by HELEN HARDT
“You’re not getting away this easily,” she says. “Tonight. We’re going out.”
“I don’t go out—”
“On work nights. Yeah, I know. God, Skye. Sometimes I wonder why I hang out with you at all.” Tessa rolls her brown eyes and smiles.
“Because you adore me,” I say, smiling back.
Tessa and I met in college at Boston University. We were on the same floor freshman year and got paired together for a team-building exercise during orientation.
We had nothing in common.
She’s a Boston city girl. I’m a rural girl from Kansas.
She studied accounting and sees everything in black and white. I studied photography and see everything in shades and layers.
She’s tanned and beautiful with a great body. I’m fair and reasonably pretty. Yeah, I’ll give myself a fairly good body, too, compliments of walking, yoga, and the occasional Jazzercise class.
But we clicked and are still friends today. I’d do anything for her. Except something ridiculous, like getting drunk for no reason or having a one nighter with a stranger just to get Braden Black off my mind.
I have my limits.
“I do adore you.” She smiles. “You’re not getting out of this, though. This weekend, prepare for some off-the-charts fun.”
…
The shoot went off without a hitch, and Addison promptly threw her pretzel in the trash. She hates carbs almost as much as she hates coffee. Actually, she loves carbs, but she can’t maintain her waifish figure if she indulges too often. I saw her put away a whole pizza once, though. I’m pretty sure she barfed afterward.
“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” she tells me. “Be sure to stay at the office until six thirty because I’m expecting some important calls.”
“Okay, have a good day.”
I head back to the office. I walk through the ornate hotel lobby—complete with crystal chandelier—to the conference wing where Addie’s office is. We keep it locked up when we’re out on shoots.
Someone’s standing outside the door and leaning against the wall. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit and reading the New York Times. I can’t see his face, but already my body reacts.
It’s him.
It’s Braden Black.
Chapter Seven
I check my watch. It’s noon. Lunchtime. Addie and I left around nine thirty to do the shoot. How long has Braden Black been standing there?
Don’t get too excited. He’s probably here to see Addie.
I clear my throat.
He lowers his paper. His expression is noncommittal. Is he happy to see me? Surprised? Angered? I can’t tell.
His full, firm lips twitch slightly, and I flash back to the memory of them sliding over mine, of his tongue diving into my mouth for a deep, raw kiss the likes of which I’ll never experience again.
“May I help you?” I ask.
“Sure. You can open the door.”
I quickly retrieve the key from my purse and unlock the office. “Addie’s not here.”
“Good,” he says.
Okay, then. I open the door, walk in, and set my purse on my desk. I take out my phone quickly and check the comments on today’s post. Everything’s in order so far. I’ll respond to a few later. After he’s gone.
My heart is racing. Really racing. When I turn around, away from the desk, Braden Black will be there, standing tall, his glorious body filling out his blue suit in all the right ways. My blood pulses through my veins, heating to boiling.
“Skye,” he says, his voice dark.
I turn. “Why are you here?”
“For this.”
He grabs me and kisses me. Hard. I gasp, and he thrusts his tongue into my mouth, exploring at first but then taking. Another raw kiss, and my pussy is already pooling with desire. My nipples tighten and harden, and I push my breasts into him, move my hips without thinking.
He groans into my mouth, the hum like a bass clef crescendo on a piano. Is this truly why he came here? To kiss me again?
He tastes of morning coffee and peppermint, different from the wine-laced kiss we shared last night. Fireworks explode inside me, and soon my thoughts turn to mush, obliterated by Braden’s lips.
Only feeling remains—pure, raw emotion that coils through me and leaves me like a coyote trying to keep from springing on its prey too soon.
Control. Maintain control.
Fuck control.
I grab his head and thread my fingers through his silken hair. I pull him toward me and explore him as he explores me, our tongues locked in a sword fight, our lips sliding against each other. Nothing matters. Nothing except this amazing kiss.
Until he breaks away, sweat dotting his brow.
His full lips are sexy and swollen, and they glisten from our kiss. His hair is mussed from my fingers, and yes…his cock is bulging against the blue wool of his trousers.
“Dinner tonight,” he says huskily. “I’ll pick you up here at seven. And this time, Skye, you’re coming to my bed. Get used to the idea. It’s going to happen.”
He turns and walks out the door, leaving my legs wobbling.
…
Sitting next to Braden in the back seat of his car, I clear my throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”
“My place.”
My body turns to melted butter. “Oh? You cook?”
“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”
I nod. Of course he does.
Everything’s okay. I’ve been to his place. I’m safe there. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. Which doesn’t really matter anyway. I do want to go to bed with him. Hell, I wanted to last night. I never dreamed I’d get another chance with Braden Black. Seriously, he can have whoever he wants.
