by HELEN HARDT
Skye Manning.
And with Skye Manning, I have to go slowly.
No scenes at the club, at least not yet.
My workdays are always jam-packed, but by mid-afternoon, I can’t wait any longer. I have to see Skye.
Even if it means running into Addison Ames.
I text Christopher, and a half hour later, I arrive at the Ames Hotel. I walk through the marble lobby past the elevators to the offices on the first floor. The door to Addie’s office is open. I stand in the doorway.
Skye covers her computer monitor and steps out from behind her desk. “I’m free as a bird!” she says, smiling.
“Good to know,” I say.
She jerks her gaze upward, her eyes wide. “How did you get in here?”
“Same way I get anywhere. I walked through the door.”
“Sorry. Addie’s already gone for the day.”
Damned good news, as far as I’m concerned. “Why would you think I came to see Addie? You witnessed our last encounter.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing emerges. She shuts it quickly.
“I came to see you, Skye.”
She crosses her arms. “You could have called.”
“Why? And miss that look of adorable perplexity on your pretty face? Besides, you never gave me your cell phone number.”
“You know where I work.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to put you in the awkward position of taking a phone call at work.”
“So you showed up at my work instead?”
“I figured it’s nearly quitting time.”
“What if Addie had been here?”
“Then Addie would have been here.”
“But you… She…”
I take a step toward her. “Do you really think I give a damn if Addison Ames crosses my path? She doesn’t scare me, Skye. In fact, she’s probably first on the list of everything that doesn’t scare me.”
God, that’s the harsh truth. Addie would like to think she scares me, but she doesn’t.
“Oh?” Skye says. “What does scare you, Braden?”
I regard her, my body already tensing, aching, wanting. I meet her brown-eyed gaze and pierce her with my own, trying to singe her with my eyes.
One word.
One word will answer her question, and it’s the unadulterated truth.
“Nothing.”
She gapes at me, her lips parted in that enticing way. I want more than anything to touch her. Cup her soft cheek. Rub my thumb over her full lower lip. Pull the band out of her hair and let the waves fall over her shoulders.
Then take her back to my place and fuck the daylights out of her.
“Why are you here to see me, then? Can I help you with something?” Her voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper.
I close the distance between us. “You can come back to my bed.”
She moves away, stumbling slightly. I steady her with my hand, her skin warm. Tingles flash through me when I touch her. Goddamned tingles. What am I? Fourteen?
She eases away from me until the backs of her thighs hit the desk.
“You going to answer me?”
“With all due respect, you didn’t exactly ask a question,” she says.
“True. You did. You asked if you could help me with anything, and I answered. Still, I think my response is worthy of a reply.”
She inhales deeply, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s going to speak to me at all.
Finally, “You’re not even offering me dinner this time?”
I resist a smile, remembering the cold penne and veal I found in the kitchen the morning after our encounter. Marilyn had to throw it away.
“We didn’t exactly get to dinner the last time.”
Her cheeks are adorably crimson as she clears her throat. “A girl still has to eat.”
“Then dinner it is. What’s your pleasure?”
She stares at me. Again I wonder if she’s actually going to speak. Then she does.
“You told me I was something your money couldn’t buy, but now you think dinner will buy me?”
Oh, fuck. Enough of this game playing, dancing around each other. I grab both her shoulders. I gaze into her eyes. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Skye. I want you in my bed. What’s it going to take?”
She shudders, rubs her hands on her upper arms. “I—I can’t be bought.”
“I’m not trying to buy you. I am trying to bed you.”
“You just want sex, then? Not a date?”
A date? I don’t date. But to have Skye, I’m willing to go an extra mile. I give a half-hearted shrug. “We can go out on dates if you want. If that’s what it takes for you to feel comfortable coming back to my bed. But it will be simply dating. I can’t give you any more than that.”
“Why not?” she asks boldly.
“Because I can’t.”
She narrows her eyes. “Nice try. But I’m looking for a reason, Braden. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m young, and maybe a purely sexual relationship would be fun. A day will come, though, when it won’t be enough for me.”
“If that day isn’t here yet, why not come back to my bed?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
She wets her lips. “I’m not interested in being your fuck buddy.”
I’m not looking for a fuck buddy, but I don’t say this. She’s not yet ready to hear what I’m actually looking for. Slowly. I must go slowly or this will blow up in my face before I can get her where I want her.
“What will it take to get you back into my bed, then? I told you we could date.”
“Tell me why it can’t lead anywhere.”
I shrug once more. “I can’t give you a reason.”
“You mean you won’t.”
Smart girl. “Stickler for semantics, are you?”
She nods.
“Then you’re correct. I won’t.”
She’s still standing against her desk, and the tops of her breasts—visible in the low-cut, clingy shirt she’s wearing—are rosy. I imagine how soft and warm they’ll be against my fingers, my lips.
