by Cole, S. Ann
“What do you think, Miss Kingston?” Trevillo sought my opinion.
My head jerked back at that. He was asking for my take? “You-you’re asking me to choose?”
“Yes,” he stressed. “So? Which is it? I don’t have all day here.”
Aghast, I glanced between him and Milo, but Milo merely winked at me, got up, and left the office, leaving me as the subject of a heated, penetrating gaze. When I remained seated without answering, Trevillo leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the desk as he tilted his head to the side. “I’m waiting, Miss Kingston … ”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to make that decision, Mr. Nelson. Why not run it by — ”
“My company is my company. If I say I want you to choose, then you’re going to choose. So stop acting like you’re wearing a training bra and just make the damn pick, girl.”
Jesus. I couldn’t understand this man. One minute, he was looking at me like he wanted to devour me, and the next minute, he sounded like he was annoyed with me and couldn’t wait to get me out of his presence. Without looking at the laptop, I pointed, because I honestly didn’t give a heck about his building. I was doing what he asked for a paycheck. “That one.”
The corners of his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Did you just randomly pick something?”
I shrugged. Screw him.
Now he gave me a full smile, and damn my goddamn breath for hitching. “There’s a monster behind that tiny little frame of yours, isn’t there?”
“No. Just emptiness.” He had no idea of the sheer veracity of that answer.
His eyes dropped down to my neck, then back up to my lips. Lifting a hand, he reached out as if to touch them, and I held my breath in anticipation, but then he pulled back. “Is that the natural color of your lips, or are you wearing lipstick?”
Where the hell did that come from? Yet, though his gaze was trained on my lips, I couldn’t tear mine away from him. “Natural.”
“Christ.” This was said barely above a whisper. His gaze found mine again, and I stopped breathing altogether. “And, your eyes. Is there a specific name for that rare blue?”
“Just blue, I guess.”
By this time, my chest was visibly heaving up and down, and my legs were tightly crossed trying to ease the ache between my thighs, because I wanted so badly for this man to touch me. I wanted to feel his mouth on me, and I wanted to run my fingers through that indecisive hair of his.
Shit. This was a mess.
He must’ve noticed, because he tore his eyes from me, cleared his throat, and looked at the laptop screen. “Let me help make the decision a little easier. Hastier. Which did you work the hardest on?”
The one that took the most time and effort was the one where I designed most of the furniture. The apartments would have custom-made furniture, nothing beats that, but it would take time. “Option number two was the hardest, but I had the most fun working on it. However, I wouldn’t suggest that option if you’re running behind, because getting the right materials delivered and waiting for those unique pieces of furniture to be made will take time, which I’m sure you already know.”
Eyeing me shrewdly, he raised a brow. “What makes you think I’m running behind?”
“Because that’s the only reason you’d randomly pick me to work on a project Sarah James usually handles.”
“Then why would I be running behind if I had Sarah James to work on it?”
Good question. Where was Sarah James? Why wasn’t she the one contracted?
Answering my unasked question, he offered, “The project was Sarah James’. So your observations are correct. Because I’ve dropped her at the last minute, we’re behind time, and you were randomly picked. No, let me rephrase, you were luckily picked.”
“I’m not Sarah James.”
“No. You’re better. So much better. I don’t understand why you shy away from residential work,” he said, shaking his head at me. Tapping the laptop, he added, “Option number two it is. Yes, I understand the complexity of it will be time-consuming, but that’s what makes it so damn brilliant. The fresh, uniqueness of it will be worth the wait. So, go ahead and start. Any materials taking longer than tolerable to be shipped or delivered, let me know so I can call in. With this project, you get the privilege to select your own team of workers from the construction department. You also have the right to drop anyone who’s not working effectively at your required speed.”
Opening a drawer on his desk, he took out a new thumb-drive still in its case and handed it to me. “Budget, numbers, all info here. Spreadsheet, please. And no print-outs; I hate papers. Keep me abreast of things, all obstacles, all delays. You know the drill.”
