I’m hungry.
For lunch.
And for something else.
Now that the crisis is handled, Skye Manning is back in my thoughts. It’s not enough that she plagued my dreams. She’s starring in my daydreams as well. And daydreams aren’t something I’m used to. I focus. I get the job done. I don’t waste time on daydreams.
Today, though, the daydreams are unusually persistent.
Which pisses me off.
Hell, it’s time for lunch, and I’ve earned a break.
I know exactly where to go…and what I’ll find there.
Chapter Seven
Addison’s office is locked, which is odd, but no matter. I’ve got today’s New York Times, and I’ll wait. I lean comfortably against the wall and peruse the headlines.
And then I see her.
Skye Manning.
She walks toward me, her hair bound in a ponytail again, her clothing similar to what she wore yesterday. Skinny jeans, but this time black sandals instead of pumps, a pink button-up blouse, and a navy blazer. The blouse is like a second skin, and those tits…
Damn.
She approaches me and clears her throat.
I lower my paper, and my lips twitch slightly, seemingly on their own.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“Sure. You can open the door.”
She quickly retrieves the key from her purse and unlocks the office. “Addie’s not here.”
“Good,” I say.
She opens the door, walks in, and sets her purse on her desk. She takes out her phone quickly and checks something, her ass looking delectable in denim.
My heart is racing, but I’m determined to play it cool. Just her presence affects me in a way that’s totally foreign to me. I affect her, too. I saw it in her eyes zeroing in on my lips before she scurried to her desk.
One of us must make the first move or we’ll both end up wanting…and though I’d love for it to be Skye, already I know it won’t be.
“Skye,” I say.
She turns. “Why are you here?”
I stalk toward her. “For this.”
Without so much as a thought, I grab her and kiss her. Hard. She gasps, and I thrust my tongue into her mouth, exploring at first but then taking. Another raw kiss, and she pushes her breasts into me, moves her hips.
I groan into her mouth.
And I’m lost. Lost in Skye, and all we’ve done so far is kiss.
My body’s on fire, and I push into her, letting her feel my erect cock against her belly. I’m ready. So ready to touch every part of her, bind her and spank her, fuck her hard. Fuck her fast.
And then fuck her slowly, savoring every minute.
She grabs my head and threads her fingers through my hair, pulls me toward her, and explores me as I explore her, our tongues locked in a sword fight, our lips sliding against each other. Nothing matters. Nothing except this amazing kiss.
Until I break away.
If I don’t, I won’t be able to stop. And I doubt she will be, either.
I draw several ragged breaths into my chest, my heart racing. Her lips are sexy and swollen, her chest rosy, her nipples hard and protruding against the clingy fabric of her blouse. I resist the urge to tweak one.
“Dinner tonight,” I say huskily. “I’ll pick you up here at seven. And this time, Skye, you’re coming to my bed. Get used to the idea. It’s going to happen.”
I turn and walk out the door.
…
Sitting next to me in the back seat of my car, Skye clears her throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”
“My place.”
“Oh? You cook?”
“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”
Skye nods.
Marilyn’s been with me a few years now, and she knows my tastes. Her skills as a chef are top-notch, and I pay her more than she’d earn in a five-star restaurant. The hours are better, too. She’s adept at all cuisines, but Italian is her specialty.
A robust Italian dinner will set the perfect mood for what I have planned for tonight.
Odd, how I want this woman—Skye—so badly. Is it the thrill of the chase because she turned me down last night?
No.
It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve been turned down before. I simply move on.
So what is it about her?
She’s an enigma to me. A woman who’s focused and values control, yet something about her screams submissive to me. My instincts about submission haven’t been wrong yet, so I trust them.
Beyond instinct, though, I know little about Ms. Manning and how she’ll react to my particular tastes in the bedroom.
I know only that I must have her.
We arrive and take the elevator to my place. Sasha greets us at the door.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I say, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”
“Is Annika the chef?” Skye asks.
“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.” I quickly send a text.
Within a few minutes, Annika, gray-haired and spry, whisks into the room, leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word. I prefer my staff to be the silent type. We get along well that way. Christopher’s the most talkative of the bunch, and he’s hardly a conversational wizard.
A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil from the Italian meal Marilyn prepared. I inhale the scent again, my mouth already watering. I specifically requested that she not cook lasagna. It’s too filling for what I have planned for later this evening. Penne arrabiata, full of spicy heat, and veal Marsala, less spicy and more filling but not so much to make a person uncomfortable after the meal.
Skye stands, fidgeting with her hands and looking delectable.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say.
Her lips quiver just a touch, and she continues fiddling with her fingers.
She’s nervous, of course. But I don’t want her to be nervous. Perhaps a drink will help.
“Wine?” I ask. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” I pull a bottle from my ornate wrought-iron rack.
She nods and removes her blazer. “What’s for dinner?”