She’s holding back quivers, forcing her body not to respond to mine.
She knows how to stay in control. Damn, she’s good.
But I’m better.
“I… I’ll…think about it,” she finally says.
Think about it? It’s her right, of course, so I’ll make damned sure she has something to think about. Something long and hard that can give her another one of those orgasms she’s only begun to experience.
I crush her to my body, my erection apparent. I press it into her belly. “This isn’t a game, Skye.”
“I never said it was.”
“There’s nothing to think about.”
“There’s a lot to think about. I’m not someone’s toy, Braden. I have some self-respect, you know.”
“Of course you do. Do you honestly think I’d want to bed a woman who has no self-respect?”
She steadies herself. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think.”
“Think about this.” I cup both her cheeks and smash my lips to hers.
She opens, letting her tongue wander out to meet mine.
The intensity of the kiss surprises me.
I feel like I’m drugged, aware of nothing else but Skye’s lips on mine, her tongue tangling, teasing mine. Her kisses are addictive, and I want more of them. More of everything Skye Manning.
Her body splayed out and bound, her skin red from a riding crop, her nipples sore from a clamp. Better yet—sore from my lips and teeth.
I want her any way and every way.
But first I have to get her back to my bed.
She deepens the kiss, groanin
g into my mouth, pushing her breasts into my chest. Her nipples are hard. She rises on her toes and rubs against my bulge. Yes, yes. I feel her begin to surrender, begin to need this as much as I do.
There’s only one thing for me to do.
I pull away, breaking the kiss with a loud smack.
She falls back against the desk, gripping the edge.
“I want you,” I say. “You do something to me, something I don’t quite understand but want to.” I grip her with my gaze. “Don’t think too long.”
Then I walk out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
I toy with the idea of going back to New York, to the club, but I ultimately end up at the gym working out for three hours. When my body finally reaches its limit, I head home and sit in my Jacuzzi listening to jazz.
When I’ve effectively turned into a prune, I get out of the tub, towel off, and head to the kitchen. It’s after ten p.m., and Marilyn’s off duty. She left me dinner in the refrigerator—coq au vin with French bread—but I’m in the mood for something else.
Something…spicy.
I order some Thai from a place that has all-night delivery, alert the night staff that it’s coming, and head into my office to check on a few emails. I have business all over the globe, so emails come in at all hours.
I expect mail from China, India, Australia.
I don’t expect anything from Addison Ames. She emails me a couple of times a year, reminding me how much I owe her. It’s all a crock. I read and delete. Really, I should just delete.
But curiosity is my downfall, and I open it. Weird. It’s blank, just her signature block. She must have accidentally hit Send before she wrote anything. Just as well.
Delete.
Easy enough.
I still do business with Addie’s father. The Ames Hotel is the best in Boston, so why wouldn’t I?
I’ve worked hard, and I deserve the best.
I deserve Skye.
Skye isn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and she’s far from the most worldly. She’s a Kansas farm girl.
A Kansas farm girl who I can’t get out of my mind.
Skye is beautiful, though, in a refreshing way that most of the women I go out with aren’t. I seem to attract women who like to apply makeup with a putty knife and waltz around in Dolce & Gabbana.
I bet Skye doesn’t own any Dolce & Gabbana. I bet she shops at Target.
Honestly, I’m not a fan of Dolce & Gabbana, though I do love a nice Armani suit. For the most part, though, I’m still a boy from South Boston at heart. Hell, we couldn’t afford Target. We shopped at the Salvation Army thrift store and sometimes even had to get free food from the local food bank.
Skye grew up on a corn farm, so she most likely never had to take charity.
In her way, she’s more worldly than I am. She’s a college graduate. I’m not. Lack of higher education hasn’t held me back at all, though.
You had some help, you know.
I ignore the devil on my shoulder. It’s gotten easier over the years.
What is Skye doing right now? I could call her, but I still don’t have her number. Easy enough to get, but I doubt any of my team would be excited to hear from me at eleven on a Friday night.
Damn! She pisses me off. I shouldn’t be wanting to call her. I want her almost too much, and it’s disorienting. It’s throwing me off my game, and I can’t be off my game.
Ever.
…
I rise early Saturday morning and take Sasha on a long walk, and we end at a dog park where I let her off her leash and she runs around and plays with the other dogs. I find a bench, sit, and—of course—check my phone. As usual, some business requires my attention. Time to go.
I whistle. “Come on, Sasha!”
She looks up, her cute puppy eyes pleading, and then she continues her play.
Nice try.
I walk over and leash her. “Sorry, girl. Time to go.”
She reluctantly comes along.
