“Ada,” he murmured against my lips “Ada.” His hands on either side of me gripped the sheets.
“Yes,” I arched, the force of his movements rubbing against my clit. “Just like that…”
Grant gave a low growl and pulled me closer - there was not a single part of us that didn’t touch. It was a fusing, something so powerful and overwhelming that I knew there was no thought to it. As if all pretense had fallen away, all lies and every facade, and there was only us - alone and naked in the darkness, magic created between us.
“Hell, Ada,” he groaned above me. I clasped his neck and kept him close as my release barreled through me. It started deep within but soon spread through my limbs, a sluggish and wonderful warmth. Dimly I felt him cry out against my neck and shudder into me with the force of his own orgasm.
“Wow,” I murmured into his ear, a dark and damp curl tickling my nose. There was a low chuckle from where he lay, head in the crook of my neck.
“Yeah. Wow.”
16
Grant
The numbers on the spreadsheet swam before my eyes as I struggled to refocus. I had a meeting with new suppliers in less than ten minutes and hadn’t finished reading through the briefing material yet. There was no reason for this unusual delay in my usually planned days - except, of course, for a five-foot-eight blonde heiress sitting twenty paces outside the door to my office.
Foolishly, I had thought that spending the night with her might soothe the ache that had grown between us. Put the fire to rest, douse it, satisfy us both.
Instead, it had caused within me a desire to be consumed entirely by her flames. A mad-man, that was what she had made out of me. Delirious and desirous.
And now she was trying to kill me.
Ada had worn a skin-tight grey suit, hugging every curve and indention of her body. She looked professional, no doubt, but also absolutely delectable. When I’d seen her on my way into my office, her hair had been up, but a tendril had escaped curled down the nape of her neck. My hand ached to reach out and trace the soft skin there.
I won’t work here forever, she’d said. That was arguably true. She only had a month left of her internship.
I looked down at the papers on my desk only to see Ada before me. My hands on the curves of her hips, a perfect handhold. Her little sounds of pleasure when I first entered her, as if she had never been so gladly surprised by anything in life. And her sweet, satisfied smile after she completely wrecked me, like she couldn’t wait to do that again.
There had been no planning with Ada. I had tried to use my usual tricks, the ways of leading that had been appreciated with the women of my past, but Ada would have none of it. I simply couldn’t be in control around her. Not of my own emotions, and certainly not of my libido.
Worst was that she had curled up against me afterward and fallen asleep like that, her face peaceful in slumber. Her hair a golden mess across my chest and I had enjoyed it. I’d slept better than I had in years.
The static in my desk phone crackled, signaling that Linda was about to speak. “Mr. Wood? Your one-o-clock is here. Shall I send them in?”
I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Yes, please do.”
I’d just have to make things up as I went along, clearly. It was becoming a common approach these day.
* * *
An impromptu email from advertising later and then the entire marketing team sat before my desk. They were generally the ones I considered a necessary evil - expensive, difficult, creative - and absolutely essential for the longevity and survival of Hathaway’s.
Only this time, they were sitting there with Ada.
“I know this was on short notice, Grant, but I think we could really be on to something,” Marc said. “The original idea came from Ada and then we’ve refined it and worked on it.”
One of the junior marketing associates lifted up a set of thick posters plastered on to cardboard.
"These are prototypes," he said and flicked through them. Promotional posters. The Hathaway’s elegant black and white logo, but displayed like the Hollywood sign on the side of a mountain. Beneath it were drawings of old cars and palm trees.
A Hathaway’s Hollywood Themed Auction Party, the subtitle read.
The next displayed Hathaway’s logo blazing behind an English country house manor. Ladies and gentlemen in tuxes and wide empire dressed loitered before it. A Hathaway’s Regency Themed Auction Party, the subtitle read.
They were beautifully made, artistic and elegant with a touch of fun. The suggestion that we didn’t take ourselves too seriously while being entirely in on the joke.
Marc rubbed his hands together, eagerness showing in every pore. “Hathaway’s stands for trustworthiness and refinement. We don’t want to change that - we just want to show that we also know how to have a fair bit of fun. Those who sell most with us will all get invitations to these events. They become something more than just the Charity Auction ball, new events to organize their social calendar around.”
“And to increase the social capital of the brand,” I added. “To make it more a matter of prestige to list their artifacts and paintings with us.”
“Precisely. We play on what we have in spades - the power of our brand,” Marc said. “Each auction party will have a different, elegant theme in keeping with the goods we sell that night. Maybe four times a year, or once a season?”
"It's a good idea. If we coordinate with our event team, we should be able to have the first of these events in late April. Is that feasible for your department?"
Marc gave an enthusiastic nod. “It is. We can have further prototypes drawn in and talk to Event.”
“Great. Let’s schedule a meeting for next week to go over themes more in-depth. We’ll need to stockpile certain goods for selling for these events in line with that.”
