Chapter Sixteen
Oliver
“What the hell is prosciutto?” I ask as I skim the menu for Ma’s Pizzeria.
When Sloane chastised my favorite food, I thought for sure he’d take me to some upscale place where the chicken would be served in a bag or something like on the Food Network, but instead, he took me out of the city to the smallest pizza shop I’ve ever seen.
Which is damn near dead, save for the burly man behind the counter who I’m not entirely sure isn’t a murderer by the way he keeps watching us.
“It’s delicious,” Sloane says. “If you like bacon, you’ll like it.”
“What, uh… what are you getting?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant. I know we’re technically just two co-workers out to eat, but…
It feels oddly like a date.
Do I want it to be a date?
Yes.
I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, right? Enticing the big, bad CEO into my web of lies so I can crush his heart like he crushed my boyfriend’s dreams?
My boyfriend.
The thought is sobering, and the weight of the phone in my pocket feels like a rock. I haven't texted him or spoken with him since this morning. I’m not sure I want to, either.
I keep thinking about last night—not just about what happened, but…
He said he owned me.
He’s never said that before. Sure, he’s gotten a little rough or handsy sometimes, and we don’t always get along, but…
He’s never said anything like that. But it wasn’t just the words, it was the way he said them. Like I was some thing to be commanded and used.
Like I belonged to him, and his reminder was not just some possessive kink. It was a warning.
And I can’t stop thinking about that.
He’d asked if I was okay, but… I’m not.
I’ve never felt afraid of a man before, but I can’t deny that I feel a spark of fear that Robbie may not be the man I thought he was, either.
And I don’t know how to feel about that.
“Chicken Parm. Sans the cheese, of course.”
“Of course,” I note. The waitress takes our order, and when she leaves it is quiet, but not awkward. Not like before.
“You really didn’t have to buy me dinner, you know," I say.
“I know.” He shrugs. “But perhaps I wanted to.”
“Because you felt like shit about earlier?”
He sips his beer.
“Yes.” His answer is off. Almost unsure.
“I can’t remember the last meal I had outside the office," he says carefully. His fingers play with the edges of his placemat absentmindedly.
“Don’t get out much, I take it?”
He shakes his head. “If I am to be alone, I would rather be alone where I am comfortable.”
It’s the way he says the words. There’s a tinge of loneliness. Of ache. Longing.
“No one wants to be alone," I say softly.
“But yet we are,” he breathes, turning to look out the window. “Even in crowded rooms, we are alone.”
I take the moment to look at him. Really look at him. At his perfectly pressed suit, his elegantly styled hair and trim beard. His dark features.
“Do you feel alone now?” I ask. “With… me?”
Sloane looks back at me with a reverent gaze. “No.”
“Then maybe we’re not as alone as we think," I say as he gives me a warm smile.
“Where did you come from?” he asks, almost breathless. I feel the heat of his stare. Notice the way his gaze drops to my mouth. How it hovers there.
I have hooked Sloane Pierce like a prize tuna fish, and yet…
Yet I don’t feel pride or excitement, or even validation.
I only feel the heavy beat of my heart and a desire inside of me I can’t explain.
“Portland," I say with a chuckle. “Moved to Seattle when I was nine.”
Sloane chuckles, too, and then his face pales.
“What?”
He swallows. Hard.
“I was your age," he says carefully. “When you were nine.”
It’s the first time I have heard his voice carry such disdain.
Like the words are bitter, or perhaps the truth is.
“Yes, we’ve established you’re a grumpy, bitter old man," I say jokingly. Though his face is stern. Cold.
“I remember twenty-eight," he says with sadness. “I’d just lost my father at twenty-eight.”
His words aren’t what I expect, nor is the melancholic air that blankets him.
“I created Veil that year.” He turns back to me. “It was just numbers and figures then. Basic code. But I knew what it could be.”
“And here you are now.” I shrug. “CEO of Veil Technologies. You changed the world with Veil.”
Sloane’s gaze softens. “I didn’t change the world.” He shakes his head. “The world changed me.”
Before I can respond to that, the waitress brings our food, and the melancholy air is forgotten; forgone in favor of the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life.
And for the moment, as we eat our dinner, as we share this meal, this space together, I forget.
I forget he’s my boss, or my boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend. I forget that he’s seventeen years older than me and that he likes men he can control.
For the moment, he’s just Mr. Pierce.
