Wicked S.O.B.--A Dark Desires novella

by Zara Cox

My palms are slippery against the handle as I push the silver trolley ahead of me. I don’t look to the right where his desk is located, but I know the moment he spots me. The low-murmured conversation he’s having on the phone halts. My heart slams hard in my chest as I slow to a stop.

  “Roger, I’m going to have to call you back.” The sound of the handset finding its cradle is the only noise that disturbs the crackling tension in the room.

  I’m dying to look at him, but this needs to play out a certain way. So I tighten my fingers around the handle and head toward the long, elegant dining table at the far end of his huge office.

  “Wait.” The command is low, deep, and sizzlingly final.

  I freeze.

  “I don’t recall requesting that lunch be brought to me today, and especially not by someone without basic manners who enters my office without my permission.”

  The butterflies in my belly spread their wings and turn to eagles when I sense him rise from his chair and move around his desk. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For which offense, exactly? And do me the courtesy of looking at me when you address me.”

  I drag my gaze from the floor, across the graphite-colored carpet to his feet. Then in excruciating slow motion, my senses in no mood to speed up, I travel up his tall, mouthwatering, dangerously addictive body to look on the most viscerally arresting feature of Quinn Blackwood. His stunning eyes.

  We stare at each other for a timeless age. Then he nods.

  “Good. Now, let’s start again. From the top,” he suggests in that mesmerizing voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”

  Chapter Six

  Elly

  Zoom Freeze

  Once I’m caught, I can’t look away.

  “You have an explanation for all of this, I’m sure.”

  Does he mean this painstaking act I’m putting on or my reason for being here at all? When the idea came to me in the apartment, I went with it partly because I’d wanted to surprise him. A bigger part of me wanted to reassure myself that he…that we were okay. But now, faced with the power and might of Quinn at the helm of his empire, I’m genuinely dumbstruck.

  He doesn’t come toward me. Instead he takes two paces back and reaches for a small remote. A second later, the clear glass windows of his office turn cloudy as he activates the privacy setting, and a lock clicks into place. He tosses the remote away and perches on the edge of his desk. The movement plays the muscles of his thighs beneath his tailored pants, and my mouth goes dry.

  “Is there a particular reason you’re refusing to speak?”

  I drag my gaze up to his beautiful face. God, he’s so gorgeous. I want to kiss him so badly. What did he say? Right, he asked me a question.

  “Umm…I…” Okay, this is pathetic.

  “My time is valuable, Miss…remind me of your name again,” he commands.

  “It’s…Elly…Smith.” The fake name I used when I was on the run last year. The one I used when an accidental meeting with Sully offered a much-needed lifeline of a job at Blackwood Tower.

  “Elly…” Quinn tastes the name. Exhales it as his gaze finally leaves my face to track over my head, and the white, actively unattractive food hygiene cap I’m wearing. Then it reverses down my face, my neck. It lingers at my neck, where the white collar of my buttoned-up server’s uniform rests against my thundering pulse. He stays there, absorbing my state of being for a long moment, before he journeys farther south.

  My breasts receive a longer perusal and subtly altered breathing from him. The uniform is slightly tighter than the one I used to wear, and although it’s not overtly sexual, it clings in certain places like my waist and my rounder hips. Places his eyes seek and blatantly own before moving to other parts of my body. He doesn’t hurry through his perusal. He takes his time. Even my cheap ballerina flats get the full force of Quinn’s stare.

  When he’s done, he slowly rises from his desk. He walks toward me, his movement measured and economically elegant. He stops just outside of touching distance, his hands clasped at his back.

  “Elly. I presume you’re the reason my calendar is suddenly, miraculously clear for the next two hours?”

  My nostrils flutter as I try to inhale and get a hit of his extraordinary scent. “I…no, I didn’t have anything to do with that, Mr. Blackwood.”

  “Right. I see. Then someone around here is fucking with me. Do you think someone’s fucking with me, Elly?”

