by Linnea May
There was nothing hollow and empty about her sparkling green eyes. Instead, I found mystery. A girl with a story to tell. Complexity.
Laura. Even the sound of her name echoes through my chest with an urgency that is completely new to me.
What the hell is it about her? She’s pretty, that’s for sure. She’s the kind of girl who turns heads, even if she doesn’t realize it. Her short, tight-fitting uniform wraps around a hot body that’s to die for, long and lean, with big tits, and a round, perky ass to match. Her skirt hugs her curves just right.
But there is nothing elegant or glamorous about her, she doesn’t have the classy femininity that usually draws my attention. If anything, she appears gawky and vulnerable, overburdened with a body she cannot handle. She looks like she doesn’t belong anywhere or to anyone. An outcast. An orphan. Alone.
Special.
That must be it.
She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever had. Something new. Something different.
No wonder I crave her like this, especially right now, just as another year of fasting is coming to an end. It’s almost to the point of being unbearable, how much I want her. How much I need to taste her.
But there is one major problem.
She’s not on the menu.
She’s not in the agency’s catalog. My go-to agency, Violent Delights, offers everything a man can ask for... except her.
She’s not available for purchase.
So I can’t have her.
Of course, that only makes me want her more. That’s just how I am.
She’s exactly the kind of woman I’m trying to stay away from. The kind of woman who could make me lose control.
“Fuck,” I hiss at my reflection, as I lean over one of the sinks in the bathroom. Even though I’ve splashed cold water on my face, I’m still as heated as before.
I check my watch, confirming it’s almost time to give my toast. My head needs to be clear for this, clear enough to deliver the words flawlessly, react to the applause and response, and engage in another round of smalltalk. The event will slowly start to wind down once I give my toast, because that’s when people no longer feel obligated to stick around. Thank God.
“Pull it together,” I order my reflection, but the guy in the mirror just casts back an angry glare. He doesn’t like to be lectured.
Sure enough, as soon as I walk back into the party hall, I’m met by my assistant Lemon’s harried eyes. He waves me over to the podium, already anxiously holding the microphone in his hand. He’s not a short man, but he has an odd way of crouching every time I stand next to him, which makes him appear to be a lot smaller than he really is. It bothers me, and I’ve mentioned it several times, but he continues doing it.
“Where have you been?” he snaps. “It’s about time you showed up!”
“Relax,” I tell him, placing my hand on his shoulder in a comradely manner that’s reserved for him. “We’re fine.”
He casts me a confused look, as if sensing I’m not only trying to calm him, but myself as well. Giving little speeches like the one I’m about to deliver is not a big deal to me. I’ve done it thousands of times before, and nervousness is an alien concept to me.
But not tonight.
For some reason, I’m shaking as I stand next to Lemon as he asks for the crowd’s attention. Normally, I would browse the room, my eyes locking in on selective people here and there to make sure they’re listening. Smiling, nodding along, as Lemon speaks next to me.
Tonight I shy away from the crowd, fearing I could stumble across her green eyes in the audience. Lowering my head is not an option, so instead I make a wide scan across the room, my gaze traveling above the numerous heads in the crowd of onlookers, never seeking eye contact with the sea of faces.
“Let me now turn the floor over to the person who made all of this possible,” Lemon says, concluding his introductory speech about my foundation’s efforts. “Mr. Ryan Hawkins, founder of Onyx Corporation.”
In that moment, when Lemon is handing me the microphone, I make the mistake of letting my eyes follow their usual route through the crowd.
And there she is.
She’s standing at the far end of the room next to two other servers, their backs pressed against the wall as if they were trying to blend in with the wallpaper. She’s staring at me with wide eyes, her pouty lips forming a perfect little O, before she turns to the waitress standing on her left. It’s the same girl she exchanged a look with earlier, probably a friend. She whispers something in her ear, and her friend nods immediately, turning her face toward Laura and casting her a slightly bewildered and indignant look, as if she’d just said something incredibly stupid.
My body switched to auto-mode, delivering the speech exactly as I have thousands of times before, adding a smile, a wink, a side note in just the right places, stealing laughter and nods of approval from the crowd, as I follow my routine to the letter.
But my mind is fixated on her. I can’t let go.
Not before I’ve had her.
I decide then and there, that I at least have to try. It might be a risk, a dangerous one even, but it would be worth it. It only happens once a year, and I need to make it count, so it can last me another year. Having the perfect girl is the most important part of making that happen.
I conclude my words by inviting everyone to have another drink, without really meaning it. I don’t want them to hang around and bore me with their nonsense; I want them to leave the venue as quickly as possible. Luckily, most of the guests share this sentiment and approach me to say their goodbyes, thank me once again for my oh-so-generous work, and then leave without even glancing at the trays of champagne still being carried throughout the room.
It’s always the same. The ones who stay the longest are usually the ones who I have the least interest in. They’re freeloaders, who mostly came for the free alcohol and to be seen by the right people, but they have no actual business with me, my companies, or my foundation. They hang around in small groups, their faces red from having too much to drink, and their conversations growing louder with every passing minute.
