by Linnea May
I glance up at the clock. Three hours and eleven minutes to go.
My tray is empty except a single glass of champagne, when I’m stopped so abruptly that I almost let the glass tip and spill the liquid on one of the many costly suits.
A suit hugging the broad shoulders of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life.
The collision was so sudden, I have to tilt my head back to find the man‘s eyes. I start to utter the customary apology, almost stopping mid-sentence when I’m faced with his rugged handsomeness. He’s tall, a couple inches taller than me. Next to his height, it’s his stance and confident carriage of his broad shoulders that draw my attention. His suit jacket fits snuggly around his upper arms, suggesting a strong set of muscles underneath the designer brand fabric. The deep blue hue of his eyes seems surreal, but it blends nearly perfectly with the navy blue of his suit, and his charcoal black hair only emphasizes the vibrant color of his eyes. His strong, chiseled jaw is shaved clean, and the hint of a smile plays around the corner of his mouth as he looks down on my surprised expression.
He’s unsettlingly gorgeous. I almost follow the urge bubbling inside me to touch him, just to see if he’s real.
“If I may,” he says, his deep voice churning the inside of my chest into heated goo, and he reaches for the last glass on my tray.
I know I’m gawking, but I can’t help it. He’s so freaking beautiful that it almost feels like an insult to be standing next to him.
“I… I’m sorry,” I stutter again, wishing for nothing more than to get away from him before his good looks completely absorb my soul.
“For what?” he asks. “For almost spilling that drink on me, or for gawking?”
Shit.
Oh my God, I have to get out of here.
I feel inclined to say sorry for the third time, but realize that it would only worsen my predicament.
So instead, I opt for the grown-up thing to do and scurry away.
Chapter 2
Ryan
Three fucking hours and twenty fucking minutes to go.
This is the part I hate most about my job. Socializing, networking, and pretending to be this generous-hearted guy, all the while shaking their greedy hands with a fake smile plastered on my face. I know what most of them want from me, and they can’t hide their intentions behind friendly smiles, no matter how hard they try. Most of them want a piece of my success. They propose deals and play nice for their own benefit.
I don’t blame them. It’s the smart thing to do, and I know because I was in their shoes not too long ago. I’m not the heir to a fortune; I‘m a self-made man, who did the right thing at the right time. Toss in a little luck, and you can grow big very quickly.
Five years ago, I was nothing but an eager college graduate, a young entrepreneur willing to go into debt to get where he wanted to be. It could have gone terribly wrong, but it didn’t.
I had an idea, I invested in it, and then I sold it to someone who was willing to grow the business into something bigger. Selling came easy to me. Many say that selling your first company feels like selling your baby, but it didn’t to me. My heart was never set on advertising automation, it was just something I understood and so I came up with a good idea. One that someone was willing to pay a lot of money for to buy. It was a means to an end, because selling the company left me with enough money to switch sides. I was no longer the one who needed to find someone to invest, but the investor. I have a knack for business and can tell which idea will succeed and which one won’t. The Onyx Corporation has prospered under my leadership, spanning its web further and further across the country.
I know how to make deals, and I know how to work the human psyche in my favor.
It’s what I do. And I’m damn good at it.
But I’m not good at socializing.
I can act, shake hands, smile, engage in redundant smalltalk, but none of it comes as naturally to me as business does. Evenings like this feel more like work than what I do during actual business hours.
I take every moment of peace and quiet I can get, retreating after almost every conversation, just to be able to breathe and rid myself from the idiotic conversations I’m forced to have in order to do business.
There’s nothing and no one here who holds my attention for longer than a few forced seconds.
Except for her.
The long-legged fairy who meanders through the crowd with mechanical movements that make her appear as if she was in trance. Her pretty face is perfectly oval, her chin too small for her pouty, doll-like lips, and her eyes are strikingly prominent and big. They are green, I can tell that even from across the room. I’ve never seen an eye color like that before, a dark fir green that stands out against her porcelain skin. She’s long and lean, towering over all the other waitresses and most of the guests, and the uniform she’s wearing fits tight and short on her slim body. I caught her fixing her skirt with one hand as she tried to balance the tray with her other one several times, but it keeps hitching up her leg as soon as she starts moving again, giving her an inadvertent sexy look.
She stands out in the crowd, and I’m not the only one who notices.
Unlike the other girls, she doesn’t look like a waitress, discreetly offering drinks while moving in the background and hardly drawing attention away from the conversation, as she should.
No. Not her.
She looks like a girl who dressed up in a naughty waitress costume for Halloween, pulling the gaze of almost every person she passes. I’ve seen heads turning, men leering, women rolling their eyes and ruffling their noses at her in jealous disgust.
And she doesn’t even try. There’s nothing particular about the way she walks, nothing seductive in her motions, or the expressions on her face. She moves almost like a robot, careful, deliberate, and reserved. She’s trying to blend in, but her tall and naturally alluring appearance doesn’t let her. It doesn’t help that her blouse is stretching seductively over her full breasts, leaving little to the imagination, even in a purposely conservative outfit like the one she’s wearing.