  The emphasis on the word drives a stake of lust through me. Between his face and body and voice and unblinking acceptance of my presence in his office, I’m already too far gone. My every nerve is jumping at the thrill of what’s happening. Of what’s coming. I want to end this now, fast-forward to the moment I fling myself into his arms. But I hold out a little longer. Play this crazy game I started. If it’s helping his day be even a little bit better, I’m immersing myself in this thing. “I don’t know. I was just told to…umm…bring your lunch.”

  “And do you always do as you’re told, Elly?” There’s that little threat of the sinister in his voice. A warning that Quinn Blackwood, happy host of a million demons, still lurks beneath the surface of this eerie, outward calm. That voice reminds me that we’re not out of the woods by a long shot. That there’s a definite threat I can’t afford to ignore against whatever version of ever after karma intends for us.

  “No. Not always.”

  He walks another few steps and begins to circle me. I hear the faint rustle of his clothes as his arms drop to his sides. “Ah, a little rebel,” he leans down to whisper in my ear. “I’m intrigued. So if you didn’t fuck up my calendar, then who did?”

  “I don’t know.” The truth. I only asked his EA if he would be in his office during his lunch hour, and put my plans into place at her confirmation. I suspect Sully’s hand in this. I would smile at the thought of a romantic hiding beneath the catering manager’s hard exterior, but I’m busy trying not to spontaneously combust.

  “Shall we find out?”

  I bite my lip. “Umm, I guess.”

  “Umm won’t work for me. I guess suggests prevarication. It suggests ambivalence. I don’t like my day interrupted. I like precision. Order. Do you think causing chaos in my workplace is something I should forgive easily, Elly?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s worth considering if the intentions behind it were noble.”

  “Noble.” The word is breathed on my bare nape, causing a giant shiver to unravel down my body, stinging me into even more vivid life.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know what noble feels like. Do you, Elly?”

  The way he says my name. Like he’s really into it. Like he’s really into what I’m doing. The charged heat in my body intensifies, along with the wide, raging river of love that threatens to break its banks every day for this man.

  “I’m probably not the best person to give advice on being noble.”

  “And why’s that? Is it because under this frilly white cap that’s hiding your hair from me, and this cheap, useless dress that has no right to touch your body, you’re the filthiest, deadliest temptation?”

  I bite my lip to hold back a moan. “Mr. Blackwood, you can’t say that.” My voice is a feeble, useless instrument.

  “Do you read the tabloids, Elly?”

  I shake my head. “Not if I can help it.”

  “Hmm, that’s probably wise. Most of them are a fucking joke. But a few get things right every now and again. And you know what they say about me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’ll probably take too long. But guess what they don’t say about me.”

  “W-what?”

  “That I’m noble. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. So, faced with that little morsel of truth, what do you think I should do about this situation?”

  “I think you should eat your lunch first. Then…”

  “Then?”

  Has he stepped closer, or is the wall of h
eat I feel on my back from my own intensifying sexual hunger? “Then decide.”

  “You think sating one appetite will blunt my need to pursue other…conquests? Make me calmer, perhaps?”

  Jesus, I hope not. I want all that bristling, seething power aimed at me. Aimed inside me. “I just don’t want your lunch to go cold.”

  He doesn’t respond for an age. “Very well. Go set the table, Elly.”

  The breath I don’t recall holding punches out of me at his command. The trolley is moving in the direction of the dining table before I’m fully cognizant of putting thought into deed.

  He follows. Stands silently at the head of the table and never once takes his eyes off me as I transfer plates, cutlery, and dishes from trolley to table. Unlike the times before when I reprised this role for real, he doesn’t question why there is only one place setting or ask me to set another one for myself. He simply places one hand on the table, his forefinger bouncing restlessly as he observes me.

  When I’m done placing every utensil at the very precise angles he prefers them to be, he pulls back his chair. He doesn’t sit immediately, though. With almost balletic elegance, he frees the single button on his pinstriped jacket, shrugs out of it, and turns away to drape it over a spare chair.