So why does he want me?
Is it the thrill of the chase? Does he only want me because I got away the first time?
Probably.
Does it matter?
You need to let your hair down, phantom Tessa whispers in my head.
I know one thing. I’ve been given another chance for the night of a lifetime, and this time I’m not going to blow it.
My skin tingles—with excitement or fear, I’m uncertain. Get ready to give in, Skye.
We arrive and take the elevator to his place. Sasha greets us at the door.
“Hey, sweet girl,” Braden says, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”
“Is Annika the chef?” I ask.
“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.”
There’s an upstairs? Braden taps something into his phone. Within a few minutes, a gray-haired woman enters the room—where did she come from?—leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word.
A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil. We must be having Italian. Great. I love Italian. Except at the moment I’m feeling like anything that goes into my mouth will come right back up.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Braden says.
I stop myself from laughing. Comfortable? Here? Does he know how impossible his request is? We hardly know each other. We’ve shared one meal and two kisses. That’s it. Besides, for a girl who grew up in a modest farmhouse and now lives in a tiny downtown Boston studio, this glitz will never be comfortable.
I almost wish we could just go to bed and get it over with, spare us the strain of a dinner together.
“Wine?” he asks. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” He pulls a bottle from an ornate wrought-iron rack.
I was right. We’re having Italian. “What’s for dinner?”
“Penne
arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” He opens the bottle, pours two glasses, and hands me one.
I take a sip. “Yes. Love it.”
“Good.”
He hasn’t smiled since he picked me up at the office. Last night, he smiled a few times. He seems darker tonight, and though his demeanor should frighten me, it doesn’t.
I’m all in now.
His kisses invade my mind, negating all other thoughts and keeping my brain fuzzy. I’m hyperaware of him next to me, and an invisible energy pulses between us. If I touch his arm, I fully expect a shock to spark through me.
“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”
He leads me to the kitchen. All marble and hardwood, of course, with a giant island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.
“Please.” Braden waves his hand over the platter. “After you.”
“No, go ahead,” I say. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”
“Of course.” He takes a skewer, loads it up with the antipasti, and then drizzles olive oil over it. He holds a napkin to catch the drips. He pulls the green olive off with his teeth.
And I imagine those teeth around my nipple.
Oh my God.
At least now I know how to eat the antipasti. Of course if I eat…
“Please,” he says again after swallowing.
I nod. I’ll choke it down somehow. I grab a skewer and push a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. I move it toward my mouth.
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
I lift my brows.
“The olive oil.”
Actually, I left the olive oil out on purpose. The “preparing for an interview” workshop pops into my head again. I don’t want olive oil dripping on my blouse.
“I’m watching my fat intake,” I lie.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” He takes the skewer from me and drizzles the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
I pull the chunk of cantaloupe off with my teeth.
He inhales sharply.
The olive oil is peppery and slightly bitter against the sweet melon, and the effect is delicious. Braden was right. I pull the next piece, the prosciutto, off my skewer.
He inhales again. “Your mouth. Watching you eat is better than porn.”
I widen my eyes and meet his gaze. His eyes are like blue lightning.
This is turning him on. I’m eating, and he’s getting turned on.
It’s not completely out of the blue. I thought about my nipple when he bit into his olive. But he’s Braden Black. I’m just…me.
I set the skewer down on a napkin and take another sip of wine, wishing it were bourbon. I don’t know a lot about wine, but Wild Turkey, I get. I grew up with the woodsy scent and the notes of caramel and cinnamon. It burns a little going down, part of its charm.
“You don’t like the wine?” he says.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I did? I didn’t mean to.”
“You winced a little.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
I hesitate, unsure if I should tell him the truth. “Just thinking I’d rather be drinking Wild Turkey.”
Finally his lips turn upward and he laughs like he’s happy. “Why didn’t you ask for it, then?”
“I don’t know. You offered wine.”
“Ask for what you want here, Skye. Trust me, I plan on asking for what I want and then taking it.”
He picks up my wineglass and leaves the kitchen while his words spark embers in my body. In a few minutes, he returns with a lowball glass of the distinctive amber liquid.
“I’m a Wild Turkey fan myself,” he says.
“I know. You ordered it last night.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I like a vodka martini with oysters.” Definitely not a half-truth, though I always prefer Wild Turkey.
“Good call, but this goes with everything.” He hands me the glass. “I added one ice cube. Hope you like it that way.”
“Yeah, I do. I think watering it down just a touch brings out the flavor.”
“A Wild Turkey connoisseur, huh?”
“I’m from Kansas, so—”
“You’re not from here?”
I take a sip of bourbon and smile. “You didn’t notice my lack of accent?”
