Leather and Lace
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2018 by OkayCreations.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age, and all sexual acts are consensual.
Contents
Also by Lauren Landish
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Preview: Dirty Deeds
About the Author
Also by Lauren Landish
The Virgin Diaries:
Satin and Pearls
Leather and Lace
Silk and Shadows
Irresistible Bachelors (Interconnecting standalones):
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
Get Dirty (Interconnecting standalones):
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild
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Prologue
Arianna
Dear Diary,
I’m a whore.
Okay, that’s definitely not true. But it might as well be, because that’s what everyone thinks of me. I’ll admit I’ve earned that reputation with the biggest con job since Enron.
But it’s not all bad. I’ve gone to all the best frat parties, flirted, teased, and had fun grinding on the dance floor like every college girl should. So everyone just assumes the rumors are true, and I don’t say shit to dissuade their thinking.
Reality, of course, is very different. My biggest secret, the one that no one knows, not even my best friend, is that it’s all fake.
I’m not a whore. I’m a virgin.
It’s a front I chose a long time ago, refusing to play the victim to some stupid high school boy’s bragging and society’s judgement. As if Mother Nature’s gifts of tits and ass were something I should be ashamed of, blamed for. But as I played along as the casual hookup-prone vixen, I realized sex meant more to me. That’s when I decided to save myself for The One. He’s out there somewhere, that special man worthy of getting between my legs.
Not that I have time for that right now when all my time and attention are focused on one thing—my career. Well, finishing school and actually having a career, that is. After watching my parents struggle and how they drank their way through most of the meager college fund they’d set aside for me, I want more . . . more than the dead-end, soul-sucking jobs that barely paid enough to make ends meet that my parents had.
I’d hoped my summer internship at Morgan Inc. would be the first step toward that glossy, corner-office future I dream of, especially since it’s my first-choice company to work for after graduation. But my hopes of hands-on experience and seeing behind the curtain were quickly dashed, and I’ve spent the last few months answering the phones and greeting people. I’m willing to work and happy to pay my dues, but my desire for more bubbles beneath the surface every day, pushing me for more, more, more.
And with two weeks left before the end of my internship, I hope I’ve done enough for them to hire me during the school year. Maybe with fewer interns on staff, I can get that shot at the brass ring and really learn the things I need for my future.
And once I get there . . . then I’ll worry about finding Mr. Right.
Chapter 1
Arianna
“Arianna? Arianna!”
I start, sitting up and shaking myself loose from my daydream of me as the boss of a big company, the reality of the plastic chair I’m sitting in mentally replaced by a leather chair in a corner office as I negotiate contracts with other big-wigs.
Checking the clock, I see I’ve still got a few minutes left on my coffee break. I look up to see Dora Maples standing in the doorway of the small breakroom. It’s not fancy—we’re first-floor, not the executive level, after all—but the coffee is decent and the vending machine has my favorite afternoon pick-me-up candy bar.
“Yes, ma’am! What do you need, Ms. Maples?”
Dora sets a large manila envelope on the table, sliding it over to me. “I need you to run this upstairs.”
“Of course,” I quickly reply. Being a delivery girl isn’t usually part of my job description, but I’ll take anything that gets me facetime with someone upstairs.
“It’s the Iriguchi property papers, with the seal from the county office. Mr. Blackstone needs it on his desk by one,” Dora says, squinting and scowling at me as if uncertain I’m capable of a simple delivery. “Run up there and hand it directly to his assistant, Jacob Wilkes. Understood?”
“Consider it done,” I reply, picking up the thick envelope and polishing off the last of my morning tea. “I’ll do it now.”
Honestly, it’s probably a blessing she put this errand on me. Jacob Wilkes, Mr. Blackstone’s executive assistant, is in charge of the intern program, so I want to stay in his good graces. Even if it’s just saying hello and reminding him that I exist, every little bit helps!
The elevator ride feels like an eternity, but I take the time to fluff my hair and smooth my skirt, wanting to look my best for the executive floor and Mr. Wilkes. I knock on Mr. Blackstone’s door, but there’s no response. After a moment, I gently ease the door open to . . . what the fuck?
It’s utter and complete chaos in here. The last and only time I was on the top floor, everything was neat, and while there was a hum of activity, it was organized. This . . . is a loud, crowded clusterfuck of madness, all contained in the vast openness of Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Blackstone’s large corner wing.
I stand stock-still for a moment, my eyes scanning as I try to make some sense of what I’m seeing. There is a camera crew set up, complete with lighting, a hair and makeup station nestled in the corner, and a man shouting orders as he rubs roughly at his bald head.