“Yes. And I’d like to reiterate, sir, that Ada was the brainchild behind this entire idea. Credit should go where credit is deserved, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” I said. Ada had her hands crossed in her lap and looked at me serenely. Nobody who saw her would guess what we’d been doing only hours before.
“We’ll leave you to yours, and get in contact with Linda to schedule a meeting next week.”
“Until then,” I said. The junior associate carefully picked up the prototypes again. They began to make their way to the exit, Ada trailing last. I tried, and failed, to avoid ogling at her body from behind in that ass-hugging suit.
She stopped and turned, hitting me with a charming, wide smile. “I was wondering, sir, if we could have a meeting where we evaluate how my internship is going?”
I struggled for composure. “You’re requesting an evaluations meeting?”
“Yes. I’d like to see what you think I’ve been doing right or wrong.”
“Come see me after four. I should have a few minutes free.”
She gave a brilliant smile. “Will do. Thank you.”
One after one they filed out of my office until the door closed and I was once again alone with my books and work and thoughts. I’d prayed she wouldn’t do anything stupid now that we’d slept together, nothing that would start rumors flying or tongues wagging. If she wanted an evaluations meeting, I’d give her one - she couldn’t simply use it as an excuse to get alone time, even if my heart had leaped at the notion.
I tried to still it.
* * *
Ada slipped into my office at four-sharp, a notepad tucked against her chest.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
She smiled slyly and sat down gingerly in the chair opposite me. Was she sore? The question hovered on my tongue - I wanted to know everything about her - only to be quickly killed. Professionalism, Grant, while in the office, I told myself.
“An evaluations meeting, Ada?”
“Yes. We haven’t had one yet.”
“An oversight on my part, I assure you.”
“So? How have I been doing so far?”
/> I side-stepped the question, asking something that was at the forefront of my mind. “You’re an executive intern. Why were you working for Marc’s marketing team?”
“I sat next to him at lunch the other week, and we spoke. I shared my idea for it and he liked it. I only participated once more, in creating the design outlines for the poster prototypes to show you.”
“You designed them?”
She looked slightly uncomfortable and gave a shrug. “Well, I drew little sketches of how they might look. But they improved them greatly, of course.”
“That’s quite impressive, Ada.”
“Despite not being in the field I’m supposed to work in?” She asked, looking relieved. Did she think I would have objected? Was I that intimidating to her sometimes? Ada seemed completely irreverent most of the time. She certainly had in bed.
"You're an intern. You're here to learn and to contribute. This was a terrific contribution that didn’t distract you from your other tasks. I'd say it shows initiative."
She blushed. "Thank you. I know you're not a fan of events, Grant, but with Jack and Thorns competing in commission fees I thought we could hit them with glamour. That's what Hathaway's is associated with, anyway."
And you, I wanted to add. Built upon your family's charm and wealth.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to do more of that in the future? Marketing?”
“Maybe. It’s interesting. Although I think the design part is more what I enjoy.”
“Good to know.”
“So? How have I been performing?”
I couldn’t help but smile at her eagerness. She really did want an evaluations meeting, then, and not just an excuse to spend time privately after last night.
Somehow, I felt both pleased and disappointed by that.
“Very well. Adam and Sarah both consider you a contribution to the team, and I know that Linda is very pleased with your assistance in handling the mailbox and scheduling. Your work with Marc shows initiative and creativity.”
She gave a small smile. “That’s good to hear.”
“What do you want to do with your final month of the internship?” The final month. The implication was clear between us, and I saw in her gaze that she understood. Only one more month until I was officially no longer her boss.
“Continue as I have. Perhaps rotate down and see some of the divisions in action that I haven’t before.”
“Excellent. Talk to Sarah about that - you should be able to accompany either her or Adam on visits, or me, should there be one you see in my schedule that seems interesting to you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile shifted from a kind one to one tinged with intimacy and secrets. “And thank you for last night, Grant.”
The door was closed. My com was off. No one would hear - and at the moment, I hardly cared if they did - as long as she kept looking at me like that.
“Sore today?”
Her eyes widened in surprise and then her smile turned fully wicked. “A little. You?”
I laughed. “My shoulders ache.”
She eyed her nails. “I’m not sorry.”
“Me neither.” I considered her. “No regrets, Ada?”
“None at all.” Her eyes were warm. “I take it you don’t have any either?”
“No. Only one month left…” I said, letting the statement trail off.
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together out of the office.”
"It's not a good idea," I said, but it wasn't in negation. Just a statement of fact, one I knew that neither she nor I could possibly fulfill. I wanted her again. Hell, I wanted her now, here, in my place of work.
She cocked her head slightly and pursed her full lips. “Is that really what you want, Grant?”
"No. It's not. Come over to mine tonight. Around eight. I'll order some dinner for us."
“Sushi,” she said immediately. “So you can practice.”
