by Cynthia Sax
He slides his phone into his jacket pocket and the silver Rolex on his wrist gleams. This symbol of wealth and the establishment, a physical reminder of who Nate is, doesn’t squelch my lust. It perversely feeds my fantasies.
In my overactive imagination Nate doesn’t stay in his corner. He stalks toward me, hooks one of his arms around my waist, pulls my curves into his muscle, and—
“Miss Trent.” His crisp businesslike tone returns me to reality.
“Nate.” I mimic his curtness, breaking an unspoken company rule by addressing a top executive by his first name. I tap the button for the legal floor. This is the law-enforcing, super-quiet department I’ve been sentenced to. I don’t fit in there, but then, I’ve never fit in anywhere.
Except here. I belong in this elevator car. I belong with Nate. I claim the corner across from him and openly study the object of my obsession. “You spent another weekend alone, I see.” The lines around his mouth and eyes are deeply etched, attesting to his many months of celibacy. This pleases me. I don’t want Nate to touch any other woman. He’s my iceberg to melt.
He raises one of his eyebrows. “Have you added stalking to your long list of crimes?”
I roll my eyes. I was found guilty of three minor misdemeanors while I was a careless teenager and now I’ve been labeled a criminal for life. “Don’t flatter yourself. A blind woman can tell you’re not getting any.” I stretch the truth. His expression is as cold and as emotionless as it normally is.
Nate frowns, glances at his reflection in the mirrored walls, sweeps one of his hands over his perfect hair.
“What’s the matter?” I grin at him as I set my backpack on the floor by my feet. “Are all of the hookers in LA on strike?”
He returns his gaze to me and narrows his eyes. “You’re well informed.” Ice drips from his words, his coolness indicating I’ve scored a direct hit. Many people subjected to Nate’s subzero demeanor assume he’s a frigid, unfeeling bastard. I recognize it for what it is—a shield, as effective as my sarcasm and green hair.
“You bet I’m well informed.” It didn’t take me long to discover that every well-dressed, insanely beautiful woman appearing beside Nate in the newspaper’s society pages was a high-end escort. His hooker fetish doesn’t bother me. Nate is a faithful, serial-monogamous John, taking a long time to choose the right escort and then paying for her exclusive attentions.
“You’re not hideous.” I unbutton my formerly black blazer, the sole suit I own faded from having been hand washed every night. “Why do you pay for sex?”
“Everyone pays for sex in one way or another.” Nate visually tracks my movements as I shrug out of the garment, removing one more barrier between us. “Some muddle the price with talk of love and feelings. I prefer straightforward, honest negotiations.”
He prefers to live life on his terms, laws be damned. I find this sexy, very sexy. I roll back my shoulders, my muscles tight from having carried the backpack, my movements deliberately sensuous.
Nate’s gaze lowers to the pale curves threatening to spill out of my favorite black leather corset. He peruses my breasts thoroughly, leisurely, his eyes darkening to a stormy gray. An exciting awareness radiates from him, causing my nipples to pucker and my body to hum.
“What are you doing, Miss Trent?” His voice is low and tongue-suckingly deep, making me think of entwined limbs and tangled bedsheets.
“I’m hot.” I drift my fingertips across my cleavage, teasing my skin, tormenting him, the man I must and will have. “And I’m moist. Do you have a tissue?”
Nate hesitates before extracting a neatly folded square of pristine white fabric from the inside pocket of his jacket. He holds it out to me.
I reach for the handkerchief, my fingers brush against his, and a sensual spark surges up my arm, lighting fires throughout my body. Nate’s mask of ice slips for two heartbeats, revealing a hunger as raw and as savage as my own. He then yanks his hand away, and this hunger is concealed, sealed by a layer of frost.
He wants me. Badly. I pat the sinfully soft cotton over my breasts, and Nate’s clean, fresh-out-of-the-shower scent transfers from the fabric onto my skin. He watches me, his expression carefully blank. Only his eyes convey his emotions, his gaze dark and intense.
“You need to get laid, Nate,” I bluntly state, hoping to shock him into action, to snap his control as he’s snapping mine.
Nate leans closer, looming over me, tall and overpoweringly masculine. “Are you making me an offer, Miss Trent?” His body heat weaves seductively around my chest, over my stomach, between my thighs.
“Would you be interested if I was?” I tilt my chin defiantly upward, bringing my lips nearer to his. “I’m not one of your vanilla sex yes-women.” I skim his handkerchief over my black corset, polishing the leather with the cotton square. “Do you think you can handle me, big boy?”
