by Mika Jolie
“Thanks,” Jagger replies, giving her a beaming smile of his own, and I feel an irrational surge of jealousy somewhere deep in my lizard brain. Jeez, what is this, a soap opera? “We’re here for the Northside Trust party,” he continues. “I’m Jagger Crane, and this is Charlotte Sloan.”
“Excellent,” the concierge says, and begins tapping away at the computer. I take a moment to admire the decor, but I’m pulled abruptly back to the present when she says, “Ah, here we are. Sloan and Crane. I’ve got a suite on the seventh floor, with a California king.”
Shock barrels through me. “Wait, what?”
She blinks. “Is that a problem?”
I glance over at Jagger, and he furrows his brow. “I’m sorry, I think there must have been some kind of mistake,” I say to the concierge. “We’re supposed to have separate suites.”
She frowns. “That’s odd. I have you down as sharing a room.”
“Whoever made the reservation must have made a mistake.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Don’t panic, Charlotte. Handle this like the boss that you are. I dig my wallet out of my bag and whip out my American Express business card. “Can we add another room?”
She searches on her computer for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says at last. “Unfortunately, we’re completely booked for tonight. The Northside Trust party is a huge event, you understand—”
“So you’re saying we’re stuck sharing a room?” My cheeks burn again, betraying the sudden butterflies in my stomach. “There’s no other vacancies?”
She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been booked for months in advance. It looks like we were barely able to squeeze the two of you in as it is.”
“We’ll take the room,” Jagger says, speaking for the first time.
What? Is he crazy? I’m sure I heard wrong, but just for confirmation, I whip around and say, “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
What are we? Seven? I can feel the concierge’s eyes on us. We’re probably drawing attention from some of the bystanders too. Right now, I don’t care. This is the same guy who kissed me, groped me, and then turned around and told me some bullshit line about how he got carried away. He even apologized. Whatever. No way am I staying in the same room with Jagger. Even if it’s only for one night.
I cross my arms over my chest, and glare at him. “I’m not sharing a room with you.”
He steps forward and takes the magnetic key from the desk. “You don’t have a choice, princess.”
16
Jagger
Piano music drifts through the air of the ballroom, mixing with the small talk from the assembled businesspeople as I nurse my drink and do my best to give off an air of cool composure. In one corner, Richard is laughing at something one of the other executives said, his trophy wife hanging on his arm with a bored expression on her face. The McGowan guys are on the other side of the room, but we haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet. This is probably a good thing, considering what’s going through my mind right now.
Charlotte looks magnificent in an emerald green gown that brings out the color of her eyes, her hair loose around her neck and her smile dazzling. She’s in her element here, with the upper echelons. She’s radiant, and I can see some of the other men at the party have taken notice, too. That sets off an odd sense of tension in me and doesn’t do much for my sociability.
“You look miserable,” she says, coming to stand beside me, a glass of champagne in hand.
“Just taking in the ambiance.”
She gives me an appraising look. “You don’t say. Are you pleased with what you see?”
I meet her gaze and say, “Very much.” Her breath catches. I hate that she thinks I rejected her. I love that I can throw her off her axis. “Listen, Charlotte, I—”
“We should go chat with the McGowan guys, don’t you agree?”
Her eyes hook into mine. The air between us is thick with our silence for a moment. I don’t look away, nor does she. But she’s right, this isn’t the time for me to say…What, exactly? Confess how much I want her? That I’m riddled with fear that acting on my feelings might risk my job.
“You’re right,” I say with a nod at the two chatting men from McGowan. “Shall we?”
She nods. “After you.”
The McGowan representatives are laughing, each one with a mostly empty glass in his hand. With only a cursory glance I can already detect their type—frat boy business school types who still haven’t grown up. This is going to be fun. Steeling myself, I straighten as we approach. “You guys are from McGowan, right?”
The taller man nods, flashing us a broad smile. “That’s right,” he says. “And you must be our marketing gurus.” He turns to his companion. “This is Nathan Roth, and I’m Kaidan Travers.”
Charlotte smiles. “It’s nice to finally connect with you guys. This is Jagger Crane, on the creative team, and I’m Charlotte Sloan, in digital strategy.”
The shorter of the two men, Roth, looks her up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Sloan. Right. I had heard about you, but it’s nice to put a face to the name, so to speak.” His words are a little sloppy, and I suspect this isn’t his first drink tonight. There’s a pause, and then he adds, “I have to say, your reputation precedes you.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?”
Roth gives her a smile that doesn’t quite show in his eyes. “I mean, it’s totally normal, considering you’re the CEO’s daughter. I was wondering what your ‘thing’ was, you know? But I think I’m starting to see what all the fuss was about.” His eyes linger on her breasts for a moment, and my grip tightens on my whiskey glass.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice tight with tension, “‘fuss’?”
“I mean, yeah,” Roth replies. “Everyone’s got to have something going for them, right? And when the family thing just doesn’t cut it…”
Charlotte clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I guess that’s fair,” she says. “A lot of people hear the name and think there must be a connection.”