Back home, I hand my pup over to Annika’s capable hands and head into the office. The real office. Yeah, I’m wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, but it’s Saturday. I really want to call Claire and ask her to come in and lend a hand, but I resist the urge. My staff works hard during the week, and most of them covet their weekends.
I don’t blame them.
Years ago, when I did construction for a living, working for my father’s small company, I was one of those people who coveted time off. We didn’t get much. We worked six days a week most weeks, for up to fifteen-hours stretches sometimes.
I learned hard work from my father. Once he got sober and got his act together…
Well, it wasn’t just the sobriety that forced him to get his act together.
And I really don’t want to think about any of that shit right now.
So I dive in and tackle what I do best.
Work.
…
Two prospectuses and four phone calls later, I rise and stretch. The sun has gone down, and dusk shades the view from my office window. What the hell time is it, anyway? I’ve had my phone on speaker this whole time, and I haven’t bothered to check the hour.
Eight thirty? Not surprising. I lose track of time a lot. Ben says I’m a workaholic, though he works nearly as much as I do. He’s not here now, though. He’s probably out with a woman.
Smart man.
I could find a woman easily. I’m horny as hell, so I give it a minute of thought.
Then I dismiss it.
Because I only want one woman.
I pick up my phone to check Skye’s Instagram. What’s she doing right now? Most likely she’s home or possibly out with friends. Perhaps the good-looking bestie who makes appearances in her posts.
Before I even click on her profile, though, a photo appears on my feed.
It’s Skye and her bestie.
Hanging out at the MADD Gala with the bestie! @tessalolita #madd #gala #bestiesforever
Skye looks gorgeous. She’s fucking glowing. And those tits. They’re nearly spilling out of the clingy little black dress she’s wearing. Her hair is down, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes are bright, long-lashed, and sparkling. And those lips… Painted with a red tint and parted…
I adjust my groin.
Skye is out on the town. Not only out but at the MADD Gala—an event I was asked to sponsor but turned down.
Fuck it all. I could be there right now. With Skye and her little black dress and her glistening red lips.
I could be there.
And I’m not.
But I can fix that.
Chapter Fifteen
“Mr. Black!” Lila Marquez, a prominent member of the Junior League of Boston and head of this event, rushes toward me as soon as I ease into her peripheral view outside the ballroom. “You came!”
“Good evening, Lila. You’re looking lovely as always.”
Lila smiles, a blush gracing her cheeks, and her eyelids flutter slightly.
“I’d like a ticket, please.”
“Mr. Black—”
“Braden, please.”
She blushes again. “Braden… Dinner’s over. We have dancing and the auction results, of course, but I’m afraid there aren’t any tables.”
“I don’t need a place at a table. Just a ticket to enter the event.”
“But you won’t—”
“Not a problem, I assure you. I only want to enter the event. There’s a…person inside I’d like to confer with.”
“Of course! You don’t need a reason. Go ahead in, Mr.— Braden.”
“I’m happy to pay for a ticket.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then you’ll find a generous donation in your inbox Monday morning. Thank you
, Lila.” I whisk past her and enter the ballroom, scanning the dimly lit space for Skye.
A band is playing swing music, and quite a few couples are dancing. I recognize Skye’s bestie, @tessalolita. She’s wearing a red dress and dancing with Garrett Ramirez, a local architect whose firm, Reardon Brothers, put in a bid on my new building.
They won’t be getting it. I don’t like how that particular firm does business.
Skye. Where is Skye?
When I don’t locate her right away, I follow Bestie with my gaze as she and Garrett leave the dance floor. Bestie makes a beeline to—
Skye.
She sits at a table by herself. Bestie wipes her brow as she sits down next to Skye.
They chat, but of course I have no idea what they’re saying, as they’re across the room. Skye picks up a nearly full drink and downs it. Just like that.
Then my hackles rise.
Garrett Ramirez and another young architect, Peter Reardon, son of the boss, Beau Reardon, approach Skye’s table. The four of them head to the dance floor while I curl my hands into fists.
I could go cut in. Drag her away. Force her back into my bed. She may not even resist.
Instead, I watch from afar as she moves in that dress that hugs her body the way I want to be hugging it. Her smile seems pasted on, but still she dances, and she’s damned good on her feet, too. Who knew Skye Manning could swing?
Then again, why would I know? I just met the woman.
Four numbers.
Four fucking numbers I wait through—tempted to chew off my own arm to get out of this trap—before Skye finally leaves the dance floor.
Peter Reardon follows her, and they head to the bar.
I’m right behind them, staying just far enough away that they won’t notice me unless someone pounces on me to kiss my ass, which happens a lot at these kinds of events. Someone’s always trying to get a hand in my pocket. I’m generous by nature, but tonight, I hope like hell no one notices me.
I’m behind them now, and I can hear their conversation. The bartender hands Peter a Guinness and what appears to be a Wild Turkey for Skye.
