by Starla Night
She’d written the avant garde advertising companies sometimes used by Nike, Starbucks, and Microsoft. All large companies with a lot of money who might hire her and pay benefits.
“Now evaluate your work critically,” her professor said. “If you were the hiring director at those companies, would you hire yourself? Why or why not?”
Everyone studied their work and scribbled thoughts onto their assignment papers.
What could she say?
She wanted to say yes, she would hire herself, but that was a lie. If she were a hiring director, she’d hire someone with talent. Like her classmates. Not herself.
“Next,” her professor continued, “play headhunter. Walk around the class and write who you think your classmates should work for. What company would be their best fit?”
The rotation started. A classmate bumped her. She muttered an apology nobody heard. Her classmates walked the room and wrote comments on the assignment sheets.
Everyone else was working hard, and she was standing around feeling sorry for herself. What was her problem? Mal worked a thousand times harder than anyone. Even though his company would fail in two weeks’ time no matter what he did, he still pursued his goal of first place. He didn’t sit around and mope; he got up and worked harder.
As though her thoughts had summoned him, Mal appeared at the upper story window.
She flushed hot and cold. What was he doing here? Had he finished the product launch early?
His gaze picked her out. His eyes flashed green. He tried the windows but this time they were locked.
“Go around,” she mouthed and pointed at the ground.
He disappeared.
She hurried out of class, crossed the long hall, exited through the glass doors, and met him at the top of the stairs. “Is everything okay?”
“No.” He pushed her trench coat off her shoulders and wrapped his arms around her. His hard muscles flexed as he crushed her to him.
The world stood still. Everything was Mal. His delicious scent, his intoxicating body, his ramrod hard arousal pressing into her belly. His presence soothed and excited her. The throbbing sensation between her legs returned with pounding awareness. He had come.
“Now it’s okay.” He growled low near her ear. “Let’s go.”
Yes. Let’s—
“No!” She drew back. “I’m in the middle of class.”
“Do you hate me?”
That made her stop.
His eyes blazed.
She stroked his beautiful face. She was allowed to touch him. Wasn’t it funny? After gazing at him in longing for months, she was finally allowed to reach out and stroke his high cheekbones. She could never have imagined this. If someone had told her about this future, she couldn’t have imagined comforting him as if it were ordinary.
“No,” she said. “I could never hate you.”
He relaxed. “I need your art.”
“What, now?”
“The Carnelians distributed greeting cards. You must produce better ones.”
She should have known. He broke his no-contact rule for the company. Not her.
And she’d told him she loved him. The words weighed on her. She had said them but he hadn’t.
Cheryl let go and stepped back. “It’s in use, kind of.”
“Here?” He pushed past her, into the building, and headed to the art class. She hurried after him. Although the class was distracted by the movement and noise of the independent critique, Mal didn’t exactly blend in. The hard-bodied, suit-wearing business dragon stood a head above them. Her classmates stepped out of his way and stared.
“This way.” She led him to her final three printed pieces, dying of embarrassment. “We can go over my drawings together as soon as class is over. Just wait here.”
“I don’t have time.” He echoed her mother’s sentiment from earlier in the day. “Where are your dragons? Ones wearing outfits.”
Fine. No one had time for her. She swallowed her hurt and dug out her tablet, logged it into the Deviant Art site, and started him at the beginning. “Scroll through until you see what you like.”
He sat in a chair at the side of the room and swiped.
She took a deep breath and let it out. Mal hadn’t missed her these past days. Nope. Like her mother, he hadn’t even noticed she was gone.
She rubbed her cheeks.
Professor Jon walked up behind her. “Finished with the assignment already?”
She gripped her pen. “Uh, not yet.”
He studied her artwork. She’d finished the snowscape she’d started at Mal’s, drawn a ball of yarn, and also a stylized tennis shoe.
“This is?” He prompted her to tell him about her art and explain why her target employers would purchase it.
“For Starbucks.” Good, her voice only quivered a little. “To go on holiday cups.”
“Hmm.” He gestured at the others. “And those?”
“The shoe is for Nike. Yarn was used in Microsoft’s last advertising campaign.” Everything had the theme of home. A basket of knitting said home to her.
He was silent for a long time. “Not a cutesy animal in sight.”
She shook her head.
Professor Jon tapped the yarn ball. “Stylistically, there’s nothing to fault. But you can’t submit this.”
Her cheeks heated. “Why not?”
“Never be derivative. Invest everything in your existing strengths. Otherwise, you’ll get booted for the five hundred artists behind you that have found their unique talent and mastered it.”
He grimaced at her other art pieces.
Suddenly, the snowscape looked identical to a hundred others she’d seen. And the stylized tennis shoe - who hadn’t seen a stylized tennis shoe?
She was not special.
Cheryl tightened the too-heavy coat around her, even though it made her all sweaty.
Who was she kidding? She’d come here today expecting something different. But that was impossible. No one would ever hire her. She was derivative.