“Okay,” I nodded.
As I closed down my laptop and started to get up, I could feel his eyes burning me, but I was determined not to look at him, knowing an idiotic move like that would only rob my breath.
He also stood up and rounded his desk. That’s when I took note of his height.
Son of Mary, I was overwhelmed in a cloud of testosterone. Around six feet three inches of raw masculinity. He wore his charcoal suit, not the other way around. Like the last time I’d been here, he didn’t wear a necktie, so I’m guessing he didn’t care for them. With his indecisive hair and missing neckwear, he should have looked incomplete and unruly. Instead, he managed to portray an uncontrived, sexily rumpled vibe that was absolutely delicious.
Planted to the red-carpeted floor in the middle of his unnecessarily large, modernly designed office, I stared lustfully as the imposing body of hot maleness walked with quiet strides over to the kitchenette to pull a bottle of water from his fridge. He opened the bottle and took a few gulps. Without turning around, as if he knew I was watching him, he asked, “Is something wrong, Miss Kingston? That’s it for our meeting, you’re free to go.”
Even after hearing that, I still remained immobile as I watched the broad-shouldered man with raw, carnal desire. Why was I so affected by his overpowering build? When he didn’t hear an answer from me, he turned and raised a brow.
Words were still out of my reach.
He put the half-empty bottle of water back into the fridge, then started towards me in long, powerful strides. As he stopped in front of me, I tipped my head back to accommodate his height. “Again I ask, Miss Kingston, is there something wrong? Why are you so flushed?”
Taking a breath, I attempted at speaking and barely breathed out, “You’re … so tall.”
One side of his kissable mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “You’re flushed because I’m tall?”
When he didn’t receive a response from me, he pointed out, “You’re the one who’s short.”
“I … ”
What the hell was I trying to say? Why the hell was I paralyzed? What the hell did he do to me? And why the hell was my heart drumming so erratically?
His hand came up to tenderly brush his fingertips up my neck, and I swear, I felt it to my bones. “Short, sweet, and delicate … ” his fingers traveled up over my chin and brushed across my lips, “exotic … unreal … ”
Breath caught in my throat at his touch, my eyelids shuttered down. As his thumb passed over my cheek, my body involuntarily arched into him.
“You’re like … an angel’s feather, gently floating on the wind. That’s how delicate you are, Miss Kingston.”
Doomed. He knew how to undo a woman with mere words. Just a few simple touches followed with poetic words, and I was done. I sucked in a short breath, and a soft moan escaped from me.
One big masculine hand cupped the back of my neck as his towering body leaned protectively over me. His hot breath assaulted my ear as his enticing lips came closer, whispering, “That’s just it, Miss Kingston. You’re too delicate for a man like me.”
“I’m not — ”
He cut me off. “You’re ineligible to ever know what my cock would feel like inside you. You’re too young, too fragile. I’d break you.”
At that, my eyes poppe
d open, and I found his blue gaze boring into mine.
I wasn’t seeking a relationship with the guy. I just wanted to get laid by him. I was too young for him? Young? He was no older than thirty-two, I was positive of that. So how was I too young?
I’d never been refused by anyone before. This was new. It was also embarrassing. Unwilling to stick around for more rejection, I took a step back, turned on my heels, and left his office.
As I hurried past Milo’s desk toward the elevator, he shot up to walk me there. “You okay, Krissy K? You look a bit … flustered.”
“I’m fine, boo,” I answered without looking at him.
“No, you’re not,” he said through a throaty laugh. “You’re wearing the same look he was wearing the other day when you left his office.”
That made me look up at him. He’d been affected by me? Nice to know. “Okay. I want him. Dear God, I want him. But he’s … confusing.”
Milo sighed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “You’re ma’ girl, so I’ll just give you the heads up: that hot mamafucka in there, he doesn’t do young chicks. He avoids them like I avoid cunts.”
