19. Corm
Chapter 19
Corm
“ D o you ever leave?” Roxy leans against the door frame.
She’s in a smart dress with a jean jacket over it. I long ago gave up on reminding her of our business dress code. The woman wears her mismatched clothes with more style and elegance than anyone else I know.
Besides Saar, if she was willing to dress at all.
“What do you want, Roxy?” I growl and push my chair from my desk.
I’m getting claustrophobic in my large office because she’s right, I have been stuck here for days.
And nights. Not that I’d admit that. I made Saar believe I’m in The Velvet Room, but instead I’m here, pretending I’m a workaholic.
“Just making sure you turn off the lights when you leave.” She snickers.
“Go home.”
“I will after you tell me why you are sleeping in the office.” She takes off her heels and saunters to my desk where she plops into a chair opposite me.
“I don’t sleep here,” I lie.
She raises an eyebrow. “You know, a man is only powerful if he can be vulnerable. I know that society teaches you boys not to cry, but it’s fucking bullshit.”
“Thank you for your insight into the problems of modern men. Not sure why you feel I’m interested in this conversation.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, you’re extra nasty with the staff, and I’m frankly tired of the constant flow of resignation letters because people fear you—”
“If they did their jobs and used their brains, they would have nothing to fear.”
I stand, walk to my shelves, and pour myself an inch of whiskey. I take a sip, but when I turn, Roxy is still sitting there.
I sigh and pour her one as well. “Look, Roxy, this deal with Atlas is stressful, but I’ll try not to bark at people if you try to hire more competent staff.”
“The Atlas deal is the reason you don’t sleep at your own house?” She swirls the liquid in her glass.
“Roxy—” I warn.
“I’m just saying, if you’ve developed feelings for Caleb’s sister and now you sleep in your office to avoid her, it’s pretty immature, but it’s your choice. If you fucked her and are now avoiding her, then you’re a coward. In any case, may I book you into a hotel?”
“I can’t go to a hotel and risk someone taking pictures.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“So it is because of Saar and your feelings for her?” She takes a sip, looking at me through her lashes.
I fell into that one. “If the feelings are exasperation, frustration, and a mild case of anxiety, then yes.”
“And attraction, perhaps?”
“I found out why she needed this arrangement, and her attraction plummeted. I’m avoiding her because if I confront her, we might kill each other.”
“I thought her reason is her trust fund.”
“But why would a woman who worked since she was a teenager need money so urgently?”
Roxy frowns. “What did you find out?”
“I offered you a nightcap, not a sharing session.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s my bonus that is at stake here.”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry, your bonus is safe. I will fucking get this deal done. Next week is the fundraiser, and Vladislav will see what a perfect couple we are and how I have settled down.”
“And then?”
“We helped him merge with Atlas, and my fake marriage is over.”
“So you’ll just let her go like that?”
And there lies my problem, and the real reason I’m avoiding Saar. Just before I opened the files from Mathison, I was sure I wanted to keep her around for longer. Forever perhaps?
I love my house, but I realized after I moved in how lonely it feels. And she filled the space effortlessly.
She destroyed a part of it, but besides the decor disaster, I enjoyed sharing my space with her.
Ironically, her post about loneliness and pretense hit me straight in my solar plexus. Because I could feel her. I could feel her pain, because I live what she talked about.
That constant pressure of expectations that isolate you in the game of pretense, when you no longer know who you truly are.
When I came home that day, I didn’t plan on sleeping with her. Knowing what I already knew about her, it was a tactical mistake.
A mistake that led to this. I can’t pretend this is a simple case of attraction. I fucking want her.
But she’s a walking red flag. I hoped that having her tailed would give me more tangible proof, and that would finally ease my mind into forgetting about her.
But she’s been spending days at home, in the shelter, or at her friend’s bistro. Her behavior doesn’t match what Mathison found out. She might hide it well, so she gets her stupid trust fund. Fuck.
“You men are such idiots.” Roxy sighs when I don’t answer.
“Maybe your bonus is not safe after all.” I glare, sagging back into my chair.
She laughs. “Okay, boss, I’ll finish my nightcap and let you sleep… I mean, work.” Her grin is as annoying as my current situation.
My phone screen lights up on my desk. I check the message, and my blood pressure spikes immediately.
“What the fuck?” I grab my jacket, rushing to the door.
“What happened?” Roxy stands.
“Saar is in a fucking sex club.” I’m going to kill her.
Roxy belts out a laugh. “God, I love that woman.”
I text my driver before I reach the elevator. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What was she thinking? Is she there looking for me? The thought spreads some weird, not completely negative, feeling in my chest. Is she jealous?