Her professor stepped back. “Better to learn these lessons now, in your unpaid student days, than when you’re stuck in New York, trying to make rent.”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her hands started shaking, and a lump formed in her throat. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. It was a conditioned response to an entire year of feeling increasingly stupid and inadequate.
Her professor walked off.
He had basically just told her she would never be a commercial artist. She should have given up on day two and become a janitor. Or an accountant.
The rest of the class pass her by. Her classmates walked around doing their assignments, working hard.
What was the point?
She would never be worth noticing. Not in art and not in herself. A hundred thousand women wore vintage outfits. Her mom was right not to notice. And who really wanted her? Mal was a fluke. She didn’t deserve her mother’s time, and she didn’t deserve his either. No one owed her anything. She didn’t deserve recognition or love.
Mal made a sudden noise.
At least he liked her art.
She gave up on her final assignment and walked to his chair. “Why did you ask if I hated you?”
“Because I told you to leave my office after you said you loved me.”
“That did hurt my feelings.”
He ignored her statement.
She debated telling him he was still hurting her feelings.
His gaze fixed on her most recent drawings. The ones she might as well give up on forever.
She would always be second place to Mal’s company, but he said he liked all her drawings. It eased the ache. Being a fond afterthought was the best she could hope for.
He made the noise again. “Why do you have this?”
She looked over. It was her sketch of him in the silk pajamas. “That’s mine. I drew that.”
“Then how does he have it?”
“He?” Well, she didn’t know who he
was talking about, but she did know at least one person who had a print. “I gave it away.” She pointed to the comment trail on the posting, led by DragonLord C.
He looked up at her in horror. “Why?”
“He asked.”
Mal’s lips twitched. His eyes narrowed, and for one crazy second, she thought he was going to cry.
She put her hand on his forearm. “What’s wrong?”
He jerked away.
She curled her hand around her elbow, half-hugging herself, as she struggled to absorb the hurt. “What is it?”
“This is the greeting card Sard Carnelian is distributing with the silk pajamas.” Mal’s lips drew back from his teeth in a furious growl. “The one who betrayed our company—and me—is you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What? Mal thought she had betrayed him?
His accusation shocked Cheryl like ice water. She hugged her elbows. “That’s impossible.”
“You shared this drawing.” He pointed to the date she had posted her drawing. “He stole our product. You’re the reason he’s beating us.”
No. She hadn’t done that. She wasn’t the reason.
She shook her head.
“You didn’t realize the ‘C’ stands for ‘Carnelian’?” His brows wrinkled with hurt. “I trusted you. We all did. And all the while, the leak in the company was you.”
God, this was a nightmare.
Mal tucked her tablet under his arm and stormed to the window. He unlatched and lifted it open with a shriek.
She couldn’t let him leave with this misunderstanding. “Mal, wait.”
He wheeled on her with fury. “You are the reason we’ve been failing. Ever since we hired you, our ideas have gone straight to our enemy. And now, your cards are so popular on Draconis, everyone is purchasing our enemy’s products to collect them. Do you want the aristocrats to win?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He turned away and clambered onto the sill. This was a second-floor room. The rest of her class gasped and shrieked.
She was drawing a commotion, but she didn’t care. She had to stop him. “Don’t leave me like this!”
“Leave you?” His arms closed around her waist, and he yanked her after him. The next instant, she was flying out the window, suspended over the campus, and he was blazing with fury. “You’re never getting away from me again.”
They reached his lair in record time. Mal held his future wife tight as he returned her to where she belonged: His domain.
She sniffled.
In the classroom, Cheryl’s shocked face had swum in front of his eyes. Then, sadness and shame showed she knew what she had done. She knew she had betrayed him and worked with his rival. Sard’s company had grown rich while his own company had faltered.
He landed on the icy pad and carried her into their lair.
“Mal.” Her voice sounded faint. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Let me explain.”
“We’re on the brink of losing everything and you’re still helping Sard Carnelian,” he snarled.
“Let me—agh!”
No time for talking. He threw her over his shoulder, stormed into the bedroom, and tossed her on the bed. Her trench coat parted to reveal the enticing sailor dress from the vintage collection. His blood heated past the boiling point.
“It was a mistake.” She tried to cover herself.
His possessive need snapped. “Bare yourself to your husband!”
Her covering gesture stopped. She hiccuped. “Then, you’re not breaking up with me?”
“Never.” He flew to cover her with his own body. “You are mine.”
She gasped.
His lips met hers and his tongue demanded entrance. His whole being fought to have her, all of her, for his own, now, before she could run away to his rival once again.
Instead of fighting, she gave in with a whimper. Her mouth yielded to his invasion. Her fingers twined around his neck and pull him closer. She curled her legs around his waist, drawing his hard shaft to her soft center.
He ripped the cloth separating them and gripped her mons. She gasped. Her soft cleft was slick with readiness.
It was as though she desired him as fiercely as he desired her.
