Love So Dark: Billionaire Romance Duet

by Stasia Black

  “I didn’t wear it for you.”

  His eyebrows raise as if in disagreement.

  I grit my teeth.

  He gives me a winsome smile. “Either way, it does well for our purposes today.”

  What does that mean? I keep my posture straight. I swear my posture’s never been as good as it has been since I’ve met this man. I always stiffen like it’s some kind of armor. Ridiculous. “How so?”

  He ignores my question. “Go to the bathroom and bring yourself to orgasm. Make sure to touch yourself through the underwear. I want them drenched with your scent.”

  “Wha—” I start, but break off mid-question. Of course, this fucker would make this kind of request.

  His face darkens. “You have,” he pulls his phone from his pocket, “approximately eight minutes. If you haven’t soaked them sufficiently at that point,” he leans in close so that his breath is hot on my ear, “I’ll come and give you a helping hand.”

  I pull back from him and his smile goes wide in what I can only feel is an imitation of a shark—all sharp, white teeth.

  I push past him and head to the en-suite bathroom in his office. His easy-going laugh follows me. I don’t know what this new game is, but if I have the opportunity to do something without his hands or presence, I’m all for it.

  I get in the smaller, bright room—all white, of course, and shut the door with a slam. For a second I lean back against it and just breathe. I see myself in the mirror. Against the backdrop of this oh so stylish bathroom, standing in my black bra, thong and high heels, with my blonde up-do and pristine makeup, I look like I’m some kind of pin-up model. Or a high-paid prostitute. My arms immediately raise to cover myself and I turn away from the mirror.

  But who am I kidding? I came in here with the express directions from my boss to get myself off in eight minutes. Shit, probably more like seven now. My arms drop. Or six.

  Screw it. There’s no time for shame or anything else. I just have to get it done. Just push everything else out.

  I sit down on the toilet and start touching myself. I’m sure Bryce’s threat to do it for me if I don’t isn’t idle. Bastard.

  Then again, how is he going to know if I don’t do it? Apart from if the panties aren’t wet? I mean, I could just drip some sink water on them. I sit up on the toilet lid and look around the bathroom. Are there cameras in here? Dammit.

  I look up at the ceiling and in the corners. I don’t see anything. Just smooth white ceiling tiles. There’s not much decoration in here, just those abstract Japanese art prints on the wall and the bamboo shoots in a clear vase. I lean closer. Is there a camera hiding in those pebbles at the base? I can’t tell.

  But Gentry Tech is famous for their surveillance technology. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t have time for this, anyway. I start rubbing at my clit. No doubt the bastard will smell my damn underwear. He’s that tactless. There’s no getting around it.

  All right. Think sexy thoughts. Channing Tatum. I wince. Ugh, no. All of the sudden I just imagine him going “S’up?” like some dumb California surfer dude, and it’s a total turn off.

  Okay. All right. Think about all the romantic comedies I’ve seen lately. Prince charming type guys. Kissing scenes. I grind at my clit.

  Nothing.

  Fine then, there were some hot sex scenes from the romance novels I read. The one where the guy was really sweet when he took that girl’s virginity and held her close all night after they made love? I try to recall it as I push my panties up inside myself. But I’m still almost all dry.

  Shit. It’s less than five minutes now. I have to get this done. I glare at the door. Dammit. I close my eyes.

  My fantasies are my own. They don’t matter.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and ignore the darker places my mind has to go to make myself come. Rough hands. The grip of a stranger. Taking what isn’t his. Harsh words. Harsher hands. And God, oh— oh God—

  I come out of the bathroom, ignoring the fact that I’m sure my cheeks are flushed. Bryce waits right outside the door. Was he listening? If he was, he didn’t get any thrills there. I was careful not to make a single sound.

  But he knows what I was doing. While he was standing right here. And in spite of myself, I feel it. The shame. He doesn’t miss it, what I’m feeling.

  He smiles, the shark smile. So maybe that’s what it was about, this little trip down mind-fuck lane. He gets off on my humiliation. He holds the dress out to me and it’s difficult to keep myself from ripping it out of his grasp.