“That’s because there is a connection,” he interrupts. “I mean, you are Richard Sloan’s daughter, right?” She gives him a stiff nod. “So there you have it,” he says, his tone a bit too jovial. “Everyone’s got to get their foot in the door somehow. Some of us work our way up the old-fashioned way, but who am I to judge?”
“Nathan—” begins Travers, clearly sensing the tension, but Roth puts up a hand.
“No disrespect, obviously,” he says. “Different strokes for different folks.” Once again, his eyes drift over Charlotte’s figure, and once again, anger simmers through my veins. He’s looking at her, talking to her, like she’s just a prop on her father’s stage.
“Is that right?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Because it sounded pretty disrespectful to me.”
Charlotte places a hand on my arm. “Jagger, it’s fine. It’s not a big—”
“It is a big deal.” My gaze stays fixed on Roth, who seems a little taken aback. “I’ve been working with Charlotte ever since we started your campaign, and I can vouch for her skills. She’s a brilliant marketer, and you should consider yourselves lucky to have her in your corner.”
“I mean, sure,” Roth concedes, “but you’ve got to cut us some slack for being a little skeptical. This is business we’re talking about, and if someone is here on connections, and not qualifications…”
“Or, here’s another idea.” I glare down at him, “you could let her work stand on its own merits, instead of judging her for who her father is.”
“Mr. Crane,” says Travers, “I don’t think Nathan was trying to imply that—”
“Oh, he wasn’t implying.” My voice is low and dangerous, and part of me knows this is a bad idea, but I can’t help it. He was looking to start shit. I’m only giving him what he wanted. “And maybe he should think about apologizing. You know, professionalism, and all that.”
“Jagger, you don’t need t
o go there,” Charlotte whispers, her voice tight, and I meet her eyes for a moment.
“He disrespected you,” I tell her. “I don’t care if we’re at a party—that shit doesn’t fly.” There’s a long moment of silence as the two McGowan men look at each other, and finally Roth clears his throat, his face a shade of red as he mumbles out an apology. “Atta boy,” I say dryly. “Now if you boys will excuse us, we’ve got other people to talk to. Tell your boss we’re looking forward to hearing what he thinks about the new campaign.”
I turn to Charlotte, but it’s only then that I realize she’s already gone, nothing but a green blur as she rushes out the back of the room, leaving me to stare after her.
17
Charlotte
The thing they never tell you about these parties is how much your feet will hurt by the time it’s all over. You’re expected to mingle, schmooze, and drink your way through hours of business discussions without ever really getting the chance to sit down, otherwise you risk being seen as antisocial. Not a problem for the boys, maybe, but none of them are wearing four-inch heels. By the time it’s all said and done, I’m desperate to get back to the room, and not just because my feet are killing me. I’m still reeling from what happened between Jagger and Roth, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I give myself too much time to think about it. At least excusing myself early will give me a bit of time away from him, a chance to clear my head.
Almost as soon as I kick my heels off and sink into one of the armchairs by the kitchenette, there’s the sound of the door opening, and I jump to my feet when Jagger enters the hotel room, looking visibly agitated. He approaches me but stops short, looking like he’s struggling to figure out what to say.
“Are you okay?” he asks at last.
That’s such a loaded question. Am I okay? When it comes to those two assholes’ perception of me, yes. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with that shit from others in the business, and it won’t be the last. But the way Jagger jumped into the fray like that—not a sight of the composed, professional Jagger—all for the sake of defending me, that’s sending me into a tailspin, and it’s probably written all over my face.
“I’m fine.” The words come out sounding pinched and stilted. I force myself to break eye contact. “What you did back there was unnecessary.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he replies.
“I could have handled that on my own!”
“Sure.” He steps farther into the room. “But you shouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit from these assholes who have probably had everything they have dropped into their laps.”
“You think that’s the first time someone’s made assumptions about me because of who my father is?” I demand, taking a step closer to him. “Hell, you thought the same thing before we started this project together.”
He looks away, the comment clearly stinging. “I did,” he admits. “But that was before I knew you.”
“Don’t you see, Jagger, you formed your opinion of me without knowing who I am.”
“We’re both guilty of that,” he throws back at me.
He’s right, of course, and I hate that he’s pointing it out. “Things would be so much easier if we just went back to hating each other,” I say in a low voice, although whether I’m talking more to him or to myself, I don’t know.
He looks at me for a long time, his blue eyes digging into me. “Maybe,” he says, “but that’s not going to happen.”
I realize that I’m shaking, emotions that I can’t describe coursing through me faster than I can keep up. Amidst all of them is Jagger, standing there with his hands by his sides, his expression full of longing and intensity.
The moment stretches into infinity, and then suddenly collapses. He rushes forward, grabbing my face and pulling me into a kiss so passionate it nearly knocks the wind out of me. My resistance vanishes, and I melt into him the same way I did that night at the office. It feels right, as absurd as that is coming from me, but there you have it.