His fingers slipped between her folds and rubbed the hot nub scented with her arousal. She moaned and relaxed into his demanding caress. He lifted his lip from hers long enough to growl. “You are mine.”
She nuzzled his rough, stubbled jaw. “So take me.”
He shredded his trousers, positioned his cock at her entrance, and slid into her wet channel to the hilt.
She moaned again and grabbed his buttocks. “There.”
He thrust in and out, coating himself in her juices, marking her as she claimed him. Her head rolled back into the blankets and her hips lifted to meet his thrust. She exposed her body to him. Her breasts bounced and her creamy skin slid against his. She was so gorgeous. Her channel clenched him tightly, demanding release.
He gave it to her. Grinding his shaft against her, he carried her to the gasping edge. She grabbed his butt cheeks hard and arched. Beautiful color stained her cheeks as her lashes fluttered closed. Her channel milked him.
He poured his seed into her with a triumphant roar.
She was his. Only his.
He collapsed on top of her, crushing her to his bed. She would never escape him. He would press her down.
She stroked his itchy shoulder blades with gentle fingers. “Thank you.”
He lifted his weight off her. She breathed in and exhaled. Underneath him, she was blissful. All pink and soft and relaxed. He needed her in this state always. Gazing up at him with her sparkling brown eyes. His cock buried inside her, molding her to his form.
Yes. She thanked him for taking the time she had demanded.
Because he was good enough just the way he was. Not working himself to death. Lying with her in bed.
No. He had no time for this.
He rose from her softness and jogged into the bathroom, sloughed off the sticky juices in a minute-long shower and strode, still dripping, into a new suit.
She reached the bathroom as he was leaving it.
He kissed her goodbye. “I will return after the launch.”
“Wait! You can’t leave me here. Not again.”
“Here, you cannot contact Sard Carnelian.” He collected her tablet from where he’d dropped it by the bed and headed for the hall.
“I told you. That was a mistake.”
“Because you did not recognize him.”
“I’ll be careful.”
The situation burned Mal all over again.
Sard Carnelian had clearly investigated the Onyx Corporation and identified Cheryl’s talent. She was the asset he had mentioned. Obviously, he had come to the corporation that day to meet with her, knowing she wouldn’t recognize him, and counting on the Onyx siblings to let him get away with it. Such a bold, ballsy move shocked even Mal, except the other CEO had good reason to think lowly of his rivals. Until today, they had been none the wiser.
She grabbed Mal’s elbow at the door to the landing pad. “Wait!”
Mal turned and gripped her bare arms. “You will remain here. That way you cannot reveal anything else by accident or betrayal.”
“You can’t keep me here,” she protested. “I have an art show on Wednesday. You kidnapped me from my last class. My professor’s probably going to fail me just for disrupting him. Again.”
“Then nothing is gained from attending the art show; you are already failing.”
Her cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed. “Don’t say that. I might draw something that finally satisfies him and pass the class.”
“You must draw us the greeting cards.” That would keep her busy.
Her eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms over her bare chest. “I just thought of something. What happens on Friday?”
Friday? “What do you mean?”
“The launch
will be over. My art show will be done. We’ll be married and you’ll have announced it to your mom.” She lifted her chin. “What happens then?”
He didn’t understand her question. “We decide the future of the company and enter the next product cycle.”
The spark in her eyes died. “The deadlines begin all over again.”
He nodded.
If they had not beat the Carnelians after this launch, he would beat them with his next company. And if they did beat the Carnelians, he would have to work even harder to keep first place.
But this answer did not satisfy Cheryl. Her shoulders lowered and her eyes filled with tears.
He felt compelled to step forward and draw her soft, nude body into his arms. “There’s no reason to be sad.”
“You’re telling me this is what it’s going to be like after we’re married.” She glared at him with watery eyes, not melting in his arms as she usually did. “On Thursday, we’ll sign the papers, and then on Friday, you’ll just leave me here. Again.”
Stiffness invaded his spine. He fought his twitchy panic. “You still refuse to claim my lair as your own?”
“If you’re not here, I don’t want to be either.”
That eased his worry a little. “I will be here as often as I can be.”
“How many hours? I don’t want to continue as we are now. You can’t stuff me here and tell me it’s for the good of the company if things will never change.”
“There is change. On Friday, it will be a new product.”
“Screw the products.” She scrubbed her cheeks. “What about what I said? Where’s my time?”
That was the beginning of a conversation he couldn’t have yet.
He released her and reached for the door panel. “We will discuss our plan later.”
“No, we’ll discuss it now.” She set her feet and glared. “Because right now, your plan sucks.”
He heard her anger and turned once more to face her. “What would you prefer happens the first full day we’re married?”
“Well, first of all, I want you to attend my art show on Wednesday.”
“We will be in the launch.”
“One hour,” she insisted. “I need a friend in the audience. Someone who’s supporting me. And you can fly. It’s not like you have to fight bridge traffic.”
