Their legacy in the publishing industry was unsurpassable, simply because they had never sold out, been taken over, and even though the Astleys were rumored to have a privateer amid their lineage, one they considered a pirate, they never skin-flinted authors. Had always respected them to the point where writers actually wanted to work with them instead of preferring to go the self-publishing route.
Devlin Astley, in an era where publishers were merging to survive the behemoth that was the e-reader, had moved with the times, bringing his company into the twenty-first century, making them competitive by doing what few of his ilk did—support authors, encourage them, tend to them, help them.
Then there was the fact that the Jacquelyn Rhode was a VP there—Jacquelyn Rhode who had been a staple of my classes in my Communications degree—it was why I wanted to work there permanently after I completed my MBA.
I’d done my research a long time ago, and the second the internship had dinged on my notifications, I’d been in there, diving straight into the application. There was no guarantee that I’d get a job with them once I had my MBA next year, but if I impressed someone somewhere in the massive building, then maybe I’d be memorable enough to hire as an assistant.
I’d take it.
In a heartbeat.
As I strode into Astley Tower, my gaze darted to Rachel, the receptionist on the front desk. The top floors were dedicated to the publishing company, with sixty-percent of the others being rented out elsewhere, but Rachel served the Astleys exclusively. She was sweet, baked the nicest oatmeal cookies when she had her period, would snatch my hand off for a PBJ sandwich, and was coming to be one of my favorite people.
I’d been here eight weeks, and whenever my manic schedule allowed it, we went out for lunch together.
When I had to go back to school, I’d trek into the city to carry on the tradition. That was how much I liked her.
She waved at me, smiling as she murmured something into her earpiece, her attention drifting as she looked at her computer, and I allowed myself to merge into the manic crowd surging toward the elevator.
I hated the rat race, but that was NYC, and to live here, you had to be a part of it.
I just wished that I didn’t love the city so much.
Twenty people headed into the elevator with me, but most of the crowd dropped off around the lower stories. Very few remained with me to the top, some got on and got off, the endless beep and flow of the ever-moving doors had me closing my eyes as I leaned back against the wall, trying not to feel the claustrophobia I usually experienced on my journey up and down the ninety-three-story building.
Only Rachel and the corned beef on rye at Mantelli’s induced me to leave for lunch, otherwise I’d stick to my tiny cubicle like glue.
As I closed my eyes, I thought back to last night because it was better than worrying about the day’s tasks. With Kyrian Trevelyan’s latest book dropping in just under five weeks, mania was already overtaking the Marketing department.
I hadn’t intended on going to VICE, but Rachel had dragged me there, and when we’d heard about the dark rooms, she’d nearly shoved me into one. Looking back, what with the lube she’d pressed into my hand, I figured she knew about the dark rooms ahead of time.
Everyone needed a girl friend like Rachel.
To say I was nervous last night was like calling the Pope Catholic. I’d been close to crapping myself, and that wasn’t the best state when you were about to be fucked.
Or fuck someone.
Ever since she’d found out I was a virgin with guys, she’d been pushing me into making a move—shoving me, actually. Coming out as gay hadn’t exactly been easy for me, and my parents and I still weren’t on speaking terms because of it. One of the reasons I was so fond of New York was because, here, I’d accepted what I was.
Not straight.
Not even bi.
Just gay.
The ‘just’ came with a sigh of relief.
That was me.
Who I was, and I wasn’t afraid of it anymore. Except, a part of me must have been, because ever since I’d come out, a year ago, I’d never actually done anything about it. Until last night.
Until I’d headed into that dark room, and a few minutes later, my heart pounding with nerves because I hadn’t known if I could go through with it, someone had come in.
Someone who smelled of chocolate and cinnamon. Whose mouth tasted of champagne, and whose body was hard and muscle-packed against mine. Who kissed like he was about to take his last breath, and whose dick had felt like iron in my fist.
I shuddered at the memory. Of those sweaty memories of adrenaline-inducing, lust-packed moments where I’d allowed myself to do what I needed, where I’d finally done what my body had been urging.
The darkness had been practically Stygian. So overwhelming it had been like a blanket, blinding with its power. Ironically enough it hadn’t reduced my anxiety, just made it worse, and before he’d come in, the claustrophobia that had plagued me since I was a kid had almost had me darting out of there.
I was so glad I hadn’t.
A smile curved my lips when I thought of the surprise I’d felt when the lights had blinked on and off. It had been no more than three seconds, but was just long enough for me to take in his handsome face.
My first time had been with a guy who made Captain America look like a seven.
Thank you, VICE.
His hair was dark, crisp silk I wanted to touch. His skin was olive with a hint of gold that told me he’d just vacationed somewhere hot. He had a widow’s peak that topped a forehead creased with a few furrows, but he hadn’t been Botoxed, and the rest of his hard face was free from make-up and surgery.
His lips were hard and flat, but they felt like heaven against mine, his nose was Roman, and had been broken at one point, and his jaw had been forged from pure obsidian. Speaking of his arrogance, his strength.
I knew why, too.
His suit?
Just the memory of that exquisite silk blend against my fingers was enough to tell me it was expensive. He reeked of money, and not just because I knew that his chocolate-and-cinnamon scent didn’t come from any churros he’d just eaten but from a high-end aftershave I could roll myself in like I was the fried treat in need of dousing in cinnamon sugar.
Sculpted and beautiful, his was a face I’d never forget—
The doors pinged open, prompting me to stop daydreaming, to stop thinking about what I’d tell Rachel about last night’s sexual odyssey—and a hook-up that epic deserved such a title—over lunch, and when I did, when I stared out onto the hall ahead, I blinked in astonishment.
The man—
No.
I blinked again, trying to clear my foggy vision because I was tired after last night and had barely slept, but there he was.
My dark room man.
He was scowling down at his phone as a team of four harried assistants flittered around him like agitated butterflies. Three of them were trying to get his attention, but all I could see was the hickey I’d left on his throat.
A throat I could still taste.
I swallowed, nerves and need warring inside me when I thought about that moment my dick had felt its first taste of ass, his ass, before I looked at the panel above the doors to see which floor we were on so I could Google it and maybe him later.
Only, when I looked up, I saw we were on my floor, and at the same time, his gaze drifted from his phone to the elevator.