Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  My anxiety got worse during the night and then doubled down on itself during the next morning’s meal prep at the kitchen. It got three times worse as I rolled up in front of the sleek lobby of the building I’d last entered four days ago.

  Days that felt like centuries.

  I’d traversed enough emotional ground to justify that feeling, too. Accepted the fact that I was a damn schizophrenic about Sebastian Shark. That my mental aggravation by him existed weirdly next to my sexual attraction to him. I couldn’t control how my instincts were hardwired or how they were drawn to the man’s pheromones, harmonic vibrations, stallion legs, or chakras. Whatever. I didn’t care what it was. I was just grateful to be aware of it.

  That meant I was a huge step closer to controlling it.

  Which led to my ultimate decision about how to work him.

  I’d simply stay on neutral ground.

  Enlightened but not engaged. Diplomatic but not subservient. Friendly but fair.

  Which was why I rode the elevator to the penthouse of the skyscraper with my head held high. My loaded cart was in front of me. Sebastian Shark’s lunch was already prepared and on top. Next to it was his silverware.

  Rolled in white linen.

  Chapter Four

  Sebastian

  I pushed back from my desk and rechecked the time. Only twelve minutes had passed since I’d last checked. While I should’ve been disgusted with my schoolboy behavior, the grin on my face told a different story altogether. The dueling reasons for the grin were at such odds, I wasn’t sure which I’d hoped to see come out on top.

  Firstly, my cock needed some relief.

  Desperately.

  It had been too many days since I’d seen Little Red Riding Hood tremble and stumble through my office, giving my spank bank fodder. While at the same time, I hoped like hell she wouldn’t show. Because the uneven footing I felt beneath my soles because of her, just the thought of her, was so unfamiliar, exorcizing her seemed like the smartest option.

  “Get a grip, man,” I muttered to myself, standing to pace another lap around the penthouse. A light path could be seen in the pile of the carpet, and even that grated on my nerves. Nerves that were akin to live wires the past few days. All the bullshit with the Mansfield case, the stress of running a business the magnitude of Shark Enterprises, and the launch of a project the size of Shark’s Edge were starting to wear me down. Not that I would ever admit weakness of any sort. To anyone.

  Maybe I needed to give LuLu a call and set something up with one of my regulars. Who was I kidding? None of her girls would come close to taking the edge off my need now that the green-eyed pixie was so deeply under my skin. There was only one red length of hair I needed to wrap around my fist now.

  A knock on my door pulled me up short as I paced along the far side of the office near the conference room table. The very same table I’d presided over the last time I’d seen Abbigail dash out of my office.

  “What?” I barked toward the closed door.

  Grant poked his head in cautiously.

  Wisely.

  “She still hasn’t come by?” He closed the door quietly behind him, as he always did. The man moved like a panther for his tall size.

  I scowled at him, willing him to let it be. But he had never been one to bend to my will. Probably the one person who hadn’t—and the precise trait that made me respect him enough to consider him a friend.

  When he went to take his usual spot on my black leather sofa, I stopped him. “Don’t get comfortable. You aren’t staying. If you need something, spit it out.” I paused for a beat. “And then get out.”

  “Do you really think you should be alone with her?” He eyed me skeptically.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I’m not some sort of monster, Twombley. You’ve been watching too many gossip shows after work. You need to get out more.” I smacked his rock-hard abdomen with the back of my hand as I ushered him toward the door. “Maybe hit the gym or something. You’re getting a little soft, doughboy.” I grinned as I said it, my knuckles still stinging from the contact.

  “Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that. On both counts. I’m not the one who sprung a woody seeing a girl in tears at the beginning of the week.”

  “Out.” I held the door open impatiently and then closed it with a whoosh as soon as he was clear of the jamb. When there was a knock just a few short moments later, I swung it open in a fury, ready to rip his head off and shit down his open throat.

  “Fucking Grant, this is your last—”

  Abbigail Gibson stood in the hallway, emerald eyes as breathtaking as Benbulben Mountain. I watched the rise and fall of her chest under her crisp white apron, the small, colorful logo moving in an enchanting rhythm with the heaving of her rib cage. Every jab and insult I’d carefully planned over the past few days fell away, and instead, for some unexplainable reason, I blurted, “Have you been to Ireland?”

  “Wha—what? No. I mean, my family, my ancestors, are from there. Obviously.” She made a careless gesture toward her red mane. “I’ve seen pictures. But I’ve never actually been.”

  Clearly my question had taken her off guard.

  Hell, it had taken me off guard.

  We stared at one another for unmeasured moments, people moving around us in the hall while we stayed locked in the force field of one another’s gaze. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and the spell was broken.

  “I see you got my message.” I turned on my heel to move back into the safe confines of my office suite. I didn’t bother to look back. I just assumed she’d follow.

  But my asshole routine didn’t override common courteousness with the fairer gender this time. Especially since Grant wasn’t around to play the part. I turned abruptly and asked, “Do you need help with that?” I gestured with my chin to the tray of food she carried.

