5. FIVE
He’d known, hadn’t he? Since the first moment he saw her, he had known she was electric. One touch of her hand had him quivering like a virgin schoolboy. Stole his mind, his voice, too, because he could hardly think of a word to say, as though his brain was a hollow bell and she had struck it, every thought drowned out by the ringing.
Some sober, ascetic part of him said this was not a good idea. Fuck that, the rest of his body said. Poppy Fields had always seemed like a good idea. Ever since he first saw her. And she had initiated this. He wasn’t about to say no—wasn’t about to think beyond the next hour or two. Surrender to lust, to touch, to pleasure. Forget all the crap back there in that building, the choking, dismal pressure of it all, the way his father had played him. No—the way he had deluded himself. That’s what stung worst of all. He was supposed to be intelligent. Prided himself on it. And he hadn’t seen…hadn’t let himself see just how na?ve he was.
“Knowing you’ve been given the position purely on merit isn’t much comfort.”Those had been his brother’s words, furious at being kept out of the company. And he replied now: No merit, Hugo. Don’t worry, I’m no better than you. I just thought I was.
Poppy followed him into his flat a little wide-eyed. The penthouse. All glass and chrome and fully serviced and wholly soulless, just like the outside of the building. He hated it. But he hardly ever stayed here.
“Drink?” he asked as he took off his coat, took hers.
“No.”
She said it like an invitation. So he set their coats down and accepted it. Gave up pretending to be civilised. It was the little shake of her head that did it, the low light burnishing her hair, the glance she flicked up at him from lowered lashes.
He took her hand and pulled her to him. And fuck. He really shouldn’t. But she stepped closer, and her hand came to rest on his chest again, just as it had in the lift, his heart racing under her fingertips as though it was hers to command. But he watched her face, making sure, because this was sudden, happening fast, and as desperate as he was to have her, it wasn’t why he had invited her up here. He hadn’t expected this at all. But it was Poppy Fields. Maybe he should expect the unexpected.
The hand on his chest slid down slightly, scraped a nail over one of his shirt buttons. Then she hooked her fingertip under the fabric, into the gap, the slight touch of her fingertip on his skin searing.
That was a yes, right?
His hands were on her hips, wanting to move both up and down. Follow the swell to the curve of her backside, slide up to the dip of her waist, her ribs, breasts…
He pulled her closer, but gently, gently, making sure she was willing. Because she seemed shy now, face turned down, eyes fixed on her finger hooked into his shirt.
“Poppy…”
He wasn’t sure why he said it, maybe just so she would look up, let him read her eyes. She flashed him a smile that definitely seemed to say yes, and the finger hooked under his button curled tighter into the fabric and pulled him to her.
Thank fuck…
He moved his hands, following instinct, the warm haze of desire setting his mind drifting elsewhere. He nearly kissed her, wanted to kiss her, but that seemed bizarrely too much, too soon, Poppy Fields a puzzle with a different sort of approach. His fingers dipped into the waistband at the back of her skirt, and he teased her blouse free, untucked it from the narrow, high-waisted skirt—that maddening skirt—maybe that was why he started here—and finally, finally, he was touching her, his hands circling her waist, hot skin on hot skin, his thumbs stroking up to the bottom of her ribcage as she sucked in a breath.
“All night, Poppy,” he murmured against her hair, her cheek, breathing in the warmth of her skin. Her eyelashes stroked over his cheek, his mouth found the corner of hers, and his stupid brain was saying things without asking for his permission. “Can you take me all night?”
His thumbs travelled a little further, found the base of her bra, tested the weight of the heavy swell waiting just above. His eyes closed as his mouth moved to hers—
She laughed.
A short, sharp gust of it.
He pulled back.
“Sorry, I just…” That nervous laugh again. He took his hands from her waist, confusion rushing into his brain, tripping over the lust. Making a fucking mess.
“What?” he asked.
She wasn’t looking at him, was looking at the floor. “I just… Have you ever watched Pretty Woman? Where she says she won’t kiss guys? That bit was suddenly in my head and—”
“Pretty Woman?”
She flashed a glance in his direction before turning to the side, arms crossed, seeming just as confused as he was. Or at least as awkward. “I can’t… I kept thinking, am I meant to get it in writing beforehand, or do we talk about it after, like, how does this whole thing work? When do I bring it up? Send an email in the morning?” Another nervous laugh, heat colouring her face.
Roscoe dragged a hand across his jaw, trying to catch up. Starting to feel very, very uneasy.
“Tell me why you’re thinking about a film with a prostitute right now.”
She didn’t look at him but grimaced, hugging her folded arms tighter. “Because that’s basically what this is, isn’t it?”