He’s just a man. An attractive man with a brooding backstory and a smooth voice, like something out of one of my books. For the briefest moment, he’s mine.
And so I take my time with my pizza. I drink my beer slowly.
And when the waitress asks if we want dessert, I say yes. I order us both a brownie, complete with chocolate sprinkles and a cherry on top, and Sloane doesn’t protest. He doesn’t even make a comment about the sprinkles.
Instead, he just eats. Slowly.
Like me.
The car ride back to my house is quiet, save for the radio. My eyes flutter shut, as the feeling of contentedness forms in my chest. I’m sated and full, and his leather-wood scent fills my lungs.
And then I feel his hand. On my thigh. He doesn’t move it. Just lets it rest there, warm and soft.
I don’t push it away because it feels nice.
When we arrive at my apartment, reality hits me. It’s over.
This day. This night, this dinner…
Neither of us moves. We sit in his car, the radio humming softly and the tension can be felt like a heavy rock.
I’m just about ready to open my door when he speaks.
“Can I walk you to your door?”
My hand rests on the handle. I don’t push. My heart rises into my throat, because it’s the way he asks.
Like he’s afraid I’ll say no. I think about his words. Submission is not surrender.
But fuck, it feels like it is.
I feel like I am surrendering a part of myself to Sloane Pierce and he doesn’t even know it.
“Yes," I say. “I think that would be nice.”
He gets out of his car, but he doesn’t rush. When he opens my door he holds out his hand.
I take it, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. He pulls me up and I stumble into his space, my cheeks heating from the embarrassment of my blunder.
He catches me with ease, his icy blue eyes flitting to my mouth once more.
“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “My foot got stuck.”
It’s a lame excuse and we both know it. My gaze drifts to his mouth, and I realize his hand is still on my hip. He hasn’t let go.
“Damn feet," he says, letting out a low breath.
He pulls me close, and I gasp as he gently shuts the door.
We stand there, me against him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip.
My cock stiffens, and I feel another scarlet flush, knowing he had to have felt that.
I’m equal parts terrified and aroused by the thought.
“Lead the way,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. I feel the heat of his breath on my skin like a fire. “I don’t have all night," he adds, his voice tinged with sorrow.
“Right,” I breathe. “Of course.”
I lead us up the sidewalk, terrified of what will happen. Terrified that Robbie will somehow be there, waiting for me.
Waiting to remind me who I belong to.
When we get to my door, I stop, stand up straight and look Sloane in the eye.
“Thank you," I say carefully. “For breakfast, and dinner, and—”
“Fuck it,” Sloane breathes as he grabs me by the hips and slams me against the door, his mouth finding mine like a guided missile. My entire body reacts, turning to molten lava as I crumble in his grasp.
I open my mouth without hesitation, my hands going straight for his neck, his hair. I fist my fingers in it, gripping as hard as I can. Sloane groans as one hand holds me by my waist, the other finding its way around my throat.
And then I feel him. Or more aptly, his dick. Hard against me.
I groan in response, thrusting myself against him with need.
I’ve kissed my fair share of men in my life, but no man has ever kissed me like this.
Like they truly do own me. Like they know every crack and fracture that exists and to them it’s art.
I kiss him back not because it’s my job, and not because it’s what I’m supposed to do, no.
I kiss Sloane Pierce because I want to.
I tighten my grip in his hair until he gasps because I want to.
“Fucking hell, Oliver,” he breathes against my lips, the sound of our breaths heavy and fast.
“Mr. Pierce,” I whisper.
He holds my neck still and looks down at me with blown pupils and kiss-swollen lips.
“Sloane," he says, his voice raspy and dark.
I look up into his bright eyes, my heart beating like a damn freight train.
“I want to hear you say my name,” he drawls, his voice thick with lust and a hint of desperation.
This is exactly what I wanted.
This. Is. Exactly what I wanted.
I just didn’t realize I wanted it for myself.
“Sloane…” I say his name because I need to know how it tastes on my tongue.
And then I pull him down and find his mouth once more and I kiss him again. Hard. Sloane’s hand on my throat tightens its grip until I gasp as his mouth finds the corner of mine, my jaw, and that tender spot below my ear that makes my whole body shiver.
One thought echoes in my brain. His words. Poignant and perfect.
Submission is not surrender.
But fucking hell, if it isn’t sweet as sin.