The Heat

by Alice Ward

  But not Wyatt’s. It couldn’t be Wyatt’s. I needed to think of someone else. I scanned my mental list of hottest men.

  Brad Pitt. Yes, it was him touching me, licking me, grinning up at me, that dimple winking at me below those vivid eyes as Wyatt…

  Damn.

  No, not him.

  I needed to choose someone with dark eyes. Ryan Reynolds.

  Um, yeah, he would do right now. Sorry, Blake. But I needed to borrow your man for just a couple minutes.

  With Ryan’s face clearly in my mind, I closed my eyes and touched my breasts, peaking my nipples as the water streamed down my face, gradually cooling me down. I imagined those amazing abs of his, those v-grooves that pointed like an arrow right down to the promised land.

  He’d be big, I thought. Strong and big, and he’d know how to please a woman.

  I imagined him laying me down, diving between my legs, licking and sucking at the most intimate part of me, holding my hips down as I thrashed. I imagined him wanting nothing more than to please me.

  In response to his imagined tongue, I stroked myself harder and faster, panting until the friction became too much.

  I arched my back against the tile wall of the shower, curling my toes, and cried out as sensation exploded through me.

  The second I stopped coming down, a face floated into my mind.

  Wyatt.

  Shit.

  Breathing hard, I finished actually doing what I’d set out to do… washing myself, giving my scalp an extra hard scrub before shaving my legs. When I was done, I turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and pushed open the shower door. I saw my reflection in the mirror beyond the haze of steam.

  I looked guilty as hell.

  But no, that wasn’t Wyatt. That was just release. I mean, I hadn’t had sex since… I wasn’t sure when. Good sex was an even more distant memory. So it only made sense that I’d want release, eventually. Plus, today had been stressful.

  It was just a coincidence that I felt myself needing it so much not a half hour after meeting Wyatt Watts. A Co-in-ci-dence.

  Because I hated that man.

  I towel dried my hair and went through my bag, pulling out an adorable handkerchief-print sundress. Since almost all of my clothes were corporate, I had very few casual things, and usually had zero time and even less money for shopping. Hence, my white shorts and orangutan t-shirt.

  Then I riffled through the rest of my bag, looking for underwear. I went through every pocket, and…

  No underwear.

  Oh, no. Oh, crap. I’d forgotten to pack underwear. And… oh, great. No bras, either.

  It was a good thing the sundress didn’t need a bra, and that I was only a 34B. But no panties? Wyatt would probably think I was begging for that ride, if he knew I was going commando.

  Not that I’d ever give him the chance to learn that bit of information. No, I’d keep my legs glued together all dinner long. For sure.

  I slipped into the dress, tying it at the neck, then threw my hair up in a messy bun. After a brushing on of light makeup and lip gloss, I slipped on my glasses, and stared at myself in the mirror.

  Grrr. Cute.

  Not that it mattered. I wasn’t there to impress, that was for sure. The look had taken me all of… what? Four minutes? No one could say that I was trying too hard.

  But part of me, the part of me that I was desperately starting to hate as much as Wyatt Watts himself, was still secretly happy that despite the quick work, I looked at least a little bit sexy, with long tendrils of hair falling in my face.

  I went to the bathroom, grabbed my one and only bra and panty set — the one I’d just peeled off my sweaty body — filled the sink with water, washed it with my own soap, and set it to soak. Then I checked the time on my phone, wondering what other disasters could befall me on this trip. As I walked, the fabric of my dress moved against my skin, and there was much more… air, circulating around down there.

  I kind of liked it. It felt dirty too. Hot. I wondered what Wyatt would think if…

  Oh, screw it. Who. Cared? He was such a scumbag, things like that were probably all he thought about when he wasn’t thinking about how to destroy the environment. And who named their kid Wyatt Watts? I mean, really? His parents clearly must’ve been deranged.

  Gathering my shit together, I unplugged my phone, then reviewed the video I’d taken.