  The movement affords me a view of his broad back wrapped in his pristine ice-blue shirt and the silk-backed vest and, even better, his tight ass. When he turns around, he spears me with a sizzling gaze that tells me he feels the heat of my look. He chooses not to address my shameless ogling. Instead he returns to where I’m hovering next to the trolley. He pushes the silver cart to one side and pulls out the chair next to his.

  “Sit down, Elly.”

  I actually shiver at those three simple words. He catches the tail end of it and a pulse jumps in his cheek. I stagger forward on shaky feet and sink into the chair.

  “Show me what you brought me.” A loaded question I would’ve attempted to smirk at had the setting been different. But I’m already on the edge. So I swallow and reach for the first dish.

  The artistically rolled up ball of linguine in jumbo shrimp sauce is one of Quinn’s favorites. I might silently flip Chef Fancy Pants the bird each time I think of or lay eyes on him, but what he lacks in basic manners and human decency is more than made up for in his extreme talent in the kitchen. Although my appetite for food is buried deep beneath other more urgent appetites, my mouth faintly waters at the aroma that rises from the dish. Another domed dish reveals sliced focaccia bread resting on a warm mini griddle. Next to the dishes is a bottle of red wine aptly named The Devil’s Choice.

  “Have you eaten, Elly?” Quinn asks in a low voice.

  I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked. Lack of appetite and willfully skipping a meal are two separate things. Which is it?”

  The dome wavers in my hand. He takes it from me and sets it down. Then he adjusts his fork before his left hand returns to rest on the table next to where my right hand is lying. So close. A flex of my pinky and our fingers would touch. I can’t look away from the elegance of his fingers. “I haven’t eaten…but don’t think I can eat anything.”

  “Shall we test that theory?”

  Before I can reply, he spoons a large helping of linguine onto his plate. With his right hand, he picks up his fork, expertly twists a length of pasta around the tines, and spears a plump shrimp. The offering is poised over the plate and his gaze returns to my face. “Come here, Elly.”

  I look from his face to the fork, my senses completely haywire. “Mr. Blackwood…”

  He stills for a moment before his jaw clenches tight. “You keep calling me that, using that helpless, greedy little voice, and your life is going to get very difficult, very fast…Miss Smith.”

  I swear I hear the giddy rush of blood through my veins. “I’ve heard the rumors. You terrify everyone around you, but I’m not scared of you, Mr. Blackwood.” Lie. I’m fucking terrified.

  “I can tell. But you have no idea what this…disruption is doing to me. So I suggest you keep that gorgeous Cupid’s-bow mouth shut for now until I’m done feeding you.”

  “But what about you? Are you going to eat?” I inquire in a breathless voice that belongs in a smoky bar in a film noir. Or a porn movie set. The irony isn’t lost on me.

  “This isn’t a quid pro quo situation, but don’t worry about my appetite. You’re not leaving here until you get exactly what you came for. Open up, Elly. I won’t ask again.”

  Eyes hooked by silver blue ones determined not to free me, I slowly open my mouth. He places the morsel on my tongue and watches me as I chew. I manage to swallow without choking or dribbling like an idiot down my white bib once I get a taste of the exquisite food.

  As if he’s personally responsible for releasing it from lockdown, my appetite comes roaring back. He feeds me two more bites, before he lays the forks down and breaks a crust of bread. The taste of melted garlic and herbs is intensely heightened and I can’t help a tiny moan when he feeds me a bite of it.

  His hand returns to the table. Closer than before but still not touching. I may have dreamed up this seduce-my-lover-at-work scenario, but Quinn has taken over and is fine-tuning it into a perfect torture session I may not live through. I’ve been in his office going on fifteen minutes, and save for the fork he’s feeding me with, not a single part of his body has touched mine. All the same, I feel owned, possessed to the last particle in my body.

  “I can’t eat anymore,” I blurt when he starts to heap a second helping onto the plate. “Thank you.”

