Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  “Of course not,” I blurt. Because what am I going to do? Admit right here at the lunch table that I’m still sore from her husband’s cock inside me last night?

  God, what am I doing? I swore I would never be that woman, the type to break up someone else’s marriage. Granted, theirs may already have ended, but it’s clear Sheryl still holds fond feelings for Lark. She looks so wistful talking about their past… and so sad talking about the way it ended.

  I lean forward, palms flat on the table. “There’s nothing between me and him, Sheryl,” I say, looking her dead in the eyes. “I promise you.”

  And in that moment, I mean every word. Because I decide right then and there, I’m not pursuing him any further.

  7

  Cassidy

  It turns out having a real investor with actual cashflow makes things move forward with exponential speed in the business world. Next thing I know, within days, we’ve already got a couple of media interviews on the docket, plus a featured ad in two major fashion magazines.

  I don’t know how Lark and Sheryl did it. Lark assures me—through texts, since I’ve put off seeing him face-to-face again, claiming to be busy, because I haven’t worked out yet how exactly to explain my sudden change of conscience—that it was all Sheryl’s doing. But I’m not entirely sure I believe him, based on how infrequently Sheryl replies to my emails to check in on various details.

  Either way, regardless of who I have to thank for it, Thursday morning dawns with me dressing for a photoshoot with a famous photographer, representing one of the top beauty magazines in the country. On set, I’ll be responsible for providing all the professional makeup artists with the supplies—my supplies, my makeup, on the faces of models I’ve seen featured in all the magazines I grew up dreaming of being featured in. But it’s not lost on me that I’ll be on display too. There’s even going to be a small headshot of me, taken for the back details of the magazine, where I’ll be featured in a New Creators to Watch section.

  I realize they’ll probably redo everything I do the minute I get to set, but I spend hours getting ready anyway, primping and styling myself to perfection before I finally set out.

  Lark meets me in the parking lot of the studio, also dressed to the nines. The sight of him in a formal suit and tie takes my breath away the second I step out of my car. It takes all my self-control not to stride across the lot and fling myself into his arms right here.

  Instead, I dive into my trunk to avoid him, then reemerge with my arms full of bags. Bags of all the makeup I put together for this event.

  Lark holds out a hand, offering to take one, but I shy away from him. “I can handle carrying a few palettes,” I inform him, chin raised.

  “Never said you couldn’t.” He tucks his hands into his suit pockets and falls into step beside me. “So. Busy week, hmm? You haven’t had a minute to spare for me.”

  “And why should I?” I reply, my tone light, my face turned slightly away so that I don’t have to watch his expression when those words register. “It’s not like we owe one another anything.”

  This time, I can’t help myself. I peek over, and my heart catches at the hurt expression on his face. “Cassidy…” But whatever he’s about to say is drowned out when the studio manager opens a door up ahead and catches sight of me.

  “You must be Ms. Marks!” He drifts down the stairs, dazzling in a pinstripe suit and eyeshadow I’d kill to have designed myself. “Marcel. It’s such a thrill to meet you—Lark has been gushing about your talent ever since our last dinner, and I knew I had to invite you to set.” He kisses both of my cheeks, then wraps Lark in a tight hug.

  Over his shoulder, Lark flashes me a pained smile.

  All Sheryl’s doing, my ass. Still, I keep my own smile painted on, as Marcel practically drags me into the studio, chatting excitedly the whole way about how much Lark gushed about my products and how excited he is to use them on set today.

  I’m starting to wonder if Lark has taken a special interest in my products just because of me, or if he’s always the one to run things in this company. I’m not sure which answer I’d prefer. I hope he’s not just pretending to love my products because he wants me to keep sleeping with him.

  But somehow I doubt that. I watched him go over my palette that first time, and there was genuine admiration on his face. Plus, Lark doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who lies about what he feels. Even if it would be more convenient to do that.

  For example, today. As Marcel leads me around set, introducing me to the different makeup artists and standing by as I explain my color ideas to them—each of the artists seems nicer than the last, and more encouraging of my work. But the whole time, every time I glance over, I find Lark watching me intently, his gaze laser focused.

  And any time we move to the next counter to talk to another artist, his hand brushes my thigh, my waist, the edge of my bicep. He’s constantly finding excuses to touch me lightly, teasing, the small smile on his face whenever he does, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing.

  Every time, I force myself to turn away. To stay focused. To continue with my pitches as though Lark isn’t standing just a foot or two away, those bright eyes of his boring into mine, the scent of his cologne mingled with his aftershave trailing after me like a memory I can’t shake. The memory of him spread-eagling me across my bed and bending down to kiss his way between my thighs, his tongue leaving a searing hot trail in its wake, until he reached home, lapping at my pussy like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

  Oh, God. I force the image from my head.

  By the time I finish handing out all my supplies and presenting to everyone on set, it’s time for the models to arrive. Finally, I get a bit of a breather, although—“You absolutely have to stay to watch!” Marcel gushes. “This is the most exciting part, getting to see your work used firsthand.” He drags a chair for me and another for Lark over to the edge of the stage, from which we have a view of all the different stations where models have been seated to have their makeup done, and in the other direction, the camera backdrop where they’ll be getting their photos taken.