I can tell she’s a timid girl, quiet, and careful. She’s not seeking the attention she’s drawing. Unlike the other girls, she’s not striding around on too-high heels, swaying her hips provocatively to lure her prey. No, there’s none of that.
Yet she’s driving me insane.
I’ve had to leave the room twice to give myself a chance to fucking calm down. The bulge in my crotch was becoming too obvious, too painful. My cock is craving her with such need, such a lustful urge, that it almost robs me of my sanity.
This is what I get for leaving the house with blue balls. It’s been too long. Almost a year. It’s almost time, and my body knows it.
I’m already on the hunt. I’ve been browsing through the agency’s catalog for weeks, searching for the perfect girl to meet my admittedly high standards. It’s a one-time chance, a once a year treat I allow myself. Of course, the girl has to be fucking perfect.
But none of the trite beauties have caught my eye the way this girl has.
What the hell is it about her that won‘t let me look away?
I’ve tried to pull myself away from her, engaging in smalltalk with random investors in an attempt to occupy my sex-craving brain.
But she appeared within eyeshot again and again, drawing my attention even from across the room. There’s nothing I can do about it. My eye wander back to her alluring body, following her every movement as she continues serving my guests with the same stoic expression on her mesmerizing face she’s had since I first spotted her. The smile she displays once in a while when a guest accepts her offer for a drink only flashes across her face for a split second before disappearing again.
It’s a pretty smile.
A sad smile.
“Oh, fuck it,” I hiss to myself, as I make my way in her direction.
There’s only one thing I can do to eliminate the temptation: I need to talk to her. Realize that she’s just anot
her dumb, pretty girl with an empty gaze and a hollow soul. She’ll say something stupid soon enough, stare at me like a deer caught in the headlights, stutter incoherently, and then ruin the illusion forever.
Yes. Talk to her.
That’ll do it.
For sure.
“Get it over with, Ryan,” I mutter to myself. “Talk to her, so you can move on.”
Chapter 3
Laura
His hands tightens around my upper arm, almost digging painfully into my flesh, as I try to escape. I freeze, taking a moment to collect myself before I dare to turn back to look at him.
I have to look up to meet his gaze, a rare occurrence for me. Tall men have always been my weakness, and having to look up to him like this makes me weak in the knees.
But he’s more than just tall.
He’s irresistibly handsome.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, his voice calm and deep, yet underlined with a hint of threat. “What are you sorry about?”
Why is he delaying me like this from my job? Is he playing a game with me? Teasing the scantily dressed server for his personal amusement?
He’s obviously very well aware of his good looks and the effect it has on women; it’s written all over his stunningly gorgeous face.
“I’m sorry for almost spilling the drink on you, sir,” I reply politely.
“Sir, huh?” he repeats my words, casting me a dark look. “I like the sound of that.”
His narrowed eyes fixate on mine and his grip tightens around my arm, causing me to grimace in pain as his fingers dig deeper into my flesh. The way he looks at me is unsettling in so many ways. It’s as if he’s searching for something, peeling away layer after layer to see what lies behind the professional facade I portray when I’m working. His eyes are so curious, yet they’re piercing right through me with a kind of violent intensity.
Is he trying to intimidate me?
“Let go of me. You’re hurting me,” I hiss through my teeth, trying not to cause a scene.
He loosens his grip on my arm, but his eyes remain zeroed in on mine, continuing to invade my privacy in a way I‘ve never experienced before. I almost feel violated just by the way he stares at me.
When I avert my eyes, he squeezes my arm again, wrenching on it in such a way that it forces me to look back at him.
Doesn’t he worry that people are watching us? I’m pretty sure we’re attracting attention. He’s making the guests look at me suspiciously, as if I did something wrong.
“Don’t you dare turn away from me,” he says in a low but commanding voice. “Look at me.”
I obey, meeting his penetrating gaze again, but with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows.
“What is wrong with you, sir –?”
“Don’t speak to me like that,” he warns. “Ever.”
Who does he think he is?
Is he on something? With these rich guys you never know, especially at these high-profile events. It wouldn’t be the first time I‘d witnessed the negative influence drugs can have on people who have too much money for their own good. Their trips to the bathroom are often for more than just answering nature’s call.
He doesn’t really look like he’s high on something. His pupils aren’t dilated, and as piercing and intense as his eyes may be, there is a frightening clarity there. They’re not even blurred by too much alcohol.
It seems he can’t find whatever it was he was looking for. When he loosens his grasp around my arm this time, he quickly diverts his gaze, freeing me from his incisive inspection.
I yank my arm away and take a step back, clearing my throat in a dismissive tone. My upper arm still pulsates from his fierce touch, and oddly I sense a twinge of loss now that it’s gone.
Our eyes meet a final time. There’s something strange about this man, and it‘s not only the way he looked at me or the way he spoke to me, but it’s the way I... feel.