“So, he’s a literal motherfucker, then?”
“Exactly. Which means, your chances of landing that most-wanted rich dick are, well, nil. Even though it’s obvious you have a major effect on him.” He pursed his lips and dipped his chin, looking at me under his lashes. “Why do you think I bolted outta there earlier? It was way too hawwwt in there for me, honey! He couldn’t take those sexy bedroom eyes off you.”
As the elevator doors opened, I said, “It’s not like I was asking for marriage or anything. Just wanted to get laid, you know. Preferably on that big, oak desk of his.”
Over-actor that he was, Milo tossed his head back and gave a high-pitched laugh, then pushed me into the elevator. “Don’t we all?”
Chapter 4
T. Nelson
Choosing Her
“About goddamn time, Trev!”
Trevillo knocked his fist against Zane’s as he entered the V.I.P. room of their private club, Red Veil. He should’ve been there two hours ago, but instead he was stuck in a scriptural lecture from his father who scolded him about his most recent misdemeanors.
Another one of his flings’ balls-less husbands went to complain to his father — because apparently Marcello Nelson could fix everything? — and, as usual, his father thought it necessary to give him some drawn out lecture about it. Of which he’d obediently sat throughout, nodding, “Yes, Father” and “I understand, Father.”
He was skidding past thirty-two years of sinning, and his father could still humble him like a lad. Marcello Nelson was one of those men where showing disrespect wasn’t an option. He was a powerful man of high standing, sheer intimidation, and forceful influence. When Marcello spoke, inferiors, (like himself and most of the human race), had to sit and listen without a word of rebuttal. So although he was itching to be at Red Veil, having a woman’s sharp, long nails digging into his flesh, he had to postpone his carnal activities …
“Don’t you want a wife of your own, son? Don’t you want someone who belongs to you and only you? Why do you continue to go after what’s already taken? What’s not yours?”
“I don’t know, Father.”
“You have everything. Everything a man could ever possibly dream of! Do you think a woman, any woman, would even hesitate to submit to you and only you?”
“I don’t care to know, Father.”
Marcello shook his head on a deep, heavy sigh, and Trevillo knew he was about to start quoting. He always did that when he felt he wasn’t getting through to his children. Perhaps he thought verses would scare them straight? Definitely not Trevillo. He’d roll a big, fat weed joint with those Bible pages if it came to it.
“A prostitute will bring you to poverty, yes,” Marcello began quoting, and Trevillo stifled his scoff. “But sleeping with another man’s wife will cost you your life. Can a man scoop a flame into his lap and not have his clothes catch on fire? Can he walk on hot coals and not blister his feet? So it is with the man who sleeps with another man’s wife. He who embraces her will not go unpunished … ”
Glad that lecture to Pointlessville is over, Trevillo thought to himself as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the back of an armchair before lowering himself into the red suede couch across from Zane.
“The fuck you been?” Zane asked, a half-naked busty, brunette grinding her ass on his lap.
“Father Reproach,” Trevillo spared.
From the ice-bucket on the table in front of him, he shoveled some ice into a highball glass and poured himself a Patrón Platinum. Taking a sip, he nodded in appreciation at the off-dry taste on his tongue then leaned back and looked across at Zane who’d dropped his head back, loudly groaning as the brunette wrapped her long-nailed fingers around his throat and squeezed, cutting off his air while she gyrated against him.
Without his brother’s or his sister-in-law’s knowledge, Zane Zekiel and Trevillo had been friends for about six years. They’d met at a club similar to this one in New York and quickly learned they were both members of the same clubs around the world. Their tastes were similar, but Zane was more extreme with his need for pain; whereas, Trevillo leaned toward small stings of pain.
Even though Trevillo enjoyed having pain inflicted upon him, he still dominated in the bedroom, relinquishing power only when he wanted to. But Zane craved extreme, bloody pain and preferred to be dominated.