  It means, too, that everyone in this studio has a perfect view of the two of us, as well.

  Which is why I tense up after, the moment we sit down, Lark slides a hand onto my knee. “You’re angry with me,” he says, his voice a low thrum. He leans close, just a bare inch from my shoulder, and I can barely think through the sudden pounding of my heart.

  My eyes jump around the room. Marcel is in the corner talking to a man he introduced us to earlier, the photographer, although I can’t remember his name. I’m so bad with names.

  “Cassidy.” Apparently heedless of the fact that we’re in public, right here in the middle of this studio, Lark reaches up to tuck a fingertip under my chin. That’s all it takes. He tilts my face toward his, his touch gentle as a makeup brush on a cheekbone. “What’s wrong?”

  This close, I can see those flecks throughout his whorled green eyes again. I watch his individual black lashes, the slight part in his lips. He’s looking at me with such sincerity, such open honesty, that I can hardly bear it. I flinch backward, away from him. “We’re in public,” I say, gesturing around.

  Lark doesn’t follow my gesture. His gaze remains focused straight on me. “So?”

  “So, don’t you care if people notice you flirting with your new investment opportunity?” I reply, unable to keep a note of bitterness from my voice.

  “I don’t care what they think. I care what you think. And clearly I’ve done something to upset you, based on how you’re acting today, although I cannot for the life of me figure out what.”

  I set my jaw hard, and tear my gaze from his to stare blindly across the floor. I should be enjoying this moment, watching the fruits of my labor come to fruition or what have you. Marcel would kick me if he knew I barely even processed the artists hard at work with my supplies all around the studio. But all I can think about is the man beside me.

/>   A man I owe an explanation, at the very least.

  I clear my throat after a pause. “The other day. After you sent the men to deliver my sofa…”

  “Is that it?” Lark’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “I’m sorry; I really thought getting rid of that old thing would be helpful—”

  “No, it’s not that.” I wave him quiet. Meet his gaze again. “Sheryl asked me to lunch. And talking to her, hearing her side of things, I just…” I shake my head. “I can’t do this, Lark. I won’t be the person who stands in the way of a second chance at happiness with your wife. Even if she is your ex.”

  For a moment, we only stare at one another, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. And then, to my surprise, red heat flushes through Lark’s face. “You’re joking, right.” He says it so flatly that it takes me a moment to register he’s actually waiting for a response.

  “It’s just… it seems complicated. I don’t know if you two are really finished—”

  “I told you that we are.” He slides off his chair and crosses to stand in front of mine, a hand on either arm, his face hovering an inch from mine. “I don’t give a fuck what Sheryl thinks I should do, or how I should be living my life. I’m the one who lived through our breakup. You have no idea what she was—” He breaks off, scowls. “How she…” He shakes his head. “It’s my decision now. I get to choose how I live my life, and what my future is going to be. I choose my own happy endings from now on.”

  The heat in his voice, and the passion in his face, both surprise me. Throw me. He seems angry, almost, but more than that. Desperate.

  He breaks away from me and spins around, one hand running through his hair in a tight fist. “God. That…” He clamps his lips shut tight, and a frustrated growl escapes. “You don’t know what happened, Cassidy,” he says now, back still to me. “And if I have it my way, you won’t. The past is the past, and I’ve buried it.”

  When he turns back around, all the fury has gone from his expression. There’s only the passion I’ve always seen on his face when he looks at me, the sheer desire. He moves closer once more, and I forget where we are. I forget we’re sitting in the middle of a crowded studio, with camera crews and models and stagehands all surrounding us. I look at Lark, and he’s all I can see. It’s tunnel vision.

  I have a feeling it’s the same for him.

  He tips forward until our mouths are a breath apart, until we’re sharing the same air. “I want you to be my future,” he says, softly. “The future I choose. The woman I choose. If you believe nothing else I said, believe that.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. My lips part, and his eyes drop for a split second.

  “Cassidy…”

  “Kiss me goddamn it, Lark,” I breathe.

  His lips collide with mine, and I sink into him. Slide my arms up to wrap around his neck as he draws me up and off my chair, pulling me to him.

  I don’t notice our audience until we break apart, breathless, and Marcel starts to clap, a sly little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

  “Now I see why you were so effusive about this one, my friend.” Marcel winks at Lark, who grins, one arm draped casually around my shoulder.

  I lean into him for support, my heart still racing, and try to drag myself back into work mode, back onto the set. All I can think about, though, is the man beside me. The fact that I can feel his heartbeat racing in tune with my own, everywhere our bodies touch.

  8

  Cassidy

  After a long day at set, all I want to do is go home and collapse into bed. But we barely make it five steps past the studio door before Lark pins me against the brick wall of the parking lot and kisses me again, searing, invigorating.

  “That was torture,” he murmurs, lips inches from mine. “Being so close to you all day, unable to touch you…”

  I drape my arms over his shoulders, and I kiss him slowly. Languorously. Taking my time, now that I know we have all the time in the world. “You can touch me now,” I breathe when we break apart, and fire flashes in his gaze.