  But I don’t. I take it calmly, unzip it and slip it over my head.

  “Help with the zipper?”

  I don’t say a word as I settle the dress on and then turn my back to him. His knuckles graze my spine as he slides the zipper up. If he notices the chill I get, he doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be needing that thong now.” He says it calmly.

  I’m not surprised. At least he let me put the dress on first. He offers me an arm to steady me so I can take the damn thing off. What a gentleman.

  I smile at him as I refuse his arm. Look at that, I’m getting my own array of smiles now. This one I’ll call my sugar-snake smile—it’s all apparent sweetness but with venom underneath. I slip my heels off so I’m not off balance while I pull the thong down my legs as discretely as I can. I ball them up and hand them over to him.

  He brings them to his nose and inhales.

  I arch an eyebrow at him as I slip my heels back on. “So crass?”

  He looks at me with genuine surprise while he sticks the underwear in the inside of his suit coat pocket.

  “Watch out for that wicked tongue.” He steps close. For a moment I think he’s reaching forward as if to adjust something on the front of my dress, but then he grabs my breasts and tweaks at my nipples.

  I yelp and pull back but he just keeps plucking at them while he talks as if nothing’s amiss.

  “There.” He looks down at my breasts in satisfaction. “See that your nipples stay like that. I want them puckered when we walk into the restaurant.”

  I’m breathing hard as he turns away.

  Damn him. I want to run forward and kick him with the tip of my pointy high heel. For a second there, a second, I felt like I was on an equal footing with him. And then, just like that, he stole it away from me. Put me back in my place.

  I follow him but I’m breathing hard, feeling stupidly like I want to cry. But screw that. I bite it back. I’m sure he would get such a kick out of my tears. Humiliation is this guy’s high, after all.

  “Don’t forget your tablet,” he calls over his shoulder. “This is a business lunch.” He says it like I’m a moron who’s slacking on the job.

  I smooth my hair as I hurry back into my office to grab my tablet and purse. I barely make it to the elevator before it closes. Just as he intended, I’m sure.

  Bryce doesn’t speak to me the entire ride over to the restaurant, which is fine by me. We’re in the back of a luxurious town car and he leaves plenty of space between us on the bench. He stares at his phone. I suppose I could be doing the same, trying to keep up on the endless emails that I’m sure are stacking up.

  But trying to read in a car makes me nauseous. In addition to the nerves already roiling in my stomach. Dammit. I am not in over my head. I’m not. I can do this. I can handle whatever Bryce throws at me. I have to. No matter what’s going on inside, I resolve to show nothing. I make my face a perfectly pleasant mask while I watch the busy streets.

  It’s not a long drive. When the car slows, Bryce only looks up long enough to stare at my chest pointedly. I don’t even bother to wonder if he’s serious about wanting my nipples perky. I pluck at them myself, even twisting them a little. They’re sensitive from his handling of them earlier, and they harden right up.

  I don’t meet his eyes, and I’m glad when he opens the door. He gestures for me to step out first.

  I give him a disingenuous smile as I slide past him to exit. He follows me an
d then puts a hand on the small of my back. It immediately puts me on alert, but I don’t pull away. I won’t let him know he’s disconcerting me. It would just feed his ego or whatever head-trip controlling me gives him.

  “This way,” he says in my ear, guiding me forward.

  I stiffen under his touch and clutch my purse a little tighter.

  “Relax,” he laughs. He squeezes my waist. As if that’s supposed to help. “This is a meeting with a very old and dear friend. I know you’ll be my good girl.”

  What a condescending assh—

  Before I can finish the thought, we’re inside and being greeted by a hostess. Bryce has his charismatic smile out, and I can tell the hostess is entirely dazzled by him. She looks like she’s still in college, all doe-eyes and impressionable.

  “Mr. Gentry,” her face lights up. He must be a regular. “We have your private dining room all ready. Just this way!” She beams at him and I don’t miss the way she pops her chest out. I inwardly smirk. It’s a good move, after all. The dude is a boob man. She sways her hips as she leads us forward into the dark and intimately lit restaurant.