  Oh, god, he was sexy. Why did he have to be so sexy?

  This would’ve been so simple if he looked like normal CEOs were supposed to look. Like, say, the Monopoly Man.

  I stopped the video midway, at a frame where he was frozen there, hands raised, looking at me with those penetrating eyes. I went out onto the patio to film the rest of my piece on Watts Enterprises.

  Positioning myself in front of a clear background, I started the record button, remembering what Emily had said. “Hey, guys, it’s Atlee, and guess where I am?” I said, waving. “I’m in Malaysia for this year’s Palm Oil Roundtable. I know, right? I survived a nearly twenty-four-hour flight! Crazy!”

  Gah. Now I was sounding like a Kardashian. Pull it together, Atlee.

  I cleared my throat and did the intro again, this time sounding much more professional. Then I went on with the message, “Anyway, just a few hours ago, I was able to speak to one of the biggest threats to sustainability in this country today. Yes, Wyatt Watts, CEO of the egregiously awful Watts Enterprises. You may know them better as makers of some of the most popular shampoos and soaps in the country, like Free and Easy and SilkySoap. I’ve spoken about them before — they have a negative score on the Palm Oil Scorecard and a history of irresponsible behavior, which means they’re pretty much the worst of the worst. Let’s take a look at the big guy himself, denying! Can you believe it? Denying that there’s a problem!”

  I paused, replayed it over, smiling. The lighting was perfect. I usually thought I looked a little goofy, but in this one, I looked good.

  Then I started it up again. “Can you believe the arrogance? Are you as pissed off as I am? Because really. This company has for too long proven that it cares nothing about other people, and everything about its bottom line, and I’m sickened. Absolutely sickened. Wyatt Watts is a scumbag, people, plain and simple. If you don’t already, I urge you to boycott WE products as soon as you can. With WE, it’s really about THEM. Making as much money as possible, screwing their fellow man as well as the homes of so many innocent animals.”

  Satisfied, I spent the next couple hours editing the video, cutting out the part where he talked about liking sex. Yes, I could’ve shown the world what a perv he was, trying to pick me up on camera, but I wanted the focus to be on his business practices. I could save the perv thing for another installment.

  After adding adorable orangutans and other animals that were being displaced and killed, I posted it on my YouTube channel. Maybe it wouldn’t get me a million followers, but I knew it would be one of my better videos. Whenever I ended up virtually screaming at the camera, I got people to take notice and pay attention.

  Voila. Take that, Wyatt Watts. Your stupid name and your beautiful eyes are not going to distract me from this mission. And that mission is simple: I’m going to bring you down.

  I checked the time. It was nearly seven-thirty. Chills skittered up my spine. I’d meet him, soon. Meet, and eviscerate him.

  And not come anywhere close to riding his face. I hoped.

  I started to put my phone in my purse when I realized that someone had posted a comment on my video. So soon? Encouraged, I saw it was from Erthluvr, one of my most ardent followers. From what I knew, he was a twenty-six-year-old activist from Portland who always applauded my efforts, one of my first true fans. I opened the message, smiling, but my face fell as I read what it said:

  Whoa. You look hot. Who are you trying to impress?

  Dammit.

  No one.

  Not a single person. I was getting a job done. And that was it.

  Pulling my hair out of the bun,
I shook it out, grabbed my purse. For a moment, I considered hopping back on the scooter, but I knew it would be dark when I returned, and I didn’t trust my eyesight enough to drive after the sun went down, especially in such a foreign place.

  Besides, the resort was only a few blocks away. I’d walk. And on my way, I’d psych myself up.

  I, Atlee Young, was going into shark mode.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wyatt

  At shortly before six, the roundtable reception came to an end.