  He carries on piling the food anyway, then picks up and pours the wine he’s been letting breathe for a few minutes. “Wine? Before you refuse, can I suggest that it might make the next stage after you’re done eating a little bearable? And also…it’s an excellent vintage.” He picks up the glass, takes a slow sniff of the bouquet before he holds that, too, against my lips.

  Quinn Blackwood, mind-fuck expert. He’s fucking with me in the best and worst ways possible. I take the offered drink, letting the alcohol attempt to drench my jangling senses. All I get is an extra layer of fireworks to go with the explosions lighting up my bloodstream.

  “Are you good?” he asks when he’s watched me take several unwise mouthfuls of wine.

  No, I want to shout. I’m bad. Worse. Instead, I glance at his plate. “You’re not eating.”

  “If you’re worried that your efforts will be wasted, don’t be. Besides, the thought of eating is somewhat difficult when I’m so fucking hard I feel my balls at the back of my throat.”

  From somewhat civil to sewer filth, the smoothly delivered words snap a gasp from me that fills the glass and chrome clinical perfection of his office.

  His gaze drops to my gaping mouth and I’m somewhat mollified to see that despite his near-still economy of movement, a wild pulse is beating at his temple. I lower my gaze to the finger bouncing on the table and manage to suppress a smile.

  “You still need to eat. I…I don’t want your temperamental chef on my case.”

  “Perhaps you deserve to have him on your case.”

  “No, I promise, my energy will be better utilized on something else.”

  “Something like?” he asks with a barely elevated eyebrow.

  “Like how to make your fucked-up afternoon much better.”

  “No need to concern yourself about that. I have it covered.”

  Oh God. “You do?”

  “I do. Stand up, Elly.” His voice is gravel rough. Low. Deep.

  I’ve never felt as weak as I do when I stagger to my feet. Or as strong when I see his chest expand in a deep, unsteady inhale. I’m a little light-headed from the half glass of wine drank a little too quickly. When my hip clumsily nudges the table, it draws his attention to my lower body. But his gaze doesn’t linger. Piercing eyes blazing with the unholy light of his arousal rise to my throat. Specifically, the buttons fastening the server’s uniform.

  He follows m
y movement and rises to his feet too. In the ballerina flats I’m wearing, he’s way taller than me, and this close, I need the full range of a craned neck to meet his eyes. It’s not lost on me that this also exposes all of my throat to him. And true to form, the vulnerability of my position lights a deeper fire in his eyes as he stares down at me. The hand he raises and keeps poised an inch from my face is trembling.

  “Do you have any fucking idea what seeing you here, dressed like this, does to me?” he breathes raggedly, his voice a white-hot flame aimed straight at me.

  This first acknowledgment from him of this game we’re playing, this stepping outside of our role, hits me straight in the heart. Like his doorway confession this morning, this tiny baring of the soul he claims not to have, brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away before they can fall.

  “No,” I reply.

  “No?”

  “Tell me,” I encourage greedily.

  “The first time you walked into my office like this, I wanted you so badly, I could barely breathe. You were so fucking fierce, shooting defiant looks at me with your gorgeous eyes, and yet so fragile. I was terrified I would scare you off or go a little bit more insane and never let you leave.”

  “But you already had me. You had Lucky.”

  “Not that first time when I saw you in the restaurant. You hadn’t said yes yet. And even after you did, I had to get you up here to my office. I needed to see you again, in person. I needed to be next to you, breathe the same air as you, not talk to you through a camera.”

  “And was that all you wanted to do?” I ask.

  His eyes drop to my mouth, and his hot gaze makes a torrid promise, before it reconnects with mine. “Fuck, Elyse, I wanted to touch you so badly. You were buried under this…this garbage and all I wanted was to rip it off you, spread you on this table, and consume you until there was nothing left.”

  My breath fractures and threatens to stop entirely. I don’t give a single damn. “Well…here’s your chance, Mr. Blackwood.”

  And just like that, we’re snapped back into our roles. The air crackles around us, an electric storm churning from the raw power of our emotions.