I recognize some of the faces. I helped them sign in when they arrived shortly after eight o’clock for a ‘meeting’. I paid attention to them because of the suspicious way they’d refused to explain so I could log them correctly. The only reason I’d let the large group through was because Mr. Wilkes had come into the lobby to escort them up, assuring me it was fine. It doesn’t look fine to me though.
I look around for Mr. Wilkes’s familiar face so that I can maybe, hopefully, complete my mission, but I freeze when I spot, at the center of the craziness, the sexiest man in the whole damn city, Mr. Liam Blackstone.
I’ve only ever seen him in person in passing. He flies through the lobby each morning as if he can’t wait to get to wor
k, not bothering to acknowledge the peons who sit by the front door, namely me. But he’s undeniably the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Dark hair fixed in that floppy way that looks casual, but probably took him forever to style, atop an angular jawline that begs to be nibbled. And those eyes! Bright blue that can see right through you or pin you with a stare. Not that he’s ever looked at me, but even from the company website, that much is obvious.
The rest of him is just as well put together, lean muscles on his tall frame and an overall aura of ‘I’m in charge.’ Right now, he’s standing in the middle of the maelstrom, a patient, almost amused look on his face and looking like ten million bucks in a custom-tailored pair of black slacks and a slim-fit dress shirt that’s open at the neck.
This close, he’s nothing at all like the glances I’ve caught of him as he goes through the lobby. From fifty feet away, he’s handsome and sexy. At fifteen feet, he possesses a magnetic aura that seems to envelop the room. He’s like a rock star, a general totally in his element, commanding everything in the middle of anarchy.
The slight crunch of the envelope in my hand forces me to pull my eyes away from him. I continue my scan, finally seeing Mr. Wilkes, and walk over. “Mr. Wilkes, sir?”
He barely looks up from the tablet he’s poring over, obviously too busy to be interrupted, but I have a mission. “Ms. Maples sent me up with these. It’s the Iriguchi property papers?” I hate that I ended that sentence on a lilt, as if I’m unsure. It makes me sound weak, and I’m not. But I am a bit in awe of this whole scene, more fashion shoot than the business meetings I’d expect to see on this floor.
He takes them from my hand, saying, “Thanks.” His eyes never glance up to me. So much for facetime with the boss. Feeling the unspoken dismissal, I work my way through the disorder back toward the elevator, only to be stopped when the bald guy freezes mid-tantrum right in front of me to yell at what seems to be his assistant.
The man explodes, “Where is our model!? She was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!”
The assistant shakes her head, pointing at her phone. “Francois, Cassie said her flight got delayed. She hasn’t even landed yet. It’ll be at least two more hours.”
I try to discreetly dodge around them, but Francois starts pacing and I back out of the way, not wanting to draw his ire.
“Dammit!” he screams, actually stamping his foot like a toddler. I have to hide my smirk because who does that? He throws his hands in the air. “We’ll have to forget the paired shots. Helen’s gonna have my ass for this! She specifically asked for sexy couples images,” he says before stopping, as if inspiration just struck him. “Wait a minute. Get someone else to take Cassie’s place.”
The assistant looks aghast, immediately shaking her head. “Francois, I know this is important, but we can’t just replace Cassie. There are contracts, consent forms, payments—”
“So what!” Francois interrupts, as if all his problems have evaporated. He snaps, “Get the paperwork started and get out the checkbook. Still cheaper than Cassie’s irresponsible ass. Find someone.”
The assistant sighs, nodding in defeat but obviously still not quite sure. “But—”
“There.” A voice cuts through the noise of the room and everything goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I turn to look where the voice came from and am shocked to see Mr. Blackstone pointing at me, his eyes burning into my skin. The nearly feral pull of his gaze freezes me in my tracks. I feel like I’m the prey and I’ve just been targeted by a predator.
Everyone in the room who’d been curiously watching the exchange between Francois and his assistant is now ping-ponging back and forth between Mr. Blackstone and me. I can feel their eyes, making me hot, the flush of the attention bringing up some painful, awkward memories. Having years of practice is the only thing that saves me from wilting under their judgment.
Still, I’m barely able to utter a squeak as people suddenly start moving toward me, intent on following Mr. Blackstone’s orders. “Me?” I finally force out, still confused. I clear my throat, getting my voice back to my usual pitch. “I mean . . . me?”
Mr. Blackstone’s lips spread into a sexy, cocky grin, and he nods, shooing everyone off as he waves me forward. For some reason, instead of running for my life to the nearest fire escape, my feet move without my even telling them. I walk toward him, my eyes never leaving his.
