom. It’s just like I pictured it: large and imposing, with huge panoramic windows overlooking the borough. The sky is lit up from the city, and although the view is obstructed from all the tall buildings, it’s still spectacular.