“I can keep a low profile,” Onyx says, almost sheepish.
“Goddammit, Onyx.”
“This is why I need you, Alyssa.”
“I’m not sure what I can do if you’re going to light yourself on fire like this.”
“You can move to Inferno and help me.”
There’s silence for a full fifteen seconds. Then I laugh into the phone.
Onyx rushes to justify himself. “Look — if you’re there, you can be on the ground. Figure it out guerrilla style. Hell, I don’t know — talk to her friends? Talk to Mia? Hell, bribe her, maybe.”
“Do you think I’m a publicist, or a—?”
“Look,” Onyx says. “I figured you wouldn’t want to go with me. So—”
“Go with you? I’m still stuck on trying to decide whether I want to murder you.”
“So I talked to Aiden. And I talked to Cormac Ghast, too.”
“You talked to my boss?”
“I know it’s a big thing I’m asking, Alyssa, but I really, really need you. So in exchange, if you agree — well, you already know Cormac is looking to retire—”
“Onyx …” I say, my tone both warning and disbelieving.
“He thinks a project like this would put you over the top. So he’s willing to move you into the CEO position. He’d remain the company’s owner, but it’d be yours day to day.”
I’m dumbfounded. This is all too much, and I’m not even thirty.
“Look, that’s very nice of you, but I don’t need to move in order to—”
“I said I talked to Aiden, too.”
That stops me. I wait.
“If you agree, we’re willing to cut you in. One-half percent of the Forage Education division’s profits.”
I can’t speak. It’s a half percent, but this is Forage he’s talking about. It’s more money than I’ve ever imagined. Plus ownership of the very corporate ladder I’ve spent so much blood, sweat, and tears trying to climb.
“Don’t answer now,” Onyx says. “Talk to Aiden.”
“Okay,” I say. Aiden strikes me as caustic, but if Onyx says this is in the bag I believe him. I can take a meeting. The guy will probably yell at me and take catastrophic offense at every little thing I do, but I doubt he’ll welch on the deal if I attend their meet-up in faith.
And with that, I wonder if my mind has agreed.
He won’t welch on the deal if I show up.
Thinking that means my brain likes the deal, and that I’ve more or less agreed.
Leave Chicago.
Move to Inferno Falls.
Chance of a lifetime.
“I’ll find a time that works for us both, and call to let you know when and where to meet. Cool?”
Still numb I say, “Cool.”
“Make it happen, okay? You know how Aiden is. Just … be there on time. Don’t be late.”
Never.
“Okay,” I say.
Onyx says goodbye and hangs up — but I hold the phone for at least a minute, until my sense finally starts to return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ALYSSA
I TELL COLE I HAVE amazing news. I tell him this the second I walk through his front door, before he goes about the urgent task of tearing off my clothes. If I’m going to say anything, I need to do it now. The way our ritual has unfolded lately, I abdicate sense to Cole once the ball starts rolling, and it starts rolling immediately unless I stick my metaphorical foot in the door like I have now.
Once it’s underway, intelligent career-related discourse becomes impossible. Cole confiscates my work bag, my tablet, and my phone, locking them all away in some sort of limbo so I won’t be distracted or lured by matters that don’t involve his cock. He usually strips me down far enough to bare my pussy, then buries himself and has his way.
After that, my brain is gone until the lockout ends. That’s the way I want things — to get blissfully lost, trusting that Cole is always keeping one eye on the map for me. If I want to speak, I need to do it now. And I do.
“Move?”
“Yes. To Inferno Falls.”
“And this is something you want?” Cole sounds incredulous.
I give him the details.
“So it’s about money.”
“A lot of money.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize who I’m talking to.
“I have money.”
“I don’t.”
“I could make you a similar offer.”
“To do what?”
“Work for me,” he says.
“I do work for you.”
“I could pay you more.”
“Cole, it could be tens of millions.”
“So?”