  “I can manage.” All signs of uneasiness from my initial question in the doorway dissolved. “Where would you like lunch today?” She seemed to have a bit of sass in her tone today. If I wasn’t mistaken, she might even be spoiling for a bit of a fight. I had become an expert at reading people’s body language from my years in business, and hers was telling a whole new tale today.

  And why did my dick surge in my slacks at the thought of that? I couldn’t remember the last time a woman challenged me. In the boardroom or the bedroom. But I had a feeling Abbigail Gibson could be the one to do just that.

  “The coffee table is fine.”

  And wasn’t that a kick in the balls? Here stood this sexy-as-sin young thing. And I mean young. As in are you old enough to legally buy alcohol? young, and all I could think of was pushing her up against the wall and pushing her for more.

  Inch by naughty inch.

  Jesus Christ. I needed to get a handle on myself.

  “How old are you?” Again, just blurted out the random question that came to mind while I stared at her ass in the black whatever-the-heck sort of pants she wore under her prim little apron.

  She turned slowly from the coffee table to face me, a sly grin on her pink lips. “Pardon?”

  “Just curious. You seem young to own a business.” I leaned my weight back against the edge of my desk, crossing my long legs out in front of me.

  She turned back to the food, carefully unwrapping the salad and then the dressing.

  “Don’t put that dressing on my salad,” I said while she was mid-pour. “Not if it’s the same as Monday’s.”

  “You didn’t like it?” She looked at me. Was that hurt in her eyes?

  “No. I didn’t.” Too bad. Suck it up, darling. Criticism is part of the big bad business world. It’s how you get better. Stronger.

  “Interesting,” she said, carefully and methodically covering the salad and putting it back on the tray.

  Why were my feet walking toward her? I wasn’t going to apologize for not liking the damn dressing. No, that wasn’t it. It was curiosity. Were there tears again? Seriously? Over salad dressing?


  “Are you crying, Ms. Gibson? Again?” My voice was rough and low in register.

  Her head snapped back, fury burning in her eyes. Tears hadn’t been there when she first met my stare, but now they were brimming while I stood and watched in fascination.

  And moved closer.

  Closer.

  What is happening?

  She was like a tractor beam. Pulling me. Sucking me in. Those eyes. Those tears. Tugging me closer. Then her bottom lip trembled—ever so slightly—but I was close enough then, I couldn’t miss it.

  “What’s this about? Salad dressing?” I growled.

  “I changed that recipe.” Her voice, on the other hand, was barely a whisper.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “You’re an asshole.” Now she gained some spine back.

  “Hashtag truth.” I shrugged, channeling my eight-year-old niece and remaining unaffected by her remark.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” She raised her hand to wipe away the free-falling tears.

  I caught her by the wrist and lowered her arm back to her side. Her stare, filled with indignation, was fixed to mine while I watched the tears track down the apples of her cheeks in single-file lines. Slowly, I caught one of the watery soldiers with the pad of my thumb and lifted it to my mouth, holding her gaze while I did so.

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Little Red.” The salty drop exploded on my tongue, making me want to taste more of her.

  “What?” Disbelief and arousal strangled the word in her throat.

  I tilted my head in question while moving another step closer.

  “What did you just call me?” she rasped, cheeks nearly the same scarlet as her hair.

  “Little Red. Like Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve thought that since the first day you came in here. All this.” I reached out and fingered the flame tresses that framed her doll-like face. Her eyes slid closed and her nostrils flared. Clearly she liked when I touched her.

  “You have no right to touch me.” Her hoarse whisper was barely audible in the silent suite.

  “Tell me to stop. Just say the word.” My own voice was as low and rumbly as one of the famous performers whose names graced the marquee on the Pantages Theatre.

  Her eyes popped open, seeming even wider than they were just moments before.

  “Because I really don’t want to stop.”

  Her bottom lip trembled again, making me want to bite her there. Then soothe the wound with my tongue.

  “How old did you say you were?” I risked touching her again. This time, I swiped a tear from her cheek and painted her swollen bottom lip with the wetness, making the pink shade darker.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t what?” The last tear. Captured. Painted.

  “Say”—she inhaled shakily—“how old I am.”

  “Tell me.” I took one more step. Our toes touched, and she had to tilt her head back to keep her gaze locked with mine. “Tell me, Little Red.”

  I bent forward, almost brushing my lips to hers.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for her answer.

  “Twenty-two. I turned twenty-two at the beginning of January.”

  “Jeeeessssus Christ.” I pulled back, scrubbing my palm down my face and around to the back of my neck, where I squeezed tightly, trying to get a handle on my lust-addled brain.

  “What just happened? What did I miss?” Her confused look wasn’t unexpected.

  “Momentary loss of my better judgment. Forgive me.”

  “For what? I would’ve told you to stop.” She met my stare straight on. Ballsy girl. Sexy girl. “But I didn’t want you to stop.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” I stepped back from her slightly.

  She quickly closed the space between us. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You’re barely old enough to order a drink at a bar, let alone tangle with a bastard like me.”

  “Don’t overestimate yourself, Mr. Shark.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at the flash of boldness. “Maybe you shouldn’t underestimate me, Ms. Gibson. Ask my assistant what an overbearing asshole I am. She probably has a story to match every minute of the day. Although if she were honest with herself, she’s no picnic to be around either.”