It’s more like she has some other plan to rile me up. The idea of her there among all those horny bastards churns in my stomach.
It takes ten minutes for my driver to come, and another half an hour to reach the club. By then I’m ready to break into the stupid place and kill every man who’s laid eyes on her. And then take her home and fucking chain her to her bed until the deal is signed.
I bang at the door, and it opens immediately. “Good evening, sir—”
I push past him.
“You can’t.” He steps in front of me, and immediately, two bulky security guards appear from somewhere.
I raise my arms in surrender. “I prefer the streets fucking crowdy.”
The two guards exchange looks, probably thinking I’m so horny it killed all my brain cells.
I drop the phone on the counter, and the hostess gives me a mask, saying something I don’t register because I see red, but I smile at her in an effort to reassure them I’m not a lunatic. Though the jury is out on that one.
Finally, she slides her card through the reader, and I walk in. A show is happening on the stage, and I squint under my mask, adjusting to the low light. Fuck, how will I find her here?
But before I even take another step, I spot her. In a red dress exposing her long, beautiful leg, she sits at the bar, her attention on the performance. Her hair falls down around her shoulders, her face hidden behind the lace of her mask.
But there is no doubt it’s her. Something wild and untamed spreads around my chest, and my legs move before I even think, beckoning me to her.
The mask gives her an air of sensual intrigue and mysterious elegance. She sits in the shadows and still manages to shine.
I stop a couple of feet from her, but she doesn’t notice me, completely enthralled by what’s happening on the stage.
Is she enjoying the show? I smile to myself. I hate that she came here, but at the same time I admire her guts.
She’s been acting out and hiding mostly, lost in her self-discovery. That damn post was the first glimpse of the real woman behind the broken facade. And now this.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that she sits alone, or her alluring presence that calms me down, but instead of dragging her out of here, I stay behind and watch her.
The moans and grunts on the stage allude to what is happening, but I don’t look there; I’m completely absorbed by the woman in front of me.
She is perfectly still. Like she’s posing for a painting or a statue. She is a true piece of art.
She occasionally licks her lips, her chest heaving delicately. I get a vision of her coming, and my cock presses against my zipper.
I approach her slowly, taking in her glowing skin, her shiny hair, her parted lips, her torso wrapped in that sinful dress.
When I’m beside her, I lean in, the lavender scent making me even harder. “Is this your first time here?” I drawl.
She tenses, her spine straightening as she parts her lips. The lipstick she wears is subtle, and yet I can’t look away from the shimmering fullness of her mouth.
The quick movement in her throat reveals a moment of hesitation before she croaks. “Maybe.”
It’s just a whisper, but after not speaking to her for a few days, I’m like a deprived junkie who needs a hit.
“May I get you another drink?” I glimpse the almost-empty tumbler beside her. Does she drink whiskey? Or is this just part of the persona she came here to play?
Suddenly, I’m irrationally upset that I don’t know that. That I don’t know her favorite drink? Or that she didn’t come here for me?
Based on her apparent enjoyment of the show, she came here to piss me off, not to find me.
“No.” She turns to look at me. The mask’s lace softly clings to her skin, highlighting her eyes. “Thank you.” She returns to watching the debauchery on the stage.
“Then maybe you want to play,” I hear myself saying as I step closer, my body pressed against her side.
She swallows again but doesn’t say anything. My fingers dust her exposed leg, and her eyes flutter as she gasps silently.
I should require her consent, but I’m riddled with rage and want—no, need—so I take her silence as permission.
I trace her delicate skin up her thigh. The feel of her spreads through me, and while the contact is at my fingertips, it reverberates into my heels. And my cock. That fucker is painfully hard.
Saar’s eyes are glued to the stage, but the rest of her is very much here, reacting to my touch. Her throat bobs, her chest stutters, goose bumps cover her skin.
I love what my touch does to her. That she welcomes it. For a moment I allow myself to forget who we are, and where we are.
Dipping my head to hers, I rest my forehead beside her temple like I’m going to say something, but I don’t. I just inhale her, feeling her essence, wanting more of her. From her. With her.
My fingers slide under the hem around the daring slit, and I reach between her thighs.
With my thumb, I press against her clit, and she sucks in air. I massage her gently, just teasing her really, and she shifts in her seat, chasing my hand.
I chuckle. “Look at you, all wet and ready. Is it the performance or my hand that arouses you?”
I’m barely touching her, but her breath becomes labored. God, I wish I didn’t know what I know. That I didn’t have all the questions.
I have no right to demand the truth from her. She didn’t lie to me. She just hides her secrets carefully. And I’m irrationally upset about it. As if I shared mine with her.
I hook my fingers into the hem of her panties and tug. “Go to the bathroom and take these off.”