Irrational warmth spread through my chest at the thought, just as anticipation curled in my stomach.
“Sushi,” I agreed.
17
Ada
The bed was empty when I woke, the room dark. The clock only read 3:40 - we’d gone to bed around midnight, after sushi and drinks and a frankly fairly unreal evening. There was something about seeing Grant at ease that would never grow old. So where was he?
I rolled out of bed and pulled on my robe. My hair was tousled from the sex we’d had before falling asleep, my skin smelling faintly of his cologne. He’d stayed the night two days before, the first time this had happened. What had changed? We were in his apartment - he couldn’t be far. I padded out of my bedroom in search of clues.
Grant was silhouetted against the Manhattan skyline, sitting straight and quiet on the futon with his back to me. He couldn’t have heard me come in, because he didn’t turn - only continued to stare off into the distance like a man deep in thought.
There was something so profoundly lonely about the tableau that I pulled my robe tighter around me.
He glanced behind. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
"You didn't," I said and took a seat next to him. His thigh was hard next to mine, warm through the robe. He was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
He shook his head slightly. “No. The city is beautiful at night, though.”
“It is.” I took a hold of his hand, played with the fingers lightly. “Do you have bad dreams sometimes?”
“On occasion.” He turned to me, breaking the stark line of his profile against the light. “Why?”
“I did. For a long time. They’re less frequent now, but it’s still as jarring when they happen.”
He was quiet for a beat. “I can imagine.”
“You know you can tell me things as well, right?” I said tentatively. “Like I told you about Max? If you want, I mean.”
His hand tightened in mine. “Why are you saying that?”
“Because I care. And because I feel like you might not have that many people to confide in.”
“Why do you think I need to confide?”
There was no menace to his questions, no anger, only soft inquisitiveness. As if he could ask things about the way he was seen in a way he never would during the day. The night put, as always, a damper on things - covered it all so that only the brightest of things could shine through.
It lets us see things clearly.
I shrugged gently. “Only because of things you’ve told me. That your mother’s gone, for example. And that the yearly Charity Auction was changed to focus on orphanages the same year you began.”
His hand grew taut in my grasp. “You’ve been doing your research.”
I smiled, a little sad, and tried to look encouraging. “Not really. Just listening.”
He was silent for a long time as we watched the city below and from afar, removed from the hustle and bustle on the streets. Somehow there was never a dead moment in New York.
“I didn’t know it was possible to see so much,” he said finally.
“Only when you stop and look,” I said. “It’s not something I think you have to hide.”
“No,” he said. “Perhaps not.”
An arm came around me, strong and firm, pulling me into the warmth of his side. Lips touched my forehead.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s go back to bed.”
* * *
Being in the office the next day felt like being in school, carrying around a secret so big you felt like you might just burst with it.
The fact that Grant was nearby permeated everything I did, every thought I had. To think I’d once dreaded coming to work because of him.
The papers for the day's meeting were neatly stacked on my desk, delivered by the overnight courier. I grabbed them and my coffee cup, ready to head to the briefing meeting when Sarah burst into the office.
“Gosh, I’m so late.”
“Not to worry.” I
smiled. “Nothing major has happened. You’re only an hour later than usual.”
She slung her bag over her office chair and shook red hair out of her eyes. "Yeah, but it's an hour that counts. Did you hear?"
“Hear what?”
“One of our biggest clients just dropped us for Jack and Thorn’s.”
“Oh no. That’s the worst.”
“It is,” she nodded. “Not that we don’t take their clients, but that doesn’t make it easier when it happens to you.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead. For a moment I was glad I wasn’t in charge of customer relations - and had to report to Grant.
I put the stack of papers down. “Hey, whatever you need, let me help. Just give me instructions and I’ll be off.”
Sarah smiled wanly. “Thank you. I’ll let you know in an hour when I have a good overview of the situation.”
“Alright. I’ll be back from my meeting then.”
She stopped me with a hand to my elbow. “You look great today. Have you done something different?”
“No.”
"Are you sure? Nothing with your hair?"
I fiddled with my bracelet and smiled. “Nope. Just a good eight hours of sleep and all that.”
“Right,” she smiled. “See you later.”
I smoothed a hand over my hair as I hurried away and smiled to myself. We had definitely not gotten eight hours of sleep last night.
And I hadn’t fallen asleep again right away after our discussion either, thinking about what little he’d said and the document I’d found that fateful day in his office weeks ago.
Graham Woodhouse, fostered by the Eltons. He’d been eleven in the photo. Was he ever adopted? I knew that for a lot of older children, the prospects were very slim. Curiosity and a desire to unlock his secrets blossomed in me, despite my own admonitions. But whatever he wished to share with me would have to be in his own time.
That didn’t mean that I couldn’t do some of my own amateur sleuthing, however. Time to call in the big guns.
Look But Don't Touch: Enemies to Lovers Page 13