“Yeah, but I just figured you were from somewhere else on the East Coast. Not the Midwest.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “You look like a city girl.”
“Kansas has cities.”
“True, but not like the East Coast.”
“Also true,” I say. “I come from a farm anyway.”
“A farm?” He lifts his eyebrows. “A real, honest-to-goodness farm?”
“Uh…yeah. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Do you milk cows and everything?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t grow up on a dairy farm, Braden. I grew up on a corn farm. You know, knee-high by the Fourth of July?”
“That’s interesting.”
Interesting? Really? Corn is the most uninteresting thing on the planet, to my way of thinking.
“Why did you leave?”
I can’t help a short laugh. “Because I’ve taken about all the photos of corn I want to take in my career.”
“Right, photography. Makes sense.” He gazes at me, his eyes twinkling but never leaving mine, as he takes the last sip of his wine. “Ready for dinner?”
I’ve only had two small sips of my Wild Turkey. Not near enough to relax me. If I’m going to do this—leave my control at the door—I can’t depend on booze. I have to do it myself.
“Sure, let’s eat.” I take another small sip, resisting the urge to shoot it, ice cube or not. I set the glass down and lick the tangy spiciness from my lips.
His gaze burns into me.
“Fuck dinner,” he growls.
Chapter Eight
He grabs my hand and leads me to his bedroom.
Yes, the bedroom door. I’ve seen it before. It looms before me like the entrance to a fortress hiding jewels and treasures. My body is a warm mass of boiling honey, my heart a stampeding herd.
This is it.
This is going to happen.
I’m doing this. I’m not chickening out. I want this. I want him.
He pulls me toward his body and pushes his erection into my belly. “Feel that?” he whispers, tugging on my earlobe with his teeth. “Feel what you do to me. You won’t leave me wanting tonight, Skye. I’m going to fuck you.”
He lets me go and opens the door to his bedroom.
And it’s a sight to behold.
While the living room was black lacquer everywhere, the bedroom is masculine mahogany with navy-blue and ivory accents. As thrilling as his decor is, though, I’m drawn to the window that encompasses an entire wall overlooking the Boston Harbor.
I walk forward, as if in a trance. The glass is so clear that I feel like I could fall off the edge.
“One-way glass,” Braden says. “We can see out, but no one can see in.”
I’m only half listening. I’m much more interested in watching the yachts sailing into the marina. “Is one of those yours?” I ask.
“The Galatea, yeah. Ben’s got her out tonight.”
“Ben your brother?”
“Only Ben I know. He’s more into the boat thing than I am.”
“How can you not be into the boat thing? They’re so beautiful.”
“They’re a damned lot of work.”
“But don’t you—”
He tugs on my ponytail. “Do you really want to talk about boats right now?”
I turn, and now I finally appreciate the rest of the bedroom. His bed is king size. Honestly, it looks larger than a king to me. The headboard is magnificent—mahogany rungs with odd little metal pieces artistically placed just so. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The navy-blue comforter covering the bed is a shiny fabric, probably silk. The bed is on the main wall facing the large picture window. On one adjacent wall is a highboy dresser and chest, the mahogany matching the bed frame perfectly. Next to the highboy is an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, which is odd, because right next to it is a huge walk-in closet. The door is ajar, so I can see right into it. Why would he need an antique wardrobe?
On the opposite wall sit two wingback chairs in navy with gold flecks. The bed is flanked by two mahogany end tables with lamps on each.
“This is amazing,” I say.
“It’s a nice place to come home to at night.”
“I’ll say. If this were mine, I’m not sure I’d ever get out of bed.”
A soft growl emerges, seeming to come from his chest as he takes off his suit jacket. “I like the sound of that.”
I hold back a quiver.
I’m already wet between my legs. Have been since he picked me up at Addie’s office. Everything about Braden is sex on a stick—his silky dark hair, his searing blue eyes, the baritone timbre of his voice, his masculine hands, the way his suit hugs his body.
Yeah, I’ve seen his body.
The GQ spread included a shot of him on the beach. Yum. I’m about find out how much he was Photoshopped.
Not much, I hope.
Actually, it doesn’t matter. I’m doing him no matter what. I made that decision in the restaurant last night, even if I postponed it twenty-four hours.
Or did he make the decision for me?
I erase that thought from my mind. I need to think I’m the one who decided, to save at least some semblance of being in charge.
I’m going to fuck Braden Black.
“Take off your clothes,” he says, “slowly.”
My face heats. Am I actually going to do this? If the pounding of my heart is any indication, the answer is a very resounding yes. I unbutton my blouse. No problem. I can still stay in control. Though I don’t want to disobey him. I want to obey him without question, which scares the hell out of me.