“Plus Banner. Plus a position as CEO of the company I work for.”
“How much is the Banner PR Agency worth?”
“It’s not about worth. It’s about pride.”
Cole seems confused. “But how much?”
I sigh with exasperation. “It’s priceless. Don’t you see? I get shit all the time for rising as fast as I have, as young as I am. And being a woman. Taking over the agency earns me the right to give the finger to everyone who ever doubted me. It’s validation of everything I’ve ever worked for.”
“Hmm.” Then a shrug. “Well, congratulations.”
It sounds half-sincere. Maybe I’ve misjudged all of this. Earlier today, I was wondering just how the hell Cole and I would describe our weird relationship — and specifically, whether I’d bring him good and bad times to share. On the way over, I decided I would, and so I have. But I think I was wrong. Cole doesn’t care about my wins. He only wants to fuck me.
Maybe that’s as it should be. I love my independence as much as he loves his.
He holds his hand out. I hand him my bag, knowing our ritual has started. Then I give him my purse.
He beckons with his fingers, knowing that I kept the phone in my pocket. I hand it over, then he moves away, into a hidden spot, to stash my stuff.
I fall onto the couch and relax. It’s amazing, the triggers we’ve established already. At first, this was all about pleasure. Now it’s surrender. The first few days, it was hard to shut my mind off, but now it’s automatic. I’m about to be transported into a realm where I exist only to feel and do, not a place where thought is required.
Despite the excitement — my anticipation and worries, for Onyx and myself — I let go.
I’m a lump of clay by the time Cole returns. I won’t have to burden myself with any responsibilities until morning.
He comes to me, then kneels, runs his hands along my arms, sides, and chest. I smile, unable to help myself. I’m floating in bliss. It’s hard to believe I ever lived my life without this release. Without him.
My palms brush his handsome cheeks, rough with their salt-and-pepper stubble.
“Make me feel good,” I say, my voice somnolent and dreamy.
Cole appears to comply. He raises my skirt, lowers my panties, and fixes me with his cool blue stare. “I’ll give the orders around here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
COLE
I MAKE ALYSSA COME SO hard with my tongue, she boxes my ears with her knees.
I fuck Alyssa in the bathtub. I’ve been in tubs before where this is a tricky thing, but mine in the master bath is more like a pool.
I fuck Alyssa in the kitchen. I get the idea to try and fuck her while cooking, but this goes horribly. So I make the most of it and eat off her naked body instead. Then she eats off mine. Whipped cream is involved. Things get sticky, so we head back to the shower.
I tell Alyssa to finish me off with her surprisingly talented mouth — surprising because nobody would ever guess from knowing her, but I’ve found a diamond in the rough.
The orgasm flattens me like a vicious slap. I quickly return to attention. While I’m waiting, I tell Alyssa to get herself off using some of our new toys, because I want to watch. I’m sure it’s not something she indulges much without me, but that
’s why our arrangement works. If Alyssa’s not allowed to be in control while we’re naked, she doesn’t have to decide whether to follow my orders.
Whatever I want to see her do, she does.
I think about Rachel. A sour note intruding on an otherwise perfect symphony. Post-orgasm, I always have this small logical window before I get hard and wanting Alyssa again. This time my brain uses that window to betray me. In seconds, all the hurt and sorrow of my Rachel memories from years ago comes rolling toward me like thunder.
Somehow it mixes with thoughts of Alyssa. But she isn’t like Rachel was, and our relationship isn’t an inch the same. Rachel wanted to be equals, the way Alyssa is my equal (hell, my better in many ways) when we’re not up to fucking. That isn’t how things are with Alyssa. Which is why this works, and why that annoying, traitorous part of me that’s speaking up now has nothing to fear.
It isn’t the same.
I don’t feel the same way about Alyssa as I did about Rachel.
Alyssa doesn’t push me away from things. She doesn’t deny me what I want.
It’s perfect. We have it all.