The catering staff is growing impatient, as they’re exhausted and more than ready to go home.
“I think it’s okay for you to excuse yourself,” I hear Lemon whisper from my side. He casts me an approving nod, knowing how little I enjoy these gatherings.
“I’ll stick around for a few more minutes,” I tell him, taking another sip from my glass as I observe my prey standing idly on the other side of the room. “You can go.”
It’s not an offer, but a command. I want him to leave because I prefer having as few disruptions as possible when I make my move.
Lemon shifts awkwardly next to me, surprised by my words and unsure what to do.
“Go home,” I repeat, casting him a look from the side. “Your wife already hates me enough.”
He winks at me. “You know she doesn’t. But fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I let a few moments elapse after he leaves the room before I decide to make my move. She doesn’t see me coming, and it’s the perfect moment. She’s standing by the window, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her snug-fitting blouse is stretched to its limits, pushing her tits out against the material and seductively displaying her cleavage. She’s deep in thought, absentmindedly staring out the window, but I can sense her tensing up as I approach.
“Miss Brown.”
She flinches at the sound of my voice, but doesn’t turn around to look at me right away.
I hate that.
“Yes, Mr. Hawkins,” she says, emphasizing my name in an accusatory tone. She had no idea who I was and is pissed about it. “Anything I can do for you?”
She speaks to me as if that moment between us earlier never happened, looking at me with a bland gaze of professionalism.
“I’d like to speak to you,” I say, reaching into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “In private. This is my number. Leave me a message if you’
re interested.”
I produce a card from my pocket and hold it up for her to take. She reaches for it, but looks at me skeptically, her eyebrows furrowed in suspicious confusion.
“Interested in what?”
We exchange a wordless, but meaningful look. I know that she finds me attractive; they all do. But unlike the others, I know she can sense there’s something inherently different about me. Her eyes don’t display the unhesitating adoration I’ve seen on other faces. Instead they are laced with caution.
“A proposal,” I say.
Her eyebrows furrow yet again, but I can tell she’s intrigued.
“A proposal?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “Mr. Hawkins, I—”
“My name is Ryan,” I interrupt, already in the process of turning away to leave.
“Call me.”
Chapter 5
Laura
Layla and I have been best friends and roommates for years. We share more than just the cost of living and an apartment. She tells me everything, about her family, her adventurous love life, her dreams, and her worries. And I do the same with her. There has never been a secret between us.
Until now.
When she came up to me right after the event to ask about Mr. Hawkins’s intentions, I flat out lied to her. I don’t know why, but something kept me from telling her the truth. I told her that he just wanted to thank me, acting surprised that he would approach me for something like that. She seemed confused, but then shrugged and let it go, after mentioning once again how hot she thinks he is.
We share that sentiment. His appearance is unsettling on its own, and the effect he had on me only intensified when I learned his identity.
I had no idea who he was when I first bumped into him. I never concern myself with the names and faces of the people at the events we serve because it doesn’t matter to me who I’m serving drinks to. Layla is usually more informed than I am, and she was appalled at my ignorance regarding Ryan Hawkins.
“How could you not know that?” she hissed at me during his speech, in complete disbelief that I hadn’t known who he was.
How could I not know? Well, I never cared.
But I do now.
It’s been three days since the event, and I haven’t found the courage to call him. I’m lying on my bed, alternating between browsing the internet and staring at his business card.
I want to contact him, I know that much. But, as any person who’s about to accept an invitation from a stranger to go out on a date, I’m scared. And I’m not even sure if a date is what he has in mind. Is that what he meant by “proposal”? Why didn’t he just ask me out like a normal guy?
Because he’s not a normal guy. Something seems to be off about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
He has an aura of dominance, a possessive and powerful nature. This doesn’t come as a surprise, considering his position. No person ends up where he without having these traits. If he owns Onyx Corporation, he must be one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.
And he’s so young.
Instead of calling him, I spent a lot of time stalking him on the internet. He’s twenty-eight, only six years older than me, but he has already acquired more in life than most people do in a lifetime. What’s most impressive about his wealth is that he didn’t inherit it; he’s a true, self-made man. Even I can admire that, despite the usual spike of jealousy that comes with it.
But why would a man like him be interested in a woman like me? Maybe his interest is not personal. A “proposal” could mean anything. Does he pity me? Is this about a job offer?
“Is this all you do?” he had asked. Does he have another type of job in mind for me?
But he doesn’t even know about my predicament. He doesn’t know about the mountain of debt I’m buried under, about my failed attempt at college, about my plan to leave all of this behind once I manage to pay off most of my debt and save up some money to be able to afford a new beginning.
A new beginning far away from here. A new life, a new opportunity, in a new city. Layla and I have been planning this for a while now, and we’re getting closer all the time.
I close the laptop with intent, forcing myself to focus on the question at hand. Whether he wants to date me or make me a job offer, both options would screw with my plans of leaving the city.
