by Penny Wylder
2
Chris
“What do you mean there is no reservation?” I ask the woman at the front desk, desperately trying to keep my cool. “This reservation should have been made a week ago along with mine.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Flintlock,” she says. “There were two reservations here. But when you weren’t accompanied by any colleagues you were upgraded to a suite and the other room was dropped.”
The anger feels like ice in my veins. “Why on earth would someone on your staff do that?”
“I don’t know,” the woman winces. She knows they made a mistake.
“Can we please get an extra room now? We’re short on time.”
The look on her face is painful now. “That’s the thing. We don’t have any.”
“What do you mean you don’t have any?”
“There’s a conference at the hotel, and we’re entirely booked up.”
The anger spreads to my gut, churning. I hate it when things don’t go according to plan, and there have already been too many things toady that haven’t gone according to plan. “A conference?”
“Yes sir.” She taps a sign that’s on the front desk. “We’re hosting the annual ADA conference for dental hygienists here in the hotel. Every room we have is booked for the next three days.”
I glance at the sign. It features a dancing tooth, saying ‘The American Dental Association welcomes you!’ I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. Of course I’m getting screwed—or should I say drilled—by a bunch of dental hygienists. She’s going to have to stay in my suite. This is the last thing I need right now.
“Fine,” I say to her, barely managing to keep the word civil. I turn away from her before she can tell me she’s sorry. Scarlett is waiting for me a few feet away, watching calmly. I can’t read what she’s feeling, her face is relaxed hearing the news. Coffee is sprinkled on her shirt and I have a hard time keeping my eyes away—especially now that I’ve seen a peek of what lies beneath. “There was a mistake with the reservation,” I say. “There aren’t any rooms.”
She tries to cover it up, but I see the momentary panic that comes into her face. That look on her face unsettles me, and I hurry to assure her. “I have a suite. It has an extra bedroom. You can stay there.”
Her body visibly relaxes, and the fact that she’s not worried makes me feel better than it should. I shouldn’t care at all. She’s a mess, and she should be back on a plane to Seattle right now. Instead she’s going to be sleeping just a few feet away from me. This is so not what I need.
“Thanks,” she says, as I start walking towards the elevators.
“No problem.”
When I saw her walk in through the door of that conference room, I wasn’t sure what to think. I knew that I hadn’t expected someone like her to walk through the door. I got a picture of blonde curls and curves that would drive any man crazy. My dick jumped straight to attention, and it shocked the hell out of me. Then she fell, and something in my gut pulled, and I had to make sure she was okay. I found myself drawn to her, making her comfortable, making sure nothing hurt. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt that kind of immediate attraction to someone. And since I’m not at home, I figured it wouldn’t be a problem.
But I don’t ever mix business with pleasure. Business is business. It needs to run like clockwork, no mistakes, no hesitation. When you mix in personal relationships with your business, things get complicated. Messy. Sloppy. Like I already said once today, I hate sloppy.
I don’t have any doubt that I can control myself, but I’m still hesitant about having her here. The Pleasure Chest deal is important. We need the kind of partnership they can provide—enough capital to help us with expanding our operation, and getting in on a brand that itself is ripe for expansion. Nothing can go wrong with this, and I can’t have someone falling into the room on these meetings. And I certainly can’t be worried about being distracted by her.
The elevator opens on the sixteenth floor, and I listen to the sound of her small suitcase rolling on the carpet. I open the door to my room—our room— and let her inside. It’s a suite, but not a big one. A tiny kitchen flows into a small sitting area that’s next to my bed. Through an archway is the second bedroom—her room, and there’s one bathroom. As she passes by me, I get a hint of perfume, something warm and sugary. The scent draws my eyes to her, and I watch as she takes in the room, watch the way her ass fills out the skirt.
I feel my blood start to flow downward and I quickly lock those thoughts down. Whatever plans my dick has for while she’s here need to stay far, far away. She’s a co-worker. That’s beyond unprofessional. No one said that would be easy, though.
I clear my throat, crossing the room and picking up one of the extra room keys the front desk gave me. “Here. Room key.” I point through the archway. “The extra room is in there.”
“Thanks.”
I can’t help watching her walk, the way her hips move. What on earth is wrong with me? She’s gorgeous, for sure, but I don’t need to be watching her every move. And despite what she says, I don’t think I’m going to change my mind about her ability to do her job. I need to get some stress out, and I can’t do that in this room. I grab my small gym bag from my suitcase and lean my head into her room, where she’s opening her suitcase. “I’m going to the gym,” I say. “Our meeting tomorrow is at nine. Please be ready by eight.”
She nods. “Sounds good.”
I force myself not to look back as I leave. The gym in this hotel is very good. It’s one of the reasons I make Ellison put me up here whenever I come to New York. I suppose things could be worse right now. The hotel could have a conference full of body builders that would crowd the gym to capacity. As it is, it’s practically empty. I guess dental hygienists are less interested. I change my clothes and hop onto a treadmill, pushing my speed until I’m going my limit. I pour all of my frustration from the day into the pounding of my feet. The lukewarm meeting at Colson Foods, the incompetent hotel staff, Ellison sending me inadequate help, and my own traitorous body. I make every one of them pay in the miles I sprint out.