The ideal relationship, with all the pleasure and none of the pain.
Why the fuck am I thinking this now? Am I really so weak when my dick isn’t hard?
Am I really this broken?
I take my frustratingly noncompliant cock in my hand and start to rub it, focusing on Alyssa’s pussy. There’s a dildo inside her because I told her to use it on herself while I watched. It doesn’t take long before the intruding thoughts are gone and all I see is wet flesh and smooth surfaces, before Alyssa’s moans and the sounds of my stroking, preparing myself for her, are all I can hear.
I’m back at full attention, raging like I never stopped, when she comes. I tell her to roll over, onto her belly, but to keep her hand pinned beneath herself so she can hold the dildo inside from below. Then I fuck her ass. She’s so tight with her other hole filled that at first I wonder if she can take it all.
But then she does, thrashing below me. Pleasure overwhelms her. She can’t stay quiet — not that I’d want that. Her hand breaks a glass. She screams, calling my name, coming with a force that squeezes my cock like a fist.
She’s a lump when we’re done. We’re in the shower together, hot water assaulting us from every side. She cleans me and I clean her. We dry each other. Then I tell her to lay down in my big bed. I ask Alyssa if she’s happy. She seems confused by a question I’ve never asked before.
Then I correct myself: Are you pleased? Because pleasure is different from happiness.
And she nods, but I notice she starts nodding before I issue my correction.
Are you pleased, Alyssa? Did I fuck you well enough?
Yes.
But without meaning to, I’ve also asked, Are you happy here? Happy enough with me?
And: Yes.
I’m heading back into the bathroom when I hear a low buzz. Three in a row. Alyssa’s phone, ringing where I’ve hidden it in the walk-in closet.
I check the screen. It’s from Forage — from the big search engine company co-owned by Onyx Scott. I don’t know why, but I answer. It’s a woman. An intern, a helper … someone calling for Onyx.
She asks me a question. I find myself responding with a lie.
Are you Alyssa Galloway’s assistant?
Yes.
It’s true, in a way. I make the rules right now, and I’ve ordered Alyssa to get some rest. This call might be important. Vital, even. And although Alyssa serves me during these times, there are ways in which I serve her, too.
She gives me something to write. To schedule in my calendar, in bright red ink.
Tell her not to be late, the woman says, and she laughs a little — a nervous, knowing kind of laughter. You know how Aiden is.
I promise to deliver the message, then thank the woman and hang up.
I return to the bedroom, crawl under the sheets behind Alyssa’s warm, nude back, and sleep until morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ALYSSA
MY EYES OPEN.
IT’S MORNING. Cole has blackout shades, but he hasn’t entirely pulled them. There are semi-sheer blinds behind the shades, and they’re mostly enough to block our exploits from the world. They dull the otherwise harsh morning light, but it’s still intense, slicing through the sheer fabric like blades.
I roll over, seeing that the room is just as I remember Cole leaving it. He’s usually fastidious. I’d have expected all the loose ends to be put away, all the drapes carefully closed, all our toys washed off and boxed up. But instead, Cole has moved our goodies to the nightstand. He seems to have gathered our discarded clothes. It’s a clean room, but it’s not its usual, anal-retentive Cole brand of clean. It looks gently used. You might actually believe real people live here. Real people who live real lives, and who aren’t perfect.
I wonder what Cole’s life would be like with a baby. Could he handle something so disorderly? The thought almost makes me laugh, but then it’s joined by a confusing emotion. I’ve thought a lot about Cole in the last few days, but I’ve never thought something quite so random as a child.
Maybe it’s not the room in disarray. Maybe it’s the real man behind the perfect billionaire.
Or maybe it’s the morning quiet. My building isn’t downtown and my apartment faces the other way, so the sun’s angle offers no clue to the hour. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter. It’s not my responsibility to know the time. It’s not my responsibility to keep track of when I should wake up or where I should go next.