My challenge is a bluff. I doubt I can handle him. I haven’t had sex in over two years, all of my excess time and energy spent on the charity website and app I’m designing.
“I can handle you.” Nate’s voice deepens even more, his husky tones curling my toes. He meets my gaze, holding it.
In his eyes I see the temptation of locked doors and the lure of deep dark secrets, both of these impossible for me to resist. I lean forward, balancing on my toes, and Nate lowers his grim mouth until his lips are a lick away from mine. As he breathes out I breathe in, every inch of me conscious of every inch of him.
“But I won’t accept your challenge, Miss Trent, tempting though it might be.” He pulls away from me and the passion between us dissipates, evaporating into the cool air. “I only deal with professionals. I give them cash. They give me sex. There are no disappointments, no unreasonable expectations, no promises of love or forever.”
This is the second time he’s mentioned love. “I didn’t ask you for love or forever, Romeo.” I know who I am. I’m the girl a college boy screws in a back alley after a rave. I’m not the woman any man brings home to his parents.
“You didn’t have to ask me for love.” Nate watches me warily, his spine rigidly straight and his shoulders squared. “You grew up on a hippie commune. Peace and love are what you believe in.”
I jerk my chin upward, surprised he knows where I grew up. My past isn’t something I talk about. “You forgot freedom,” I point out. “Peace, love, and freedom are what hippies believe in.” I don’t follow my parents’ all-natural path, being too fascinated with technology and other modern conveniences, but I do believe in those three ideals.
“Yes, freedom. You believe everything should be free,” Nate says. “Including information that should remain private.” His voice is edged with disapproval. “You don’t have any desire for money.”
He’s correct. I don’t have any desire for money. I do, however, desire him. Too much. If he asked me, I’d drop to my knees, unzip his black dress pants, and suck him dry right here, right now, in the corporate elevator, uncaring of the security cameras, of our coworkers, of my rules.
“Put your blazer back on, Miss Trent.” Nate slams the brakes on my sexual fantasy. “I’m not interested.” His gaze flicks to my breasts.
“Bullshit.” I ball up the handkerchief and whip it at him. Nate catches the fabric and nonchalantly stuffs the handkerchief into the right pocket of his pants, his control infuriating me.
“You’re very interested.” I thrust my arms into the sleeves of the blazer and yank the garment closed. “Right now you’re wondering if my breasts are as full, as soft as they appear.” His eyes flash a warning I can’t and won’t heed, my pride smarting from his rejection. “You’re asking yourself how I taste, if I’m wet, hot, tight.”
The elevator doors open and I don’t move. I stare at Nate, huffing with indignation and sexual frustration. I want him and I know he wants me. Why won’t he touch me?
“This is your floor, Miss Trent.” Nate’s voice drips ice. His response should cool me down. It doesn’t. It heats me up, pushing me
to the point of combustion.
“The answer is yes. I am wet, hot, tight.” I grab my backpack. “I’m all of that and more.” I stomp out of the elevator. “And Nate?” I glance over my shoulder and meet his glacier gaze. “I taste delicious.” The doors close between us.
He’ll be thinking about me all day. I strut down the hallway, my head held high, a jaunty bounce to my walk.
The office walls are painted gray. The industrial carpet and cubicle dividers are a shade darker. My coworkers are dressed in black and white, their suits crisp and their hair neat.
I call out cheery good-mornings as I pass people. A prissy woman with carefully arranged blond curls shushes me. A grim-looking woman clucks her tongue. Silence is the unspoken rule on the legal floor.
I don’t follow other people’s silly rules and wish the next coworker I meet a louder good-morning. My dad says I can’t help myself. I’m the evolution of the hippie, the offspring of two rebellious souls, genetically inclined for anarchy, taught to question everything.
All I know is I don’t fit in. Anywhere. I left the commune because the members wanted to restrict my computer time, their weak-assed attempt to convert me failing. I got booted out of the hacking community because I pushed too hard for peace and love. I certainly don’t belong here, at Blaine Technologies.
I venture deeper into corporate America. The sea of gray is constant and never ending. The lights are fluorescent. The hum of printers softens the quiet. Somewhere Mother Earth is weeping.
“Green,” Miss Yen, my boss, hollers, the tiny lawyer always knowing when I arrive. I hurry into her office, rapping my knuckles against the door as I enter.
My stylish boss clearly had no input in decorating her office. Ugly vertical blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows. An even uglier modern painting hangs on one interior wall, meaningless stripes of white and gray slashing a stark black canvas.