  “She seems quite nice to me.” Abbigail shrugged, something I noticed she did routinely. “She even allows me to keep my trolley in the alcove by her printer while I service the offices on this floor. She wouldn’t do that if she weren’t kind.”

  She looked triumphant that she proved me wrong in one simple sentence. Then a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped lips. “I’d guess you’re probably more like a Chihuahua than a shark, as your name suggests, Sebastian. All bark, no bite.”

  Boy, she really thought she had me figured out, didn’t she? Time to put this pup back in her crate.

  I pressed against her body with my own, thrusting her against the wall behind her. The semi-erect cock lazing in my boxers surged to full attention from the heat radiating through our layers of clothing.

  “I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into you, Little Red,” I said softly beside her ear as I tucked a wayward strand of silky hair behind it. “In fact, I’d like to sink a couple other body parts of mine”—I pushed my hips against her belly in punctuation—“into yours.” Slowly, I pulled back to get lost in her kelly-colored eyes.

  “But?” Her voice was tinged with impatience. Not the reaction I was going for, but maybe the cat-and-mouse game was growing old?

  I leaned my head far to the side, lewdly surveying the curve of her backside.

  “It is a stellar ass, Abbigail. But I can’t say I expected you to jump right into that arena. You’re full of surprises today.” I suspected my eyes were glittering with mischief.

  She gave me a be serious glower. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  “You just did.” I arched a brow in challenge.

  She huffed before getting back to her original point. “I was sensing you had an objection to your own comment.”

  “My objection is to several things.” I lifted my hand to hold it directly between our faces, ticking off the problems as I voiced them.

  “First . . . ” My index finger popped tall, making me imagine drawing a line from her bottom lip, down her neck, and around the back to untie the apron’s knot and then watching it fall to the floor between us. My eyes skittered to the ground, observing the imaginary fabric crumple to a heap and then flashed back to hers as I made my point. “You’re much too young to be sullied by a scoundrel such as me.”

  She quirked her brow at my use of such archaic terms, but I wasted no time adding a second finger to my first.

  Now my brain gave me thoughts of two fingers deftly working the moorings free on her button-down shirt and then spreading the two halves wide to discover what type of lingerie she hid beneath her sensible work clothes. Was she a utilitarian girl all the way down to her creamy white skin? Or was there a little bit of vixen underneath the layers of cotton? A sexy siren waiting to be uncovered and appreciated—stroked and petted by my skillful hands.

  I dashed out the second reason. “You work for me. Vendors make messy bedfellows.”

  “Messy?” she asked, her voice pitching high with the insult.

  Messy, I mouthed, no sound accompanying my lips’ movement.

  “And lastly,” I said, adding my long middle finger to the grouping of extremities between us, losing all coherent train of thought. Dirty, dirty fantasies replaced reasonable remarks. In my mind, I stroked the inside of Abbi’s pussy with the very finger that stood tallest between us. With that digital soldier, I’d reach in and find the secret spot that made her writhe and moan beneath my touch. The unique bull’s-eye that would encourage her to call my name in a raspy moan as she rode my hand to her completion.

  A low groan escaped from deep in my throat and vibrated across my lips as I droppe
d my chin to my chest with arousal overload.

  “What?” she whispered, seeming to have followed my thoughts down the naughty, naughty rabbit hole.

  “What, what?” I squinted at her with unfocused eyes.

  “What were you thinking? Your eyes . . . You just looked a million miles away.” She reached up to touch my face with splayed fingers but quickly let her hand fall away as if thinking better of it.

  “Oh, some things are better left unsaid, Little Red.” A grin played on my lips, still imagining her tight pussy milking and coating my fingers.

  “Better for who?” Rigidity returned to her spine. Frustration? Embarrassment?

  “For you.” I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, definitely picking up the scent of woman on the air. “In this instance, definitely better for you.”

  “That’s mighty high-handed of you.” All traces of arousal were gone from her voice.

  “What is?” I turned away and headed over to where my lunch was spread out, needing to get physical distance from her before I did something I’d regret.

  Like kiss her.

  And not being able to stop kissing her until she was naked beneath me, chanting my name.

  “Deciding what’s best for me,” she snapped. “You don’t even know me.”

  “My point exactly.” I unrolled the white napkin from around the silverware on the tray.

  She was quiet, and then moved to stand near the grouping of sofas where I sat. “You can be very obtuse. But I suppose that’s intentional. I don’t take you for a man who does anything willy-nilly.”

  “I could say the same for you.” I looked pointedly at the white napkin. “For a woman who claims to be serious about a very large future contract, I find it interesting that you wouldn’t follow the customer’s specifications, just to prove some immature point. Again, though, perfectly illustrating the first of my earlier arguments.”

  Silence blanketed the penthouse. However, the rise and fall of her chest broadcasted her growing agitation.

  Come on, Little Red Riding Hood. Cry. Do it.

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath while a rosy flush spread up her neck. “Well, if you don’t need anything else here—”