There’s no better cure for frustration than pure and unadulterated exhaustion, and I make sure I achieve that. By the time I’m finished, I’m covered in sweat, my clothes soaked through. I’m panting for breath, having pushed myself far beyond my normal boundaries. I can feel a twinge in my back and thighs, and I know that I probably overdid it, but right now, I don’t care. I feel better than I have all day. Except for one thing—Scarlett.
Every time I think about her my body jumps into action like a damn teenager. Go figure: the one time I feel this level of attraction it’s to a woman I absolutely cannot fuck. I slip into the room, and I don’t hear any sound. Looking at the clock on the microwave, it’s later than I thought. I was at the gym for a little over two hours. On the way to the bathroom, I glance into Scarlett’s room even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s entirely dark, and all I see is a lump of blankets.
I shut myself into the bathroom, my dick rising to attention as my brain wonders what she’s wearing under those blankets. Is it as delicious as the black lace bra she had on today? Turning on the shower, I stop trying to fight the hard-on that’s been trying to show itself since she stepped into that room. I let it come, let my mind go where it wants to. I imagine that she’s not a coworker. That I helped her up from her fall and asked her out, that I took her to dinner and brought her back to this room where I peeled her out of her clothes one piece at a time.
I take myself in my hand as the scene plays out in my mind, that sexy as fuck black bra the only piece of clothing left on her as I worship her body. I would have made her body sing with my tongue and my fingers, making her moan loud enough for those prudish dental hygienists to here. And by the time I’d finished with her, she’d be begging me to fuck her. And fuck her I would.
My hand moves faster on my cock as I imagine slipping into her sweet heat, plunging all the way in and not stopping. Fucki
ng her until the bed is rattling and we’re both blind and speechless with pleasure. I grit my teeth, containing my groan as I come, spilling myself down the drain of the shower. The relief of pleasure shudders through me, and I lean against the wall of the shower, letting it take me. The feeling fades, the warmth of the water reminding me that I’m wasting water. But I feel so much better. More settled. Orgasms and exercise will cure just about any problem you have.
But I don’t have a problem. This isn’t a problem. I just took care of it. Now, tomorrow will be easy. If she doesn’t trip over herself again, we’ll be on our way back to Seattle in no time.
3
Scarlett
Well, now I know how he has time to go to the gym. Last night he was gone for way longer than I thought he would be. I know that he thought I was asleep when he came back to the room, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of it.
Plus, going to bed allowed me to finish that fantasy that started in the conference room. Yeah, he’s a bastard, but he’s still a hot bastard and I have no doubt that he knows his way around the bedroom. I almost had to go again when he came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. I could stare at his body for days, exploring every beautiful inch. But clearly my fantasies are just that. Fantasies. He doesn’t want me here.
And even if he did want me like that, we couldn’t. Office romances are hard enough as it is. Getting involved with someone as important and visible as Chris? Yeah, that would be bad news for me. Probably worse than if he just got me fired.
He’s still sleeping as I creep to the bathroom for my shower—and I know he actually is sleeping. His breathing is too deep for him to be awake. I can see the smooth planes of his back in the semi-darkness, rising and falling. My glimpse last night and my glimpse right now are probably the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him naked. That’s fine. But I take an extra minute to memorize this image so I can bring it back with clarity.
My shower is quick and by the time I slip back into my room, I hear him stirring. There are the sounds of coffee and the rustling of clothing. I washed my coffee shirt and bra yesterday, draping them over the heater to dry. Luckily it looks like I was able to get most of the evidence out, and luckier for me I packed multiple backup outfits. Today’s bra is one of my favorites—maroon and silky, it’s comfortable and sexy. Even though I know no one will see it, I still love the way it feels to wear it.
I slip on a pencil skirt and my shoes, and then head to the mirror for make-up. My shirt today is a sleeveless button-down. It’s a navy blue that complements my skin, with a collar and neckline that make it cute rather than boring office wear. But because of the dark color, I really don’t want make-up on it. I don’t want Chris to accuse me of being sloppy again if there’s powder stains on my blouse.
I have my make-up routine down pat, and it doesn’t take me long. I’m putting on my finishing touches when I hear Chris’s voice. “Scarlett, would you like some coffee? It’s almost done—”
His voice cuts off, and I suddenly realize why. Chris has stepped through the archway into my room, and is now staring at me. I have no shirt on, just my maroon bra. His face goes red, and he opens his mouth only to shut it again. His eyes rake over me, and I can feel the heat in them. It stirs the heat in my own body, and I feel a warming between my legs. I know I should be embarrassed by this, but the way he’s looking at me right now—a mix of lust, hunger, and embarrassment—I’m not.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, suddenly turning.
I try to keep my voice calm, though my body is suddenly shaking with the shock of adrenaline. “I’m almost ready,” I say. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”
“Coffee?” he asks, his back still turned to me.
“Yeah that would be great.”