Filing cabinets line the perimeter, forming a wall of temptation I couldn’t resist. Their flimsy locks were no match for me. I scanned the contents one late night and found nothing of interest, Miss Yen keeping her secrets elsewhere.
She stands behind her black lacquer desk, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her beautiful face. Her dark suit hugs her slim body. A long silver scar skims across one of her cheeks. Gray file folders stuffed with paper are stacked on the desk in front of her.
My shoulders slump. I recognize these files, having spent six endless days compiling them. “Is there a problem with the expense reports?”
“Is there a problem?” The woman known as the dragon lady snorts. “You might say that. Finance rejected them.”
The finance department is Nate’s realm, staffed with employees as uptight and unbending as he is. “They rejected all of the expense reports?”
“All of them,” Miss Yen confirms. “If finance finds an error in one report their new policy is to reject the entire submission.” Her lips twist. “Supposedly they’re busy with security issues.” She glances at me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Green?”
“Why would I know anything about that?” I strive to appear as innocent as I possibly can. If Nate had correctly named me as the culprit, Mr. Henley, Blaine Technologies’ head of cybersecurity, would have already fired me. He warned me that my next violation would be my last. It seems the company caps allowable employee offences at thirty-two.
“Leave the other departments alone and focus on this task.” Miss Yen pushes the stack of files toward me. “Confirm each and every line. Once Mr. Lawford sets rules he doesn’t deviate from them. If the expense reports have errors he will reject them again.”
“Yes, Miss Yen.” Nate’s sexual frustration is causing trouble for everyone, and I should feel contrite. What I feel is smug satisfaction. His control is severely compromised, my victory over him imminent. I haul the files back to my gray cubicle.
No one else sits in temp row. Kat, my friend and fellow intern, has been promoted. She’s spending all of her personal time planning her fashionista wedding to Mr. Henley. Anna, another best friend, is a new mom and works for her husband, Gabriel Blaine, the CEO and founder of Blaine Technologies. Both women are head over heels in love with their executives.
I have nothing except a sure-to-be short-lived sexapalooza with an Iceman and a charitable side project I don’t know how to launch. The pinch-faced lady seated one row over fills the air with floral-scented fumes. I add one crazy work neighbor to my list.
I toss my backpack into an empty desk drawer, log onto my computer, and peruse the first expense report, confirming line after line. The coding is correct. The numbers tie back to the receipts. The only mistake I find is a two-cent variance on one of the totals, a freakish error due to exchange rates and rounding.
Blaine Technologies is a billion-dollar company and the expense reports have been rejected for a two-cent discrepancy. I grin. Nate will be mine before the end of the week.
I tap on the keyboard and access his schedule. The security issues that have him concerned don’t include his account. His password, MoneyMan7, remains the same. I add “Think about Camille’s breasts” to his to-do list.
Mere minutes pass before he checks this line item as completed. Nathan Lawford is thinking about my breasts. This lifts my spirits and I hum happily as I examine the next expense report.
Is he stroking himself while he fantasizes about me? Has he closed his office door, unzipped his pants, and curled his fingers around his thick cock? His shaft will be as straight and as rigid as he is, the hair around his base blond, fine, and neatly trimmed.
I shift in my chair, my pussy moistening. He’ll pump himself vigorously, in sure up-and-down strokes, as unrelenting with his own body as he is with the expense reports. A dab of pre-cum will form on his tip. I lick my lips.
Will he taste as clean and as fresh as he smells? I’ve hacked into his medical records, the escort company he favors requiring regular checkups. Nate is healthy, virile, a male in his prime.
And he’s thinking of me, quirky, crazy Camille Trent. I unclip my phone from my waistband, open my blazer, and take a photo of my breasts. The black corset I’m wearing contrasts vividly with my ivory skin and the overhead lights deepen the shadow between my curves, making me appear even better endowed than I already am. I send this naughty image to Nate’s personal e-mail account, giving him more to think about.
Teasing my sexually frustrated executive brightens my otherwise dull day. I smile and apply all of my attention to the stack of expense reports, determined to follow the rules for once in my insubordinate life and give Nate the perfection he requires.
About the Author
* * *
Cynthia Sax lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say, “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Cynthia Sax
The Seen Trilogy
He Watches Me
He Touches Me
He Claims Me
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Breaking All the Rules copyright © 2014 by Cynthia Sax.
FLASHES OF ME. Copyright © 2014 by Cynthia Sax. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of
the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780062328182
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062328229
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