The simple realizations — all centered on time not quite mattering — evoke memories so deeply buried inside me, I almost didn’t know they were there. Because I’ve always been on a slave’s schedule of my own design. The last time I woke on a weekday and honestly didn’t know, care, or know I should care about the clock must have been before I turned thirteen. The casual pleasure of not caring about the time is youthful and innocent.
Only children are so carefree. Only children, with no real responsibilities of their own, are allowed to rise with the sun, always trusting that those who care for them will tell them what needs doing when — and that until that happens, they merely need to enjoy.
To be.
I’d forgotten the simple pleasure of just being. Cole’s control has given it back, like a gift I was desperate to get.
I turn and look at him. He’s asleep, eyes closed. In sleep, he’s just another man. He’s not a titan of industry, and doesn’t have his life in order. In sleep he’s not extreme or bold or the edge-walker he claims to be. He has nothing to prove, no past hurts to subvert.
I run my hand along his cheek, feeling the rasp of his whiskers. His blue eyes open and fix on me. He doesn’t smile. Nothing moves. We watch each other for a while, and I feel something brew like cool fire between us. It’s not sexual. Not even close. This is something else — something ephemeral, as if of spirit. I won’t speak first. I can’t stand to break it.
“Good morning,” he says.
I want to ask what time it is, ask if I need to rouse myself and get going. But I won’t.
Not if it will shatter the pleasant spell.
“I thought maybe I’d make you breakfast.”
I close my eyes and purr with delight. “That sounds heavenly.”
“Crepes, maybe.”
And so I say, accenting my voice with a tinge of French: “Ooh la la.”
Cole touches me, then sits up so he’s on the edge of the bed. I take in the broad expanse of his muscular back. The tone of his bare ass. It doesn’t arouse me this morning.
Something else has me aroused, in a different way.
He’s making me breakfast.
The last time he did that, it seemed to open a door. It’s not like he made breakfast, then panicked and ran. But days later he identified it as a door he ought not have opened. So what does it mean, today, that he’s doing it again?
Cole slides on a pair of sleep short
s and leaves the bedroom, glancing back at me with a smile. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something new about the way he looks at me. It’s not lust, his usual cocky superiority, or a look of dominance or command.
It almost seems … sweet.
But then he’s gone. I hear him amble off down the hallway, toward his kitchen prep.
I lay beneath the soft sheets for a while longer, enjoying being off duty and the way I know I won’t have to think again until after breakfast. I need these little holidays. I once read that the sexiest thing a man can say to a woman is, “Don’t worry, baby — I got this.” And for me at least, it’s true.
I walk into the bathroom, then to the walk-in right off it. If Cole’s making crepes, I feel the need to echo the mood by wearing something vaguely Parisian. I’m sure I saw a silk robe in here somewhere.
But a noise distracts me. A buzzing, as if from a phone.
I follow the noise and discover that’s exactly what it is: my phone, vibrating from Cole’s hiding place.
I shouldn’t look — now isn’t work time — but the ring is like a baby’s cry. I can’t ignore it. So I move some stuff and see my purse, my tablet, and my phone on top. The screen is lit, and the Caller ID says ONYX SCOTT.
Fuck. I really shouldn’t answer that.
But I do.
I don’t even have a chance to say hello before Onyx starts talking. “Where the hell were you this morning?”
He explains. And I understand what’s happened.
My fists clench.
Not because I’ve failed Onyx, nor because I’ve missed a very important meeting.
But because someone I trusted betrayed me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALYSSA
I GRAB THE FIRST ROBE I can find, then enter the kitchen to find Cole adjusting the blue flame below a bright silver pan. He’s doing it meticulously, as if that little ring of fire is the winter’s only heat. He even has a tiny smile. But everything about the scene infuriates me — enough that I’m sure, beneath the level of logic, that he’s doing it specifically to bother me.
Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer Page 13