  “Trust me, I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon.” A studio door opens nearby, and I glance over his shoulder. One of the models descends the staircase, still wearing my makeup on her eyes.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that. Or get used to having my own photo taken. I posed for that last, and I was so nervous, but Lark held my gaze the whole time, flashed me thumbs up and smiled whenever I hesitated or started to get shy.

  By the end, the photographer told me I was a natural. But I don’t think so. I think I just had the support I needed to power through.

  Lark follows my gaze to the girl, who’s followed out of the building by a few more members of the camera crew, hauling out equipment. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and practically pulls me through the parking lot behind him, laughing.

  “Where are we going?” I demand, but he doesn’t answer. Not until we reach a BMW on the far side of the lot, the windows tinted. He unlocks it, and I pause, eyebrows lifted. “I should have known you’d have a bougie car,” I say.

  “She’s not bougie, she’s vintage,” Lark protests. Then, to my confusion, he opens the back door.

  “What are—” I start to ask. I don’t have time to finish. He grabs my waist and lifts me bodily, his mouth colliding with mine, his tongue parting my lips to wrestle with my own.

  I’m so lost in the kiss, I almost don’t notice what he’s doing until he spins us around and lays me down in the backseat. Then he climbs in after and shuts the door.

  I stifle a laugh, watching him. “Are we back in high school?” I tease.

  “I can’t wait until we get home.” He reaches down to push the hem of my skirt up around my waist. I gasp as his fingers brush my upper thighs, hot and rough. “My cock is so fucking hard I’m going to lose it unless I have you.”

  He punctuates those words with rough kisses on my stomach, pushing my shirt up and out of the way too. Then his lips press to my inner thighs, one after the other. Down to the backs of my knees, the edges of my calves. His tongue knows all the right spots to find to make me arch up against him, twist against the seat.

  For all his talk about needing me, he sure takes his time teasing me, toying with me. His fingertips trace the edges of my panties, then he presses a thumb against my clit through them, trailing down to my pussy lips, smirking.

  “I love how wet you get for me, Cassidy.”

  My breath catches, and I reach down to try to pull him closer, on top of me. He’s lying along my leg, and I can feel the hard press of his cock against my thigh. But he won’t give me what I want, not yet.

  “First I want you ready for me,” he says. And then his face is between my thighs, pushing, nudging them apart. His stubble grazes the soft skin there, rough and deliciously scratchy. He catches my panties in his teeth and drags them down, making my breath catch.

  I run my hands through his hair, then bury them in it, in fists, as he starts to lick across my mound. His tongue flicks the edges of my clit, and I gasp, arching up off the seat. He cups his hands underneath me, squeezes my ass hard enough to make me groan with want.

  And all the while, his tongue continues its slow exploration, tracing each lip of my pussy before he delves between them, lapping and sucking at me. Just when I think I’m going to lose my mind from desire, he finally arches up and pushes his own jeans down.

  I reach to catch his boxers, pulling them off myself, and marveling at his length when his cock springs free. I always forget how thick he is.

  “Feel that?” he murmurs, as I fold both hands around his base and stroke along his length, my thumbs tracing the thick vein that stands out along his shaft. “That’s how fucking hard I am for you, Cassidy. I can’t stop thinking about you, constantly…”

  “I know the feeling,” I confess, and our eyes lock. He bends until our noses brush, our eyes inches apart. I feel him gently take my wrists, both of my wrists wrapped in one of his large hands. And he raises them up
over my head and pins me back against the seat, before his lips feather across my cheekbone, my jawline. Down the edge of my neck.

  At the same time, with his free hand, he spreads my legs. I raise them up, wrap them around his torso, and feel my hips lift off the seat, striving toward him.

  He pauses just long enough to slide on a condom, and then I feel him at the entrance of my pussy, poised right there. I’m already soaking wet, but still he waits, his teeth grazing my neck, making me gasp.

  “I want to fuck you now,” he says, his voice a barely repressed growl.

  “Please,” I gasp. That’s all he needs. He pushes inside me in one smooth thrust, and I groan, arching up off the seat against him, savoring the feeling of his cock filling my tight pussy.

  “Every time.” He leans back to look at me, paused there, his cock filling me up. “Every time, I forget how fucking good you feel, Cassidy.” He pulls back out of me, just a little, making me gasp in protest. But a second later he thrusts back into me, his hips perfectly angled so the slight curve at the tip of his cock drags against my inner wall, right over my G-spot. “God, your pussy is a fucking marvel.” He pulls out, thrusts back in again, and I make a little mewling sound, which makes him smirk, bending close again.

  “I love those little sounds you make,” he tells me, his lips on my throat, my neck.

  I let my head fall back, my back arching up. “I love how you get them out of me,” I tell him, which makes him smile against my neck, before he starts to thrust harder, faster. To really fuck me, the way only Lark ever has.

  My hands are still pinned over my head, but I move my hips in time with his, thrusting against him, my clit brushing up against his pelvic bone with every deep thrust. Before long, I’m nearing the edge, breathing hard, and he’s grinning at me, knowing exactly what effect he has on me, almost better than I know it myself.