Roscoe Blackton was staring at her, and he did not look amused. He had his arms crossed, and they looked bigger and stronger than ever. And he was…glowering. Brows low. Eyes hard.
She couldn’t really blame him.
“Let’s be honest,” she continued, vainly trying to style this out even though she would much rather be currently dying. Death seemed a very good option. “Everyone knows how it works at BG.”
“Do they? How about you explain. Because I’m not sure I do.”
“Emily Malcolm! Lizzy Wilson! All the others!”
“Other what?”
“Women you’ve slept with. And then they get promoted afterwards. Or whatever else it is they want.”
“I’m not even sure who Emily Malcolm is. And I’ve never slept with Lizzy Wilson. She’s Head of Asia. She’s about fifteen years older than me. And married.”
“You went home with her one night…”
“Do you mean the night I walked her to the tube station? Because it was late, and the taxi she’d ordered hadn’t turned up?”
“But everyone said…”
“Jesus! Office gossip. Do you believe everything they say?” His expression suggested he thought she did. That she really was that stupid. He looked at her in disgust. “And you believe I…what…? Give out promotions in return for sex? Am I getting the gist of it?”
She said nothing. Regretted everything. Prayed for death.
“What does a decent blowjob earn, hm? Two days annual leave? Five percent on your bonus?”
“I don’t know! It’s just… It’s what people say. It’s how BG works.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“Well I guess maybe to you! When you’re already at the top. And you don’t have to suck up—”
“Suck off, you mean?”
“When you’re you, and you can get whatever it is you want, without even having to ask. Handed to you on a plate.”
He stiffened even further at that. Managed to look even angrier. Which was quite a feat.
“Right yeah,” he said with scathing sarcasm. “I got my job because of my dad. Yeah, yeah, of course.”
“It’s hardly a secret.”
“Yup, just a nepo-baby. Economics degree and MBA completely meaningless.”
She snorted, scrabbling for righteous indignation because it was like a life-raft in this storm of humiliation. “Sorry. I’m forgetting. You’re just a lowly intern made good. We both know hard work’s always rewarded, right? Even for people who didn’t row for Cambridge. Or grow up in a stately home, playing golf with the Ptomoly-Smythes—”
“You probably mean polo. Why not go all in with the fucking stereotypes?”
“Oh, sorry,” she scoffed, “I’m sure you just filled in your application form like everyone else and got chosen purely on merit?”
He flinched at the word, face dark. “No, Poppy. I fucking slept my way into it.”
“What I’m saying is that you don’t have to. You never will have to.”
He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus. Do you really think it works like that for anyone? Do you think we’re going to let anyone near funds if they’re not competent and qualified? My own brother can’t get a job at BlacktonGold. And no matter who my dad is, I wouldn’t last five minutes if I was handing out jobs to my fuckbuddies. You try explaining to your billionaire client that your latest hire just lost their pension fund but it’s OK because she’s really good at sucking your dick. For fuck’s sake! I’ve basically killed myself for years working to prove I deserve to be where I am. I’m not going to blow my reputation now for a fucking fuck!”
Poppy jumped. He was shouting, and he was loud. But he was, she had to admit, making a fairly valid point. She could acknowledge that much, even through the nauseating embarrassment.
“No, Poppy, I don’t give out jobs in return for sex, whatever the rumours say.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “That’s what tonight was about, was it? You want a pay rise? A promotion? What?”
“I just… Everyone said…”
“Spit it out. What is it I’m supposed to be giving you in return for you fucking me?”
“I just wanted a chance. A start. Junior Analyst.”
“Oh, right. Not much, then? I’m guessing you rate your skills in the sack. Come on then. Get naked. Let’s see what you’re made of! No…? Does that sound fucking grim and disgusting to you? Because it does to me.”
She might actually be sick. The smooth wooden floor was blurring. All the surfaces were bright and glassy, windows all around, Roscoe’s voice bouncing off the walls.
“Don’t… Please don’t get me fired.”
Her voice was so small, it seemed to take him a moment to process what she’d said. He let out a breath even more disgusted than the last. “What kind of scumbag do you think I am? Actually. Don’t answer that. You’ve made it pretty clear.”
He picked up her coat and handed it to her. She followed him numbly down the hall and stepped straight through the door that he held open for her.
“Maybe try getting a job the normal way. Get some self-respect.”
The door closed behind her, and the soft click of the catch shattered the last fragment of her dignity. It was done. She was done. It could not be undone.
When she made her way down from the heights of the penthouse suite to the glittering foyer with its plants and marble and water feature, the building’s concierge stepped forwards to halt her trembling steps.
“Mr Blackton sent a car for you. To take you home. All paid for, he said to tell you. All part of the service.”