  The Bay Area doesn’t lack for all kinds of eateries, and I didn’t check out the name before I was ushered inside. From the décor and dark wood paneling and aroma, I’m guessing this is some kind of European inspired cuisine. Italian? French? I can’t tell.

  I follow Bryce, and to my surprise he isn’t watching the perky waitress—he’s looking at me. Scrutinizing me. Like he’s watching me take everything in. It’s unnerving and I start moving again, quickly catching up to the hostess where she’s waiting ahead at a set of double doors that lead into what I’m assuming is the private dining room she was talking about.

  Bryce keeps right beside me, arm at my back.

  When we step inside, our other party is already waiting. The man stands up as we enter. And. Holy. Shit.

  It’s Jackson Vale, the founder and CEO of CubeThink. Everyone knows he’s Bryce Gentry’s former best friend and collaborator—together they wrote that breakthrough robotics algorithm I studied in college—and though they compete in different markets, their drones now rival one another for technical prestige.

  So why the hell are we sitting down to a cozy lunch date with the guy?

  “Jackson,” Bryce says with a breezy smile. He rounds the table and gives the man that half-hug-slap-on-the-back thing guys do.

  “Bryce,” Jackson returns. His voice is stiff and it’s only when Bryce pulls back that I get a better look at the other man. Jackson is slightly taller than Bryce. Where Bryce is sleek, Jackson is built and muscled. Bryce has always seemed like the most intimidating man in the room just because of his bearing and charisma.

  Until now.

  My gaze is caught on Jackson. It’s not charisma he exudes. He’s not smiling or even outwardly attempting any charm I can see. He’s just got… presence. Physically because he’s such a big man. Brown hair so dark it’s almost black. He’s smooth-shaven but I can see the outline of his five o’clock shadow even though it’s only noon.

  And his eyes. They’re so dark. Not because they’re brown. I think they might even be blue. But there’s a darkness there.

  I can’t help but take the slightest step back when his eyes move from Bryce to me. My heart’s suddenly slamming a hundred beats a minute in my chest and my eyes flick to the doors that the hostess shut behind her. Six feet from me to the door.

  Fight or flight. Bryce’s one thing. Somehow, I’ve always felt I can handle him. But this man…?

  “And this is?” Jackson addresses the question to Bryce, but his eyes don’t leave me. My feet seem locked in place. I want to whimper. My palms are sweaty. You’re in a public place, Cals. He can’t do anything to you. Because that’s why I’m whimpering, right? Fear… right?

  But there’s something else happening, too, something even more screwed up. Those nipples Bryce wanted perked up? They’re hard right now. And they’re pointing like rock-tipped arrows aimed straight at Jackson.

  Bryce’s arm slips around my waist. “This lovely creature is my new personal assistant, Miss Calliope Cruise. Isn’t she just a vision?” He pulls back and stares at me with pure adoration on his face.

  I can only gape. The hell? Not once has he ever looked at me with anything like what his expression is now. I try not to let the confusion show on my face and keep my features pleasant.

  “Not only that,” Bryce turns back to Jackson, “but she’s pursuing a degree in advanced robotics from Stanford.”

  Again, I struggle not to reveal my surprise. When Bryce interviewed me, he made me feel like a college dropout, but now he’s putting the best spin on everything. Like he’s showing me off.

  And suddenly it clicks. He is trying to show me off. He’s trotting out his prize show pony to impress Jackson.

  The possessive hand around my waist suddenly drops and pinches my ass. Right. Time to get with the program and perform. I can wonder about the why later. I smile up at Bryce graciously and try to channel the hostess from earlier, adding a touch of awe in my expression.

  “And I can’t thank Mr. Gentry enough for giving me the real-world experience of working at such an amazing company,” I gush. “I’m learning so many things by getting to see the inner workings of how he develops and grooms new ideas through each stage of production.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jackson says with a mocking tone. “Bryce always was good at taking other people’s ideas and pretending they were his own.”

  I don’t miss the tick in Bryce’s jaw at the jab.