At this moment, nothing else seems to matter—not the promotion, not Mom, not the conflict of interest—it all goes by the wayside in the face of the feelings we’ve been grappling with for weeks.
This time, Jagger doesn’t pull away.
I bury my hands in his hair as his kisses become more urgent, his hands roaming my body as his mouth drifts to my neck, setting my skin on fire with every touch. His tongue glides over the skin above my collarbone as his arms snake around my waist. A small sound escapes me at the sensation of having him against me once more. I’m flooded with unbridled desire, and the need to feel him—all of him—is damn near overpowering.
I murmur his name, and that seems to set him off. He scoops me up, locking my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom, and all my thoughts of the pull-out couch are long forgotten. He pauses to set me down on the massive bed before taking a moment to get his shirt off.
His body is stunning, his muscles lean and toned, with a dusting of freckles on his chest and arms. For a moment I’m too lost in the sight of him to do anything, but my senses come back and I begin to tug at his belt with unsteady hands.
He buries his face in my hair as I get his pants undone, inhaling deeply before giving me a gentle push onto the mattress and sending my hair fanning out around me as I bounce. For a moment he just stands there, drinking me in with his sapphire eyes, the intensity of the expression on his face enough to make me squirm. Then his mouth connects with mine once more as he bears down on me, running his hands down my neck, over my breasts, and finally to the hem of my dress.
Instead of pulling it off, though, his fingers dip under, going straight for my panties, which are already wet with my desire. Dragging them down over my thighs, he slides a finger into me, and I moan, lighting a fresh fire in his eyes.
Warmth blooms between my legs. Anticipation ripples through me. The need for closeness is too strong for either of us, and I don’t bother to take off my dress as Jagger quickly fits himself with the condom, then he pulls his pelvis flush with mine and pushes into me inch by slow inch, stretching me deliciously as his eyes bore into mine.
My heart stops, then rockets on a whole new level. The intensity of our connection overwhelms me. It’s like we’re enveloped in sex, lust, and maybe something more.
“Charlotte…” Heat flares in his eyes. “Holy fuck, you feel good.”
My heart punches in my rib cage. Suddenly I feel bare to him. Not just physically, but soul-deep bare. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he repeats and begins to move.
I melt into him, into the feel of his strong hands and the texture of his voice. His hand cups my face, as he slides all the way out, then thrusts deep inside me. I arch my back, my nipples pressing against his chest, and I lift myself higher, welcoming every inch of him.
Every thrust is a lightning bolt of pleasure, nudging my core just right as I stare longingly up at his gorgeous face and wonder how the hell I’ve managed to go without this for so long. I'
Shivers skim over me. The sensation builds, the friction becoming nearly unbearable as our moans and labored breaths fill the hotel room, and we’re lost in each other.
We even come together, an explosion of feeling that courses through me just as Jagger finishes inside me, leaving both of us trembling in each other’s arms, clinging to one another like a lifeline. He brushes a stray strand of hair out of my face, pressing a slow, sweet kiss to my mouth. He’s still inside me, a feeling as comforting as it is sensual.
“That was…” I say, breathless, and wondering why nothing before has ever felt so right.
“That,” he finishes for me, “was a long time coming.”
18
Jagger
I pace outside Richard’s office, my hands jammed in my pockets and my shoulders hunched, unable to stand still for more than a moment. If I don’t do this now, I’m not going to. There’s a clarity in my mind in the aftermath of the night I shared with Charlot
te that I fear might slip away at any moment.
Now’s the time, and I’m not going to wait any longer. If you’d told me a month or two ago that I would one day wake up with Charlotte Sloan, marketing princess, in my arms, I would have called you crazy. But then again, I probably would have called you crazy as little as a week ago if you’d also told me that I would be surrendering the promotion I once thought I wanted more than anything, so…
It’s about Charlotte. It always has been, and she’s given me a lucidity I didn’t even know I needed until now. As I lay beside her the other night, listening to her breathe while absently stroking her hair, it came to me all at once. A truth that has been brewing under the surface for a long time, one that took a Charlotte-level event to finally emerge.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
Maybe part of it was the party—seeing those McGowan douchebags and realizing on some level that that’s the future that awaits me if I continue trying to work my way up the corporate ladder. More, though, I think it was seeing her reaction to it, the way she handled their insults with grace, in sharp contrast to my anger, that showed me I’m not cut out for this world.
She’s willing to grit her teeth and fight through layers upon layers of bullshit to prove herself, to show the world that her career is one born of passion, not nepotism. So what the hell am I doing here, trying to best her for a job that isn’t—and never has been—what I wanted to do with my life?
I was an art student once. I had a dream that didn’t revolve around ruthless business, and the determination to chase it in spite of the circumstances of my youth. So how did I end up here?
Rolling my shoulders back, I straighten up and knock on Richard’s door, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he’s not here, but I sure as hell know I can’t spend one more minute in this office. I’m on the verge of turning around when his gruff voice comes through, muffled by the door. “Come in.”
