by Alexis Angel
And that’s when I see black fabric crumpled on the floor between the bed and the couch. One stiletto is lying near the dress, the other is MIA. Glancing up as the room spins, I see my red panties from my upcoming spring line, spinning around the room, hooked on one of the ceiling fan blades.
Hopefully, those undies are the only thing that went for a ride last night.
I’m still doing an inventory of my belongings when I feel Tanner come into the room. Moments before he appears in the doorway, looking as sexy as always, I pull his high-thread-count sheets up around my neck and stare at his muscled chest and washboard abs.
His hair is perfectly tousled, his eyes sparkling. This Adonis of a man looks rested. I feel like I look like roadkill, and he looks good enough to fuck.
For all I can remember, we did just that last night.
Tanner enters the room carrying a tray filled with life-giving coffee. He sets the tray down on the bed in front of me. It smells so fucking good.
My eyes linger on his chest where a trail of hair leads right to his crotch. The boxer shorts he’s sporting are just thin enough that I can see a bulge.
The thought that we did, in fact, fuck last night isn’t a bad one. The fact that I can’t remember every delicious detail is, however.
He gently sits on the edge of the bed beside the coffee tray, staring intently at me with his steely eyes and a mischievous grin. He’s looking pretty proud of himself, so I decide it’s now or never.
“So, did we fuck last night?” I say as I meet his intense gaze, eye-to-eye.
“Good morning to you, too, angel,” he responds with plenty of amusement in his voice.
Instead of giving me an answer—things are never straight-forward with Tanner—he occupies himself with pouring two cups of coffee.
“My head is throbbing too much for your Prince Charming routine,” I groan. “Just answer the fucking question.”
“No, we did not have sex last night,” he says as he hands me my coffee.
I spot a folded newspaper on the tray. He doesn’t skip a beat, does he?
I take a sip—it’s exactly how I like it. How did he remember?
“I prefer a woman to be conscious during sex,” he says. “Call me old-fashioned.”
Good, I think. One thing about Tanner Sharpe, you want to remember fucking him. And I’d like to think that no matter how much tequila I consume, I’d remember tearing up the bed sheets with him.
That leaves one other question, though.
“Shit, how drunk was I?”
He chuckles and says, “Drunk enough to do a sexy little strip tease for me,” pointing over to my bra hanging over a picture frame on the opposite side of the room, “before passing out on my side of the bed.”
“Ooops, sorry.”
“Well, to be fair, you passed out on the other side of the bed, too. You landed in a diagonal.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t break something, stumbling around your bedroom half-naked.”
“You were graceful as always,” he says with a smile.
I’m sure he’s lying, but I silently applaud his chivalrous response. I return his smile as I sip on the much-needed caffeine.
“What wasn’t graceful was the way you hogged all the covers,” Tanner says. “I was lucky to get an inch of material to keep me warm last night.”
“Just like old times, right?” I say. “At least that’s what you always accuse me of in the morning. I’ve never believed it, though.”
“You’re calling me a liar?” He laughs.
“No, I’m a giver. You know that,” I say. “It’s not in my nature to deprive anyone—even you—of warmth.”
“Too bad it’s not the middle of winter,” he teases, “or I’d have the frostbite to prove my story.”
“And in this whole penthouse apartment, there’s not another single blanket or comforter you could have grabbed to keep you warm?” I volley back.
“Usually my bed partner keeps me warm. I guess you’re not as giving as you’d like to think.”
I can hear the shower being turned off in the master bedroom. From my position still in Tanner’s bed, I’ve made a little hangover cocoon for myself. The second cup of coffee is slowly doing its trick, and I feel slightly more alive than when I first gained consciousness.
I rub my face with my hands, not wanting to think what damage I’ve done sleeping with make-up on. During my modeling days, when I spent hours in heavy make-up, I always washed my face and moisturized before bed. If I had my products with me, I would have knocked Tanner over before he ever made it to the bathroom.
As it is, cleaning last night’s smoky eye look will have to wait a little while longer.
I take another big gulp of coffee and continue thumbing through The Capitalist Chronicle. I turn the page and find Lis Langley’s latest article. It’s full of details on all of our latest relationship exploits, all carefully curated for the media.
I’m about to flip the page and check out the latest stock news when there, at the bottom of her article, I see it. There, in all the awful black and white print, my day gets a whole lot worse.
“Sharpe and Blakely will meet with the press at 9 a.m. tomorrow outside of Sharpe Tower for what promises to be an important reveal.”
I look up from my paper to see Tanner walk back into the bedroom, freshly showered, looking mighty proud of himself.
“So, what do you think of the article?” he says, as he finishes securing his cufflinks.
“You’re already dressed?”
I look back down at the article: 9 a.m.
Nine.
This morning.
Fuck.
“How much time do I have?”
Tanner glances down at his watch and says, “Until we have to leave? Oh, about ten minutes, angel.”
He reaches into his closet and grabs his suit jacket. Swinging it around to slip into it, he looks sexy as hell, showered and shaved.