Together they built their own exclusive club, Red Veil, open to discreet, elite members only. Moguls and magnates with statuses and reps to protect, but wanted to live out their fantasies without judgment.
Red Veil was a three story building, and the top floors were where all illicit and circumspect acts happened. The walls where members hung out were covered in deep red, creating a dark, hidden atmosphere. Every few seconds, flashes of neon-blue, yellow, and red rotated – encouraging impulsive behavior.
The entire bottom floor was luxury apartments used by the club girls. They gave their girls shelter, cars, allowances, and whatever else they wanted; the only requirement was to make themselves available whenever they were needed. For pleasure, or for pain.
The door to the V.I.P box opened, and his other two buddies, Nardo and Mark, strolled in with two giggling nude girls in tow, glistening with sweat, skin red with welts. Nardo and Mark both bumped fists with him as they passed by and took seats at the other end of the room. The V.I.P box was wide and spacious, suspended in the air, surrounded by one-way glass granting a view of the entire club.
Zane popped his head around the girl straddling him and arched up a brow. “You gonna be sitting there all fucking night, or you gonna grab a bitch and have some fun?”
Trevillo ignored him and took a long sip of his Patrón. Truth was, he wasn’t sure what the hell he needed at the moment. His head was, all of a sudden, in a rather conflicted space.
Ever since he’d laid sight on that petite, short-haired blond a few weeks ago, he’d been fucked. Every suck-off he’d ever gotten after that, he found himself imagining it was her plump, red lips wrapped around him. Every orgasm he’d had after that, he found himself imagining it was her he was buried deep inside of. He couldn’t fathom what the hell was happening.
She was all kinds of incompatible for him: she was young, she was tiny, delicate. Too delicate. He’d ruin her.
Though, something about the way she looked at him told him she was delicate to the eye only. He sensed there was a monster crouching behind that small frame of hers. And he found himself wanting to strip her bare, tear her open, and murder that monster for her. So she could float freely on the wind like the delicate angel’s feather she was.
He wanted her.
Badly.
But he was afraid to take her. He would only destroy her: set the tip of that soft feather on fire and watch it burn to ashes. He would burn the feather of an angel and piss God the hell off. And that’s when he’d re
ally be deserving of the name Hellion. That’s when his inevitable journey to hell would take off full fucking speed.
Sipping at his drink, he got up from the couch and strode around the room, scanning the girls out in the club through the one-way glass. He was searching for someone around five feet two inches in height. He was searching for someone dainty, with a super-slim waist, full breasts and a shapely ass. He was searching for someone with plump, cherry-red lips, a slim, long neck, and red-painted fingernails.
Fuck, he was searching for her.
After about ten minutes of scanning the club of girls from left to right, without so much as a jerk-reaction from his cock, he concluded the angel feather’s allure was inimitable. Dozens of the most enticing women were sauntering around his club, yet he couldn’t find one he thought could match her. She was unique, like all angels. She couldn’t be replicated.
At that moment, he decided the angel’s feather would soon be his feather: the fiery red feather of a demon’s wing.
With one last swallow, he knocked back what was left in his glass and walked back across the room. Slamming the glass down on the table with more force than needed, he ignored the grunts and groans coming from the other end of the room where Mark, Nardo, and the two women they’d entered with, were engaged in a mini orgy: one girl getting drilled from the back by Nardo, as she licked the other girl, who was giving Mark a blow-job.
Retrieving his jacket from the armchair, he shrugged it on and announced, “I’m out.”
“The hell?” Zane said. “Dude, you just got here!”
“Yeah,” he replied, wrenching the door open. “Not in the mood tonight. Lates.” He was out the door before any of them could say anything to stop him.
Trevillo wove through the club, peeling off each girl who tried attaching themselves to him like a magnet, grabbing his crotch, and begging to be the one to make his night one of pain or pleasure. Once he finally managed to get into the elevator, he pulled out his cellphone and pressed the number assigned to his favorite girl.
“Hola, Devil Boy,” she answered. “Como estas?”