There’s something about him. He feels familiar. Close.
Have we met before? Is that why he was looking at me so intensely, because he was trying to place how he knew me?
No. Even if he couldn’t remember me, I would certainly remember a man who was so handsome and had so much charisma and power about him.
“What’s your name?” he asks brusquely.
“Laura Brown,” I answer in a hurried breath, unnecessarily adding my last name. “Why...why do you ask?”
An unnerving thought occurs to me.
“Are you going to complain about me to my boss?” I ask, panicked.
He chuckles and shakes his head. Fuck, I can’t get over how handsome he is.
“No, Laura, I just needed to know,” he says.
“Why?” I repeat. My heart is pounding now.
His expression signals that he’s not going to respond to my question.
“Is this all you do?” he asks, his eyes casting around the room. “Serving at functions.”
I frown at him and my cheeks flush.
Is this all you do? His condescending tone says it all. He thinks very highly of himself, more highly than he considers the likes of me. I’m just a server, after all.
Of course, I’m more than that. Much more than that. We all are. And I feel the sudden urge to prove it to him. I may be a college dropout who has to work two jobs to get by, but I am so much more than just a low life.
I know people like him. Business people. Rich people. Their lives are empty without their jobs and the wealth and status that comes with it, so that’s the only way they know to define themselves and everyone around them. In reality, they are the pitiful and deprived ones.
I hate the way he assumes he‘s superior to me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. This is neither the time nor the place to lecture a man like him.
Not that I’d even be capable of doing that. He’s rattling me way too much. My heart hasn’t stopped racing since I bumped into him, and I‘ve never had this hard of a time maintaining composure. He’s frazzling me in a way that no one ever has before, and I don’t know how to deal with it.
“That’s none of your business,” I retort, sounding harsher than intended. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. And I’m sure you do, too.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, mimicking his earlier gesture of scanning the room around us. I’m met with Layla’s gaze from afar. She’s throwing me an “Is everything all right?”-look, which I acknowledge with a nod.
He notices the exchange, his eyes traveling back and forth between the two of us as he assesses the situation.
“Are we done here?” I ask, trying to sound confident, even though my voice is shaking in sync with the empty tray in my hand.
He smiles.
“You can go,” he says. “But to answer your question, no. We’re nowhere near done.”
Chapter 4
Ryan
She hurries away from me without looking back, repetitively fixing her skirt in the process of crossing the room, as she’s done persistently throughout the course of the night.
Throughout the rest of the evening, I can feel her eyes on me. She makes sure to never get too close to me, but I can tell that I’m consuming her attention as much as she’s consuming mine.
Talking to her didn’t help one bit. Inspecting her up close didn’t help.
On the contrary.
I’m hooked on her more now than I was before.
There was nothing hollow and empty about her sparkling green eyes. Instead, I found mystery. A girl with a story to tell. Complexity.
Laura. Even the sound of her name echoes through my chest with an urgency that is completely new to me.
What the hell is it about her? She’s pretty, that’s for sure. She’s the kind of girl who turns heads, even if she doesn’t realize it. Her short, tight-fitting uniform wraps around a hot body that’s to die for, long and lean, with big tits, and a round, perky ass to match. Her skirt hugs her curves just right.
But there is nothing elegant or g
lamorous about her, she doesn’t have the classy femininity that usually draws my attention. If anything, she appears gawky and vulnerable, overburdened with a body she cannot handle. She looks like she doesn’t belong anywhere or to anyone. An outcast. An orphan. Alone.
Special.
That must be it.
She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever had. Something new. Something different.
No wonder I crave her like this, especially right now, just as another year of fasting is coming to an end. It’s almost to the point of being unbearable, how much I want her. How much I need to taste her.
But there is one major problem.
She’s not on the menu.
She’s not in the agency’s catalog. My go-to agency, Violent Delights, offers everything a man can ask for... except her.
She’s not available for purchase.
So I can’t have her.
Of course, that only makes me want her more. That’s just how I am.
She’s exactly the kind of woman I’m trying to stay away from. The kind of woman who could make me lose control.
“Fuck,” I hiss at my reflection, as I lean over one of the sinks in the bathroom. Even though I’ve splashed cold water on my face, I’m still as heated as before.
I check my watch, confirming it’s almost time to give my toast. My head needs to be clear for this, clear enough to deliver the words flawlessly, react to the applause and response, and engage in another round of smalltalk. The event will slowly start to wind down once I give my toast, because that’s when people no longer feel obligated to stick around. Thank God.
“Pull it together,” I order my reflection, but the guy in the mirror just casts back an angry glare. He doesn’t like to be lectured.
Sure enough, as soon as I walk back into the party hall, I’m met by my assistant Lemon’s harried eyes. He waves me over to the podium, already anxiously holding the microphone in his hand. He’s not a short man, but he has an odd way of crouching every time I stand next to him, which makes him appear to be a lot smaller than he really is. It bothers me, and I’ve mentioned it several times, but he continues doing it.