“Yeah, you,” he says. “You look like a doll, perfect and fragile. Sexy and sweet.” His eyes caress my face and trace down my body. The body I know has whiplash hourglass curves that make men stupid for no good reason. Usually, I feel defensive when guys look me up and down, like they know something about me just based on my body, but when Mr. Blackstone does it, I feel like standing tall and letting him peruse his fill. His words are probably one of the best, maybe only, compliments I’ve ever gotten. Maybe that’s sad, but it’s just my reality. I usually get filthy catcalls and assumptions, not kindness. “You’ll do the photoshoot with me.”
The photographer lights up like a light bulb. “Yes! She will do. Someone get some makeup on this girl!” His evaluation of me leaves me feeling inadequate, like I don’t already look good even though I’m wearing my best daytime, professional look.
But I don’t even have time to think about how I’d like to bless him out because Francois’s assistant jams a piece of paper into my hands. “Sign here . . . here . . . initial.” As she points out each spot to me, she chatters casually. “Haven’t you heard? Sexy, young, rich CEOs are all the rage. Books, movies, television . . . it seems that’s the recipe for fantasy nowadays!”
“You mean, it hasn’t always been?” I ask, a hint of sass in my voice before I can catch myself.
Oops. Did I say that out loud? I meant to think that, not actually say it!
“Cutting Edge Magazine wanted to do an interview and a photoshoot,” Mr. Blackstone explains. “Something about my being the hottest ticket in the business pages, and any press is good press, so here we are.” He says it in such a casual manner, like this is all just business as usual for him.
Francois does a little jump and clap before turning to me. “What are you waiting on? Come on, girl!”
That’s twice he’s called me girl. I do have a name, but I’m still too tongue-tied to correct him. “I–I don’t know the first thing about modeling,” I protest weakly, panicked. “I mean, I’m just an intern here.”
Francois waves his hands again. “Don’t worry. All you have to do is listen to me and stand beside Mr. Blackstone. Anyone could do this next to that man.” He gestures outward like it’s so easy, snapping his fingers. “Get her ready! We were supposed to be a wrap ten minutes ago!”
The matter seems settled, and before I know it, my hair’s been primped, my makeup scrubbed off and a whole new style applied, and they had me change into a blouse that’s even tighter across my boobs. I’m nearly shaking, my mind a whirlwind. I came up here to deliver an envelope. Instead, I’m about to take pictures with my boss. My very hot boss whom I bet every single woman in this building has a crush on. Awkward.
The assistant appears out of nowhere and leads me over to Mr. Blackstone’s desk, where he’s sitting nonchalantly, like waiting for this is no big deal. The assistant tells me, “Stand here. Lighting check.” And then she disappears, leaving me alone with Mr. Blackstone. Well, not alone, considering there are at least fifteen other people in the room, but it feels like there’s a bubble of stillness surrounding us as everyone else bustles about.
“What’s your name, doll?” he asks.
Normally, when a random guy goes straight to nicknames and endearments, it makes me grit my teeth. I’d expect my boss doing it would elicit an even stronger reaction. It does . . . but it’s not the negative one I’d expect. Instead, I almost swoon. Maybe it’s his presence, or the subtle, masculine smell of leather wafting from him, or the way he’s staring at me like he already knows my secrets. But there’s something in me that likes him calling me that, especially
after his earlier compliment.
Calm down, girl. You deal with men like him everyday. He’s hot, more than most, but you can control yourself for a few pictures and a fucking conversation that could be your big break.
The reminder that this could be a great career opportunity helps, and I focus as I introduce myself. “Arianna Hunnington. I’m a summer intern, sir.”
I offer my hand, which he takes with a smirk. “Liam Blackstone, but I suspect you already knew that.” His hand is warm against mine, making me wonder what his touch would feel like on other parts of my body.
Luckily, I’m saved from my own dirty thoughts when Francois comes close. “Okay, you two . . . we want heat for these shots. Naughty girl and the big boss. Got it?”
I can’t really say anything else as Francois begins shouting orders as he steps behind the camera. “Let’s get this show on the road! Lean into him, girl!”
I hesitate. There he is, calling me girl again. “I . . . uh . . .”
Mr. Blackstone is done wasting time though. He takes control, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into him. “I got you. Don’t be shy.”
My breasts flatten against him and I throw my head back, trying to get some space between us, but I get caught in his eyes, breathless as I faintly hear a shutter sound. “Yes, yes. Perfect!” Francois crows. “That’s it. It’s late, and you two are working together when the passion starts to flow between you!”
Leather and Lace Page 1