  While it wasn’t the formal meeting, I still had worthwhile discussions. I’d had some great conversations with heads of other worldwide companies who’d successfully made the transition. I’d come out of it energized and ready to investigate whatever ways we could to work with the community and the land without impacting our bottom line. The climate toward Watts Enterprises was a lot more civil inside the meeting room than it had been outside. People inside seemed willing to listen to what I was trying to accomplish.

  Outside? Not so much. I’d run into quite a few more protestors on the way to the meeting. I’d given the statement I’d practiced with Ryan, and endured their questioning, and survived.

  Of course, none had captivated me as much as little Miss Atlee Young.

  After the meeting let out, I skirted around the protesters and made my way to my room. When I got there, I jabbed a browser search into my phone: Atlee YouTube Sustainable

  The first search result that came up was for a YouTube channel called Atlee’s Angles. And wouldn’t you know it, the thumbnail was a frame of me, standing in front of my hotel, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

  I played it.

  I watched the whole thing, our exchange, the commentary, the part where she urged a boycott of WE’s products. My favorite part was when she called me a scumbag. She was so passionate about her hate for me that a little bit of spittle had flown from her mouth.

  And yes, I was indignant. Angry. But also… a little turned on.

  A woman who was so passionate about the planet, and her hate for me… had to be passionate about other things too. I kept waiting for the “ride my face” comment to appear and was slightly disappointed when it didn’t. I imagined her in her room, re-watching the exchange. I wondered if her cute little tree-hugging ass had her panties all wet, thinking about it.

  But that wasn’t what I needed to focus on now. What I needed to do was repair the damage that this video could potentially cause.

  I went to set the phone down when I noticed something. She didn’t have a million followers. Not even close.

  I grinned. Okay, maybe I didn’t have to worry about too much damage.

  Still. That woman. No one had ever accused me of such things. No one had ever called me a scumbag before. She hadn’t even given me the chance to explain myself. It was like her mind was made up, and nothing I could do would change it.

  I changed into my swimsuit and went for a swim in the outdoor pool, needing the water to cool down my heated temper.

  It didn’t work. The pool was empty, the sun was setting, and this was as close to paradise as one could probably get. But my mind kept turning to her, and every time, heat flared inside me.

  After slipping out of the pool, I went back to my room and called the restaurant to book a private room in case our dinner conversation — or other things — got a little heated. Knowing what I already knew of Atlee, it seemed highly possible she might send things flying. But more than that, I had the keen urge to get her alone.

  I wanted her all to myself.

  Tossing my wet trunks over the towel rack to dry, I laid down on the bed, intent on studying some of the literature I’d gotten from the roundtable. We had a lot of work to do on that front.

  But a minute later, I picked up my phone.

  I brought up Atlee’s Angles. Something compelled me to.

  She had dozens of videos there, even though it looked like the channel had only been started a month earlier. Her bio said, Columbia Law Grad, living the dream in NYC, dedicated to keeping our world beautiful for generations to come.

  So, she was an attorney from Manhattan. I could’ve passed her on the street, but something told me I’d have remembered her.

  I clicked on another one of her videos. This one, filmed two days ago, was as she was packing for her trip to Malaysia. She moved around her small apartment, gathering things and throwing them into an overnight bag. She talked a little about the roundtable, but mostly she was freaking out because this wasn’t just her first trip to Asia — it was her first trip overseas, alone, ever.

  She was looking for — of all things, her favorite organic deodorant. She kept rushing around the apartment in an excited frenzy, tripping over things, and someone behind the camera — a woman — kept telling her to calm down. Was that her roommate? Or was she a lesbian?

  No, not with those nipples, she wasn’t.

  When she wasn’t accusing people, she was actually very funny, engaging, and… fucking adorable. I couldn’t stop watching.

  So she was in a strange country, for the first time, alone. I’d be happy to be her company if I didn’t think she’d constantly be on my ass about the environmental thing.