I stumble out of bed, my head pounding with exertion, and make my way to the still-steamy bathroom. I grab a towel to clean the mirror, only to be rewarded with what could generously be called a blonde, homeless raccoon staring back at me in the mirror.
“Chop, chop,” Tanner says behind me, a little too cheerfully, “You don’t want to be late for your own announcement, do you?”
We might not have fucked last night, but Tanner Sharpe certainly fucked me up this morning.
Chapter 16
Tanner
She’s pissed at me. I can tell from the obvious silent treatment and frequent death stares I’ve been receiving.
We walk in silence towards the curb, and I reach for the small of her back, hoping to dissolve some of the tension.
But she speeds up and avoids my touch. I can feel the aggravation boiling inside her. All I can do is smile, feeling so damn proud myself.
I admit, I love watching her in her element, almost as much as I love challenging her while she’s in it… and on the spot.
It has always been a fucking turn on for me.
She’s impressive, and it’s hot as hell. CEO Elsa—the no-holds-barred, bad-ass, alpha female is my definition of erotic.
Okay, so I also love drunk Elsa, but who says I can’t like both?
Obviously, she knows how to keep me on my toes, and it makes for a fucking fun ride.
My body instinctively reacts to her, watching her in every situation I put her through today. She had no idea about her modeling, or our collaborative bridal line.
In all honesty, I almost didn’t know it would happen myself. I made it up on the spot. I wanted to see her writhe as I burrowed myself under her skin.
That’s yet another scene I’ll be putting in my highlight reel.
Standing next to her, with all eyes on us—for a much better reason than last time—I found it difficult, really difficult, to distract myself.
But you can’t blame me. I’m a man who has needs and gets turned on by what he likes.
She hails a
cab and opens the door, turning to look at me before she slides in the backseat. Her icy blue eyes pierce into me, and I’m left feeling…dissatisfied. I will not let her walk away from me after a look like that.
She may be pissed at me, but what else is new? She will not run away from me without saying anything.; especially now that she’ll be my fucking wife and business partner.
I hate that I even fucking care.
If this had happened a week ago, I would’ve left without a second thought.
I would’ve wanted her to be pissed, and I would’ve dined while she was seething with hatred. But now, I’m fucking running after her, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
I grab a cab and follow behind hers.
Fuck. I can’t let this happen again. I look as the outside world flashes by, and I remind myself how bad it was the last time. Because it was real then.
So, this can’t become real now.
But my reality is slipping from me, and I can feel the fake blurring into the real. My feelings for her becoming harder to set aside.
I clench my fist in frustration and my knuckles turn white. This can’t happen.
This is a game and nothing else, I chant.
I suppress the build-up of whatever the fuck this is and force myself to ignore it.
My cab pulls up to the DLA headquarters, and I see her slam the car door and storm off towards the entrance.
I hurriedly pay the cab driver, generously, and run after her.
“Not even a kiss goodbye for your doting fiancé?” I ask, once I reach her.
She turns back toward me, and scowls—she’s furious.
I grin, enthusiastically. Another round of our game has begun, and this one, I know, is going to be fun.
“Tell me, Tanner. When were you going to let me in on this bridal line of ours?”
We reach the elevator, and she punches the button to her floor, repeatedly.
She continues to berate me, and we glare at each other from opposite sides of the steel box.
“Do you have any design? Any idea? Hell, we don’t even have anything in production. How in the hell do you think we can get a whole line done in three months?”
I’m thoroughly enjoying her show.
Her skin blushes as her anger heats it. And my eyes fall to her chest, observing it move up and down erratically.
I can tell she’s trying to stop herself from spiraling. Although it looks like she’s already fallen into a shit storm.
She stops talking and takes a deep breath.
The elevator reaches her floor and she rushes out, practically jogging to her office.
I walk behind her nonchalantly, appreciating the way her ass bounces from each dramatic step she takes.
“Tanner!” she yells, pulling my attention from the piece of art dangling in front of me.
“Yes, angel,” her nickname lingers off my tongue.
She clenches her jaw, and pushes her door open, aggressively.
“Please, join me.” She says in too pleasant of a tone.
It’s noticeable that she’s faking it; her body exuding nothing that resembles pleasantry.
“Well, if I must.” I stride into her office casually, and take a seat on the spot closest to the door.
“Looks like the housekeepers clean up well around here. But I think they missed a few things,” I eye some of the picture frames on the floor.
She ignores me and shuts the door, the sound sending vibrations on the floor.
“Now, tell me, how do you see us working together on this? From experience, we know the actual logistics of this dynamic are far trickier than we can plan.”
“Elsa, stop worrying. Let me show you something,” I wave her over, patting the cushion next to me.
She eyes me and makes her way over reluctantly.
I pull out my phone and show her the pile of text messages I’ve received since we—well I—made the announcement this morning.
Mark, one of our directors, is the first to pop up: “Great idea, Tanner. Let Elsa know that we’re VERY happy with this new direction.”
She relaxes a little, but I can still feel tension between us.
