Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
BLAKE
Ican't stop thinking about her at work; the thoughts invade my mind like uninvited guests who then refuse to leave.
No matter how hard I try to focus on the spreadsheets glaring back at me from my monitors in the office, it is no use.
I wasn't even supposed to come in today.
Saturdays are meant to be my day off. Time to unravel, but here I am, staring at the damn Tokyo deal again.
Another image of her teases me—writhing and moaning on the dining table.
The taste of her still haunts my tongue.
In a way, I can’t believe what’s going on with me.
At least two years of not even wanting to touch her, and now I can’t get enough.
She's under my skin. My cock stiffens at the memory of her heat, her surrender.
I rub my temples and try to shake the image off, but it's no use.
She comes into the quiet spaces between emails.
My fingers itch to text her, to ask if she's thinking about last night too.
It is a Saturday, and the usual bustle of the Bessant headquarters in Midtown is reduced to a skeleton crew. The hum of the printer down the hall and the distant ring of a phone are the only sounds breaking the silence.
Damn it. I shouldn’t be here either. Tokyo can wait until Monday.
The city’s skyline is starting to fade in my rearview when my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with an urgent email from the team.
A regulatory snag. The Japanese are threatening to pull out over some bullshit compliance issue with EU emissions standards.
Our lawyers swear we flagged it weeks ago.
It's an emergency, the kind that demands immediate attention. Great, I’ll have to deal with them head-on, holed up in the boardroom with my legal team.
Slamming on the brakes at a red light, my jaw clenching as I U-turn back toward the office.
The leather steering wheel creaks under my white-knuckled grip.
Three sharp-suited attorneys are pouring over clauses on the long conference table, laptops open to red-lined contracts. The scent of stale coffee hovers in the air. They're dissecting the EU regs line by line, arguing over legal interpretations.
I join them.
Hours drag by. My phone sits silent on the table except for the occasional ping of work updates. I’m desperate to hear her voice. I'm seething inside. I should be home. Instead, I'm trapped here, frustration mounting like a storm inside me.
Then my phone buzzes again, but it’s not work this time. A text from her! I freeze, staring at the screen like it's a ghost from the past. My thumb hovers over the notification, a mix of curiosity and wariness twisting in my gut. What does she want?
I open it:
Frances is dining out with an old friend and planning to stay overnight in the city. I’m cooking. What do you want to eat for dinner?
Simple, domestic, but it throws me for a loop.
Carolyn is cooking dinner for the two of us.
This unexpected normalcy, and after last night's fire too.
It's strange. Really strange. On top of the fact that in all our years together, a casual message from her, unprompted, like we're a normal couple checking in, has never happened before.
I type quickly, my fingers flying over the keys amidst the lawyers' debating:
Whatever’s available is fine.
She responds almost immediately. Okay, got it.
And then, because I can't help myself, that pull draws me in despite the chaos around me, I ask: How was your meeting?
Her reply comes after a short pause.
It was good. We went to a spa. Really relaxing. Ready to continue what we started last night…
The words land like a bolt, stirring heat in my guts. I lean back in my chair. I ignore the team as an idea forms in my head. Freya couldn't garden today like she wanted, but maybe... I text back:
Freya’s been asking for a sleepover with one of her friends for ages. Feel like arranging it?
She replies promptly: Yes, I'll arrange it.
She asks again about dinner: Anything specific you want? For dinner, I mean.
I smile faintly at the screen, the boardroom fading for a second. Her persistence is oddly endearing:
Anything you feel like. I’m easy… when it comes to food.
She texts back with a cheeky face emoji: Yeah, me too… when it comes to food.
I set the phone down. The exchange lingers like a promise, cutting through my piss-poor mood as I dive back into the crisis. Determined to wrap it up soon.