  Her videos were compulsively watchable. She was compulsively watchable. I laid on my bed, propping my head up on my elbow, watching as she stood in the smallest kitchen I’d ever seen, a dolphin apron wrapped around her slim waist. She proceeded to speak, with a fire in those big hazel eyes about her passion for the environment and for saving animals. In fact, she said, it had brought her to become a vegan.

  A vegan? Really? Why was I even surprised?

  Well, that would make for an interesting dinner.

  It gave me an idea. I paused the video, picked up the phone, and called down to the restaurant. I placed a preorder for the most expensive item on the menu — two steaks, medium rare.

  Then I let the video continue. As it went on, I felt a tad guilty. It wasn’t like she was berating people for choosing to eat meat. She just encouraged people to know where their food was sourced from, suggested vegan menus, and proceeded to make a vegetarian chili that looked… absolutely like eating a handful of grass.

  It wasn’t the food that kept me watching. It was the girl.

  I clicked on another video, my eyes arrested by her smile. Her hands. In this one, she was making something with eggplant, her fingers caressing the purple skin of the vegetable as her eyes gleamed. It was almost erotic, the way she moved, the rhythmic way she spoke when she wasn’t angry as hell. She spoke almost… orgasmically about the way this dish tasted, bursting with excitement.

  I couldn’t believe she only had six thousand followers.

  I was instantly a fan, wanting more.

  I went through every one of the videos, studying her every movement, the way her graceful fingers moved, the way her nose twitched when she got really excited, the way a tiny crease appeared between her eyes whenever she spoke of something that upset her. By the time I reached her last video, my cock was as hard as a rock.

  When it was time to get ready, I went into the shower and let the warm water relax into my muscles, then took my cock and imagined her touching me the way she’d touched that eggplant. I imagined her stripping off that t-shirt and baring those high, perfect tits of hers to me. I imagined her climbing up my body and taking my cock into her mouth, that expression of disgust morphing into one of lust as she moved her tongue up and down my length.

  I closed my eyes, thinking of her sucking me off, her small, lithe curves moving over me, her hard nipples brushing my bare chest, her tits pressing up against me. I imagined licking my way between her legs, kissing and sucking until she stopped bitching and all that was torn from her throat were moans of pleasure.

  Within minutes, white dots spotted my vision as I came, shooting semen all over the tile wall. I leaned into the spray of the water, cleaning myself up, wondering if that hate she’d expressed for me was all she felt.

  Was there a
little part of her that wanted me too? Or had I simply imagined it?

  I supposed I’d find out soon enough. If she even decided to show up.

  I dressed in more casual clothes, linen shorts and a cotton shirt, and went downstairs to the restaurant.

  I didn’t have to look long.

  She was standing in the entrance, framed in the romantic orange torchlight of the restaurant, which cast shadows over her face. Wearing a little dress that bared her legs and skimmed over her alluring figure, I was drawn to the beautiful curves of her shoulders. A tiny string tied around her neck was the only thing separating her from a serious wardrobe malfunction. Even though I’d just come only moments before, my cock twitched with interest as I imagined untying the halter with my teeth, letting everything fall into a puddle around her slim ankles.

  My balls throbbed as I approached, but then nearly ascended into my body when her eyes fell on me.

  They were cold, dark, and unforgiving.

  Yep. I was the devil, and she’d come for one reason only.

  To put me in my place.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Atlee

  Holy shit.

  I’d thought he was nearly a god on Earth when I’d seen him in daylight. But now, with his eyes reflecting the dim firelight, my fingers itched to touch him.

  I’d never thought it possible that a man could look this good.

  And his eyes were trained on me like I was the only woman in the world. The only thing he wanted.

  But I hated him. God, I hated him. That was indisputable. Even if he did want me, I sure as hell didn’t want him.

  The only thing I wanted to do to him? Destroy him.

  He headed my way, and as he approached, I tried not to take in all of his delicious parts. The open throat of his white cotton shirt, revealing a hint of chest. Tanned, muscular forearms. Tapered waist, strong legs.