  “Why don’t we sit so we can enjoy this delicious lunch I took the liberty of ordering for us?” Bryce holds out his arms to indicate the table.

  Jackson continues standing still as a statue except for his eyes. They sit on Bryce for several long seconds, flick to me, then move back to Bryce.

  “Drop the shit, Bryce.” Jackson’s voice is a deep, rumbling base. “You said over the phone you’re finally willing to discuss negotiation on the CQ-9 patent. You’ve never had any use for it and have held it all these years just to spite me. So why on earth would you change your mind now?”

  Bryce sits and again waves to the chairs at the table. I glance toward the door one last time, but then take the seat Bryce indicates for me. I try not to stare at Jackson, wondering what his next move will be. Will he stay or go?

  Everyone in the tech world knows these men are rivals. I’m curious as hell about Bryce’s motives. I can almost taste the tension between them in the air. There are rumors of what happened to set the former friends against each other, but no one really knows.

  Was it a woman like some of the online gossip sites have suggested? Or a parting of philosophies like my machine-learning professor thought—Jackson was more interested in commercial ventures while Bryce wanted to pursue government-funded research?

  Either way, what would bring them together in this room if they are competitors and enemies? And what the hell does Bryce expect my role to be in all this?

  “What if I told you I wanted to let bygones be bygones and allow the past to stay where it belongs? In the past.”

  Jackson’s hard stare remains immovable. “I’d say I know you better than that.”

  Bryce laughs, a big bellowing laugh from his stomach. He shakes his finger at his old friend. “See? Now that’s the kind of honesty I miss! Everyone around me these days just tells me what I want to hear. Yes men. Yes, Mr. Gentry,” he mocks in an obsequious voice, “of course, Mr. Gentry, whatever you please.” He shakes his head. “Fucking ludicrous.”

  Bryce sits up in his chair, the humor replaced by earnestness. “I miss you, Jackson. I miss the machines we used to build, the concepts we dreamed up when we put these two brains together.” He gestures back and forth between their heads.

  Jackson scoffs and looks like he’s about to walk out of the room when Bryce continues, “Have lunch with us. Listen to what I have to say. No matter what, you walk out of here with your father’s patent. G
ive me an hour of your time.”

  That peaks Jackson’s interest. Mine too. How does Bryce have one of Jackson’s father’s patents? What’s the story there?

  Jackson stares hard at Bryce, like he’s trying to figure out his angle. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” Bryce holds up his hands. “I’m a different man from the boy you used to know. Get to know the new me.”

  Jackson doesn’t look like he’s buying what Bryce’s selling, but he does sit down at the third seat at the table. The private room we’re in is large, but this table is almost uncomfortably small. It makes the whole space feel too intimate for two men who may or may not be reconciling rivals. Especially with me here as an uncomfortable third-wheel.

  I take a sip of my water in the silence that’s quickly grown awkward.

  “So, Jackson,” Bryce asks, “how’re things with you? How’s the company? And Miranda?” His voice is cajoling, like one might sound when ribbing a friend. “Still enjoying fucking my former fiancée?”

  I choke on my water at the same time as a waitress pushes open the door with appetizers. I grab my napkin to wipe at the water dripping down my chin and glance back and forth between the two men. So it was a woman.

  Bryce never loses his pleasant, happy-go-lucky smile and Jackson continues to sit there looking formidable and impassive. To be fair, it’s the same expression Jackson’s had the entire time we’ve been in the room, so I can’t tell if he’s reacting at all to Bryce’s comment.

  The waitress sets down a basket of buttered garlic bread and two trays of small finger appetizers. Mini crab cakes and bruschetta as well as a selection of other antipasti.

  My mouth waters just looking at all the delicious food. I get so little time with Charlie that I got caught up playing with him a little bit this morning after he crawled in bed with me. I was late feeding him and when I realized the time, I was a madwoman rushing to get ready. I didn’t get time for breakfast myself.

  Still, I don’t want to be the first one reaching for food. Again, I look back and forth between the two men. They are still locked in a stare-off.