But I can’t ignore him. I want to know what he meant by a “proposal.“
Most of all, I want to see him again. Just thinking about him stirs something inside me. The way he looked at me, catching a whiff of his masculine scent when he leaned in close to whisper in my ear...
Damn, he’s messing with my head - and other parts of my body. Until now, I didn’t even know I could feel this way.
I just turned twenty-two a few weeks ago, but I’ve never had a boyfriend, or even a fling. Layla and I are very different in that regard. While she’s out there with a new guy almost every other week, I’ve never been interested enough in anyone for it to become anything serious, or intimate even.
I’m not completely innocent. I’ve done stuff. I’ve flirted, I’ve kissed guys, and even fooled around a little, but that’s the extent of it.
People say you should wait until you feel “ready”, and I’ve yet to figure out what that means. All I know is that I’ve never felt ready enough to go all the way, to do something so special with someone who doesn’t turn both my head and my heart.
Even with the brief interaction we’ve had, Ryan Hawkins has done so much more than that to me. It’s only been three days, and there hasn’t been a moment when I wasn’t thinking of him. My thoughts revolve around him, all underlined by that one paramount question: what did he mean by “proposal?“
I have to find out. I have to. I owe it to myself, maybe I even owe it to fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it. Someone like him doesn’t cross my path on an everyday basis. In fact, no one ever has, and I doubt it will happen again anytime soon.
I take a deep breath and reach for my phone. Doubts and worries need to step aside for a moment.
I have a call to make.
Chapter 6
Ryan
This is new to me. I’m sitting at my usual table at Café Pastiche, legs crossed and a folder with paperwork in front of me - and I’m nervous.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been nervous about meeting someone, especially a woman. There was always some kind of excitement involved in my arrangements, of course. But I’ve never been nervous when I met them.
Today, I find myself nervously fidgeting with the spoon next to my coffee, stirring it, adding way too much sugar, stirring it again, burning my lips as I try to taste it. My foot is bobbing up and down in frantic motions, making my inner turmoil visible on the outside.
I hate that.
I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s just another fuck. Another arrangement for my annual retreat.
But the thing is, she doesn’t know that yet. For all I know, she’s just expecting some flirting, disguised as a meet-up for coffee. Two people getting to know each other, maybe holding each other‘s hands, nervous giggles, compliments, and maybe a kiss.
She has no idea I want to buy her. For one night. One very, very dirty night.
Oh, the things I’d do to her…
I know I shouldn’t pursue my sick thoughts, my fantasies, but I can’t help it. I can’t help imagining her, on her knees, tied up, purple and red marks blossoming on her pale skin where I’ve marked her, tears flowing from her dazed eyes, as she pants breathlessly with desperate, heated lust.
“Fuck,” I hiss, shaking my head, as if that could clear my mind.
My cock is hardening at the mere thought. I inhale audibly, trying to force my mind on something else, so I’ll be able to get up and greet her like a gentleman once she appears.
She’s not on the menu, I have to remind myself. She’s not a whore. You didn’t find her in that fucking catalog. I shouldn’t get this excited about her, when the m
ost likely outcome of this meeting will be an appalled gasp and her storming away from the table once I make my intentions known.
I can see the door from where I’m sitting, and every time it opens, my heart stops for a second. So far, all the faces that have appeared through the door have been unfamiliar. I check my wristwatch for what seems like the millionth time since I got here. She’s not late, I just arrived way too early. Being overly punctual is a habit of mine, and it was only increased because I’m so impatient to see her again. It took her long enough to call me, but this wait feels like the longest I’ve ever had to endure.
She walks through the door three minutes before the time we agreed upon, looking deliciously innocent in a flowery sundress and a matching cardigan in light pastel colors. Her silky brown hair is falling over her shoulders in luscious waves, and she’s pressing a little handbag against her body as if to protect herself. Her steps are fast but small when she approaches the table. She’s wearing flat sandals, careful not to add even an inch to her already towering height.
I’ll make her wear heels if she agrees to become mine, and I’ll teach her to carry that height with pride.
She’s slouching when she walks, but her back instantly straightens when I get up from my chair to welcome her. Her height may be somewhat impressive for a woman, but she’s still shorter standing next to me. And she loves it. It’s written all over her bright face when she comes to a halt in front of me and finds herself looking up, something she doesn’t have to do very often.
“I’m sorry, am I late?” she asks as we shake hands.
Her hands are cold and surprisingly small, yet they send a bolt of desire through my body.
Why did she have to wear a dress like this? It covers more of her legs than that pencil skirt she was wearing when I first saw her, but the way it swirls around her long, slim legs is driving me mad with curiosity.
We have to sit down.
“You’re fine,” I assure her, beckoning for her to sit down across from me.
She follows my gesture, her shoulders tense and her hands clutching the handbag in her lap, as her eyes latch on to mine. Her make-up is stronger today, and she even painted her lips. I like the effort, because she’s obviously trying to impress me, but the heavy eye shadow overpowers her green eyes. She looked better with less color painted on her face.