“Here’s another one. David, my financial adviser, sent me this link. It’s our stock prices.” I click the link, and it directs us to a graph, showing our numbers in green.
“We’re fucking soaring, angel. We have the market and our board in the palm of our hands.”
She side-eyes me, and her gaze moves from the phone to me rapidly.
A loud exhale comes out of her mouth.
Fuck, did she not breathe this whole time?
Running a hand through her blonde waves, she stands up and squares her shoulders.
“Fine, so they like it. No, they love the idea. But now, we have to come up with something extraordinary, so we can show them that we’re not all talk, and that this is fucking worth it.”
She starts to pace the length of the room.
I move my elbows to my knees and strike my best thinker pose, hoping this will get her to loosen up a bit.
“Really?” She looks at me and snorts.
Damn, she really likes to laugh at me. It worked though—I got her to smile.
“What?” I ask, pleading innocence.
“The thinker? Do you really think that can help in this situation?”
“So far, I think so. You’re already feeling better.”
I wink at her.
She laughs, mockingly, and I sit back on the couch, mimicking her.
Playing with her is so fucking fun.
I bring us back to the issue at hand, trying to ease her worry as much as I can.
“I can get my design team on it ASAP. We can postpone a few other deadlines, move around our release dates, and solely focus on this for the next three months. I see no issue with that.”
“You can’t just disrupt creative flow. Haven’t I always told you that?” She stalks toward me, standing above me, and putting her hands on her waist.
Memories of us working together flood me, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
This almost feels like last time.
“Well, if we have to, I’d be more than willing to sit in my living room and hand stitch the samples with you, like we used to. I do love getting my hands dirty.”
Reacting solely on instinct and primal need, I decide to remind her how useful my hands can be. I glide them up her thighs, and toy the hem of her dress, making my way to the back.
I grab her ass, kneading them between my fingers.
She moans softly, and, to my surprise, there’s no objection.
I stand in front of her, and my hands follow, tracing her silhouette.
“Do you like that idea?” I whisper in her ear, teasing her diamond earring with my tongue.
“I think we can make that work,” she responds through heavy breaths, and tilts her head toward me.
I catch the zipper between my fingers, and slide it down, exposing her bare skin.
She trembles, and her skin heats up under my touch. She leans back into my arms, and clutches my shoulders for support. I can feel her breath against my neck softening. Now, it feels exactly like last time.
I tug the tight dress off her shoulders, and guide it down her, the fabric rippling as it falls to the floor.
I lift her chin towards me, and she meets my gaze, her eyes needy.
“I think we can figure out a way to work together.”
When I look down at her—to assess what I’ll be working with—my body is set ablaze.
Standing in front of me is a drop-dead gorgeous angel in a blush lace lingerie set, complete with garter and stockings from DLA and sky-high Louboutins.
She is the embodiment of sexuality and subtle eroticism.
My cock throbs, aching to be in her, and I fight the urge to devour every inch of her.
From this day forward, I promise to never underestimate the power of simplicity and lace. I reach for her, and when my finge
rs grace the delicate fabric, I hear a knock at the door.
“Elsa, it’s Monique. Lis Langley is here for you.”
“Fucking hell!” I shout. “That fucking woman won’t leave us alone.”
She’s like an annoying little sister, always wanting to know what’s going on, and snooping around my bedroom. Well, from what I’ve seen in movies.
Elsa’s eyes widen in shock, and she instantly reaches down to her dress, pulling it up her body.
She turns, her back facing me, and moves her hair to one side.
“Zip me up.”
Are you fucking kidding me? There is nothing worse than clothing the woman you so badly want to fuck and who was seconds away from being naked and underneath you.
I feel sick to my stomach as I reach for the zipper to undo the work I did.
“Come in,” she yells to Monique, while smoothing her dress and fixing her hair.
“Elsa, Lis Langley. Apologies for the intrusion. I didn’t schedule her for today, though she insists she has an appointment.” Monique nods with an apologetic expression and walks out.
Lis looks at Elsa, and then at me, and does a double-take.
I smile, seeing her expression turn into shock.
Seeing that reaction smooths over some of my annoyance.
“Well, I see you have some business to attend to, and I should probably do the same. I’ll see you later, Els?” I ask, buttoning my jacket.
“Yes, you will.” she says, like the good pretend fiancée she is.
I glare at Lis while I pull Elsa into my arms. I look down at her pouty, full lips and crash into them, giving her a long, passionate kiss.
After successfully making our audience member feel awkward, I dismiss myself and leave.
But as soon as I walk out, I can’t stop thinking about her.
My repressed feelings gnaw at me, and I wonder—what’s she going to say about me?
Chapter 17
Elsa
Lis Langley is still gawking at me. Sure, my tits are bubbling over and my ass cheeks are busting at the seams, but I look damn professional…for a lingerie designer.
“Do you need a picture for the article?” I put one hand on my hip, the other hand on the wall, and then slide to the floor for dramatic effect. “Check out the stretch on these garters!”