I pick up my shirt from where I’ve laid it over the back of a chair, and tug it on, smoothing the buttons together. Well, I guess I was wrong about nobody seeing my bra today. I can’t help but give myself a little smirk in the mirror. Even if nothing happens, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that my body does to him what his does to me. There’s a great satisfaction in that.
I gather my things: coat, bag, folders, and there’s a cup of coffee waiting for me on the counter when I step out of the room. Chris still seems flustered, which both unnerves me and makes me smile, because in all the time that Christopher Flintlock has worked for Ellison Media, I’ve never seen him get flustered. Not once.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I should have knocked—announced myself. I shouldn’t have barged it.” His face is red and he’s fidgety.
I take a sip of my coffee, pretty good for hotel coffee. “It’s fine,” I say, giving him a smile and a shrug. “Things happen, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Ready to go?”
I nod, putting on my coat. I give one more glance around the hotel room to make sure there isn’t anything else I need to take to the meeting, and I pick up a folder I forgot on the counter. That should be it. “Lead the way,” I say, and follow him out the door.
The New York offices of The Pleasure Chest aren’t downtown. Instead, the cab carries us north and east to a neighborhood that’s more residential than business. This is the kind of area everyone thinks of when they think of New York. Beautiful architecture that probably costs more than a fortune, quiet bakeries and coffee shops, and beautiful women walking small dogs in outfits straight off of Project Runway. The building we stop at is clearly older, and though it’s a residential building, there’s a corporate directory in the lobby. The elevator brings Chris and me to the sixth floor, where several doors branch off from a main hallway. We find the one that says ‘The Pleasure Chest’ in its distinct font, and ring the bell.
We’re greeted by a man in a suit who smiles warmly at us. “Flintlock!” he says. “Great to see you. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Chris says, and ushers me inside.
As soon as we’re inside and the door is closed, the man turns to me. “I’m Jason Childs, marketing director for The Pleasure Chest. And you are?”
“This is my associate, Scarlett Brown,” Chris cuts in. “She flew in to help me with the meetings.”
Jason gives me an amused look. “Scarlett Brown?”
“I’ve heard it all before,” I say, “and believe me, it had nothing to do with colors.”
“Oh?” Jason says, and I feel Chris looking at me as well.
“My mother is a huge Gone with the Wind fan. She had the name picked out long before she met my father, and she wasn’t going to let a little thing like a last name get in the way.”
Jason nods. “So you became color girl.”
“It seems that way,” I say, doing my best not to roll my eyes. This always happens when people meet me.
“Well,” he says, “the others are through here.”
He leads us through the posh apartment that has been converted to a lovely office space, but still somehow retains the charm of the original building with great details and moldings. The room Jason leads us into is bright and warm, with a nice view of the street. It’s started snowing softly outside, and I inwardly groan for my high heels when we have to leave. Thank god we’re taking cabs everywhere.
There’s another man and a woman in the room, though Jason introduced them when I was noticing the snow and even though I’m shaking their hands I have no idea what their names are. This is what Chris doesn’t want. I need to pay better attention, not get sidetracked by snow. “So, how is everyone today?” Chris asks.
There are responses of assent all around. “If it’s all right with you, I thought today’s meeting would be more business oriented, market share and what you guys are looking for in terms of input versus output. Then during tomorrow’s meeting, we’ll go over the preliminary ideas that we have for your campaign. I hope that by tomorrow Ellison Media is the only company whose offer you’ll want to accept.”
Jason gives us a smile. “Well, I for one am hoping that I love wh
at I see. Shall we get started?”
“Absolutely,” Chris says, “I’ve drawn up a budget for a year long campaign, focusing on all the major US cities, aiming for a five to ten percent increase in total revenue by the end of the year.” He opens up his briefcase, and I see the flare of panic in his eyes when he doesn’t see what he’s looking for.
Suddenly remembering I picked an extra folder off the counter thinking it was mine, I pull it open, and see the graphs and charts of a budget. I pull the folder from my stack and hand it to Chris. He glances at me, and I see the barest hint of relief before he gives me a professional smile as he takes a notebook and pen from his briefcase and closes it. He takes the folder from me. “Thank you, Scarlett.”
He opens the folder and gives me the extra copies, which I walk to the other side of the table and give to Jason and the others. Then Chris is off talking about the budget, and I’m along for the ride.
4
Scarlett
Two hours later, the meeting is wrapping up, and it’s not going well. Everything Chris has said is solid, but The Pleasure Chest team doesn’t seem to be responding to it. They’ve been very stoic, asking the bare minimum of questions, and even Jason—who seemed jovial and outgoing, has seemed almost bored while Chris has outlined his plan of attack for media saturation across the company. I think it a really good plan. Sure, it’s not the most interesting topic, but we’ll get to the fun stuff tomorrow. I’m not sure what’s making them so hesitant and hostile. I hope this reaction doesn’t mean we have no chance to land their business.
I’ve tried to assist Chris as best I can, supplying him with extra numbers from the material Maureen sent with me, taking notes about the questions and concerns, and always giving him a positive face when he hasn’t had any from across the table. Chris draws my attention back to him. “I think that’s all I have for today. Tomorrow we’ll have art samples for you, and you’ll get a better taste of the fun style we’re going for with this campaign.”
