CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
“Your outfit is fine, Emily.” I rasp, staring at her lips, needing to taste her like a fucking heroin addict.
My body thrums as my cock lengthens inside my Tom Ford pants, and I wonder if she’ll notice and offer to help me out with it.
No, you do not.
“But you want me—”
“I said I want to fuck you. That doesn’t mean I will.” I correct, annoyed with the both of us.
“Sebastian,” Emily snaps, surprising me so much that my brows shoot up. “Let me finish. I was going to say you want me to leave.”
No.
I do not want her to fucking leave. That’s half my goddamn problem. The thought of her walking out of this building and never seeing her again...I just can’t. And I’m not explaining it.
I tug on my sleeves, adjusting my cufflinks. “I want you to do your job. That includes,” I reply firmly, wishing her dress neckline was lower so I could enjoy her cleavage privately. “Accompanying me to a work dinner on Sunday. With the sheikh.”
She startles.
“Oh, ah. Is that in my job description?”
I lean down, the space between us dangerously small, my voice gruff. “Did you see my name on the top of this building?”
Emily nods.
“That means I’m the boss. I write the job descriptions.”
She nods again, and I hate how cute she looks, blushing and barely breathing, affected by the electrical charge between us.
“I can change your job description and if I wanted to”— stop talking —“I would have you on your knees under my desk”— stop fucking talking— “and taking my cock like a good little PA.”
Fuck.
That wasn’t what I planned to say. I straighten and rub a hand over my face.
Emily swallows, then the little minx says, “I think that would be illegal.”
A laugh escapes me, and she surprises me further by lifting the corner of her lips. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and rub my thumb along her bottom lip.
She draws in a jagged breath.
“Get a dress. Something sexy. Charge it to the Remington account,” I say, ignoring my throbbing cock as Emily leans into my touch. Her eyes close, and it takes all my willpower not to wrap my arm around her, tugging her against my body then swiping my desk clear so I can fuck her until she screams.
If this was Sandy, she’d use it to blackmail a guy. Don’t be dumb.
I step away.
Long lashes flutter as Emily opens her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Jesus, fuck. I’m not that strong.
“Go.”
Emily nods, spins, and runs out the door.
Good god, I nearly chase her.
A N HOUR LATER, I receive an email from Emily.
Dear Mr. Remington
Why isn’t your fiancée attending the event with you?
Regards,
Emily
I stare at the email for way too long, not having an answer for her. I don’t understand why I chose to invite her to dinner with the sheikh, and more importantly, as my fake fiancée, but it appears I have.
It could be a complete and utter disaster.
I’ll tell her when we get to the restaurant. It’s not like I’m asking her to actually marry me. Emily just needs to smile and appear to like me. Our chemistry is what I’m relying on.
She will need to be discreet. Fortunately, the NDA—non-disclosure agreement—she signed covers it. So, in some ways, she’s the perfect person.
We clearly want to fuck one another.
And she can’t say a word.
Dear Emily,
This email serves as a reminder that anything you see or hear in this job must remain confidential.
Regards,
Sebastian
Mr. Remington
A quick glance at the time reminds me I have a date. With the guys. It’s Friday night, and we regularly meet at Colt’s club, The Obsidian Club, in Soho Manhattan. I snap my laptop shut, push my chair back, and grab my jacket. Then head out the door. I pass Emily, who’s typing away vigorously.
“Good evening, Emily.”
I push the elevator button as I wait for her reply.
“Sebastian.” Her voice is soft.
I turn, our eyes lock, and the vulnerability in those baby blues hits me right in the chest, tightening as I resist the need to close the distance.
Suddenly, I’m seeing the giggling mess of a girl I met on the plane. The one I purposely got drunk so I could kiss her. The one who sunk to her knees without hesitation and then curled up in her seat, watching me until her eyes closed.
Then it was my turn.
I studied her long lashes, her worn leggings, and fancy manicure with the edge of one damaged. The one I’d watched her scratch at for hours. Her pink hair tie snug around her wrist, leaving a dent. I pulled it off and twisted it for hours as she slept. I don’t know why I did that.
Ignoring the elevator when it opens, I walk over to her desk.
“Does she know?” Emily asks.
She still thinks I’m engaged.
“No,” I reply, not lying. Technically. “I will pick you up at seven.”
The elevator pings open, and I give her a warm smile.
“Hello, Mr. Remington.” Terri skips past me. “Eek, I’m so excited about your first Friday night out in Manhattan.”
As I step into the elevator, I watch Emily’s face light up. She spins in her chair and darts up, grabbing her handbag.
I grind my teeth as the doors close, knowing she’s hitting the clubs tonight. I know exactly what’s going to happen. A million men in this city are going to want to take her home.
Fuck.
And Emily thinks I’m engaged.