Then I grab her hand and guide her down the hallway toward the closed door at the end.
My bedroom.
I touch the brushed brass doorknob, ready to turn it.
She bites her lip. “No.”
Frustration wells inside me, and I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”
She clears her throat. “No. I can’t do this. We barely know each other.”
I stare at her. Force myself not to glare at her.
Why is she resisting?
She’s turned on, clearly. Her heart is thumping so hard and fast that I can actually see her breasts move. Her cheeks and chest are red with blood flow, and— I inhale. Yes, no mistaking the fragrance.
Fuck. Now I want her even more. I didn’t think that was possible.
But it’s her choice.
I may have blue balls, but I’ll never force a woman into my bed.
I’m gazing at her, into her, and though we’re only inches away from each other, the distance seems like miles.
I don’t want to be miles away from this woman.
I want her in my arms. In my bed. Underneath my body.
It will happen. Sometimes, patience comes in handy. I don’t have a lot of it, but I’ve learned to fake it. The business world requires patience. Sometimes the personal world does, too. Anything worth having is worth waiting for, and Skye Manning is definitely worth having.
And worth waiting for.
I say nothing. Instead, I take her hand and lead her back to the living area. Sasha prances around us, and I lean down to give her a pat on the head.
“I’m sor—”
“Not a problem, Skye.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, clear my throat, and call my driver. “Christopher? Ms. Manning needs a ride home.”
Chapter Six
Cold showers suck. They don’t work on aching balls, but they do make sure sleep never comes. Not a huge problem. I always have work I can get done.
I’m toweling off my hair when Christopher calls.
“She get home all right?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about her place.”
“It’s downtown, a decent apartment building. Walking distance or a short ride on the T to the Ames Hotel where she works.”
“Did you walk her up?”
“Of course. It’s late.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t see much. Just made sure she got in okay. I heard the dead bolt click, and I left.”
“You didn’t look inside?”
“Not really. No.”
Fuck. I sound like a horny schoolboy. Did she say anything about me? Do you think she likes me?
I stop myself before I actually ask those questions. Since when do I care if a woman likes me? I can get twenty women over here to take Skye’s place in a heartbeat.
“Thanks, Christopher,” I say. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Black.”
I set my phone down on the counter and continue drying my hair. I throw the towel in the hamper and put on a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt. I slide into my slippers, grab the phone, and leave my bedroom. Down the hallway is my home office.
Guess where I’ll be spending the night?
Not a problem. I love to work. I love the ins and outs of business, finance, marketing, investing.
I see it as a game—a game I almost always win.
Funny. That’s usually how I see my female conquests as well, and it’s usually a game they’re more than willing to play, obeying my rules. And I have some very particular rules. Very particular tastes.
But Skye Manning? I can tell she’ll be a challenge.
She may not like my rules.
But she’ll succumb eventually.
I’ll make sure of it.
Because I can never resist a challenge.
…
After spending a good portion of the night dealing with the shitstorm that resulted from yesterday’s meeting with Legal, I finally fall into bed around three a.m.
But my sleep is anything but restful.
Dreams of Skye Manning plague me.
That kiss—how perfectly her lips aligned with mine, the delicious flavor of her mouth, her intoxicating scent of raspberries and roses. Red roses.
So much of her is still a mystery—the color of her nipples, the taste of her pussy, the way she’ll look lying naked, her wrists bound to my headboard.
Regardless of my sleepless night, I rise at six a.m. sharp because my day is full of more meetings to deal with the fallout from the supplier who’s in breach of contract. Another cold shower. They still suck, but they give me the burst of energy I need to face each day with renewed vigor. My personal physician recommends them for stress tolerance, but I learned the benefits of cold-water bathing long ago, when I was just a kid. Our water heater broke, and we couldn’t afford a new one, so it was cold bathing for several months. I hated it.
But looking back, in the midst of the shitshow that was my childhood, I recall feeling better after those cold showers.
Alert.
Ready.
Alive.
From that time on, I knew if I wanted to make something of myself—and I had a burning desire to do so—cold showers would be a part of my life. They taught me willpower and courage—it takes sheer will to stay under the cold when the dreamy hot water is only a flick of the faucet away.
But as I said, despite the myth, cold showers do nothing for aching balls. Nothing to ease the desire for Skye Manning, either.
No matter. There’s work to be done, and I have never let anything—or anyone—interfere with my goals. An hour later, I’m dressed to the nines in a navy-blue custom-tailored suit and sitting behind my desk at my offices in downtown Boston, answering emails and doling out tasks to staff members.
“Find me a new supplier,” I tell them. “We’ll pay whatever’s necessary to get this damned contract filled with time to spare.”
A chorus of Yes, Mr. Blacks later, I’m confident the job will be done and done well. I tolerate nothing less.
And I’m right. By eleven thirty, a new supplier is located and a new contract drafted.
I allow myself a sigh of relief.
My stomach growls, and I chuckle out loud. I skipped breakfast this morning to get here and get moving on today’s problem. I haven’t thought about food until now.