Chapter 34
Gen
The office is the same as it is most days. Norm is snoring at Zach’s feet. Maddy’s teasing Cal about the women he fucked last night. Rafe’s not here—he’s at his hedge fund, Cerulean, today for a quarterly strategy meeting.
And I’m attempting to put basic plans in place for the French pop-up.
It’s not happening, though, because my pussy is still tender from the royal fucking Max gave me, and my soul is still tender from the utter mind fuck that was coming and coming while my eyes were locked on Anton Fucking Wolff’s twin dark pools of sin.
It was like having an eye-gasm and an orgasm simultaneously. Worse, because he got into my brain and under my skin, and the filthiness, the depravity of having him watch while his friends fucked me and he got his assistant off ratcheted the whole episode from hot to unspeakable.
Unforgettable.
My mobile ringing interrupts my useless attempts at organisation.
It’s a number I don’t recognise. I put my earbuds in, giving some serious side-eye to the fresh, flawless bouquet of camellias that arrived first thing and is now taunting me from my desk.
The note read, naturally, You are magnificent.
As if I needed reminding of the words that are tattooed on my brain.
‘This is Genevieve.’
‘Good morning, Ms Carew. This is Rix calling from Anton Wolff’s office,’ says a voice that’s upbeat and cultured in equal measure.
The sound of his name thrums somewhere deep in my belly, and my first thought is I wonder if he fucks her, too?
The image of that beautiful woman wrapped around Anton, shuddering through her orgasm while he watched with raw, unflinching intensity as I bucked and cried out through my own will be forever seared onto my brain.
What will not be seared onto my brain is the name I mouthed as I came for the second time, because that moment never happened and will never be discussed.
‘What can I do for you, Rix?’ I ask now, hoping that Anton hasn’t made her call to schedule another pounding for my pussy at the hands of his admittedly gorgeous henchman, because right now I just want to be left alone with my memories and my Ibuprofen.
‘Mr Wolff would be grateful if you’d accompany him and some members of our Wolff Hospitality division on a two-day trip to Cannes next week,’ she says.
I bet he would.
She prattles on. She sounds like she should lay off the coffee. ‘The aim is to scope out possible venues for your pop-up and be on site to make initial decisions around theme, decor, staffing and promotional activity. Are you available Wednesday to Friday next week?’
I frown. ‘Could we not do it in a single night?’
‘Mr Wolff would be grateful if you could spare him two nights. He proposes flying out Wednesday afternoon and back Friday afternoon.’ She pauses. ‘He asked me to pass on that he’s happy to host you over the weekend if you’d like to prolong your trip.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say quickly. A weekend in the South of France with the Big Bad Wolff is up there with the worst ideas ever. ‘Let me check my calendar.’
I have a networking lunch and a couple of interviews scheduled with prospective members next week, but nothing that can’t be moved.
I huff. I resent having to jump when Anton calls, but I also appreciate that this pop-up is operating on a ridiculously tight set-up schedule, and I know I’m the right person to oversee this stage from Alchemy’s perspective.
At some point in the next few weeks, we’ll get Cal over there to work his magic, but as the COO I should be there to ensure that every tiny detail reflects the Alchemy brand.
And nothing is more important than the venue.
Besides, I love Cannes. I love the glamour, the weather, the energy. I adore the endless rosé and blue skies and the people-watching over seared tuna.
‘That should be fine,’ I say, making a concerted effort to make my voice sound friendly, because it’s not this woman’s fault she works for a vagina-wrecking-from-ten-paces sexual monster.
‘Who else is going from your end?’ I squeeze my eyes shut as I await my answer. Don’t say Athena. Or Max. Or David.
‘His Chief of Staff, Max, who I believe you’ve met, and…’
She reels off three or four other names I’m not familiar with and I exhale. One of out three ain’t bad. Besides, Max may be a dodgy fucker but he does have the ability to put me at ease with his unique blend of humour and flirtatious swagger.
I’m definitely keeping my hotel room door locked and bolted, though.
‘Can you let me have the flight and hotel details and I’ll have my assistant book it all up?’ I ask.
‘Mr Wolff has insisted on arranging the accommodation,’ she says in a sing-song, ‘and you will all be travelling on his jet from Biggin Hill at two o’clock on Wednesday if that is convenient?’
I sigh. Great. Now I have to endure a ride in Anton Wolff’s Big Dick jet while trying not to think about how many organs I’d be willing to sell in exchange for membership of the Mile High Club with him.
‘I can make that work, yes,’ I tell Rix.
We cover off a few more logistical details and I’m preparing to wind up the call when she says, ‘Mr Wolff would like a quick word.’
‘That’s not—’ I begin.
That’s not… necessary.
Advisable.
‘Genevieve.’ His voice comes down the line, saying my name in his trademark tone.
Clipped.
Deep.
Commanding.
Just how he said it last night, when he was instructing his guys how to fuck me.
Just how he said it when he was ordering me to beg.
I despise that I’m not strong enough to withstand the Pavlovian response I have to it.
I sigh. ‘Anton. What can I do for you?’
A pause. ‘I wanted to check in.’
I’m not giving this guy an inch. He got what he wanted, didn’t he? Well, he didn’t get to fuck me, but he got the next best thing, which was me in a puddle on the floor. I go for disingenuous. ‘About France?’
‘No, not about France. About yesterday evening. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He pauses again. He seems less sure of himself than usual. ‘So… will I see you at the club this week?’
‘Unlikely.’ My tone is businesslike. ‘I’ll be working late most of the week, trying to pull things together from my end for Cannes.’
‘Got it,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you on the plane, then. Let Rix know if you need any assistance from our end.’
He sounds cool. Dismissive. Maybe I’ve hurt his ego. Or maybe he’s already moving on, thinking about his next fuck. Or deal. I’m sure he enjoys closing deals and women equally.
‘Anton,’ I say before he rings off. ‘Don’t try any funny business with our hotels, okay?’
‘I can’t imagine what you mean,’ he drawls. Cheeky fucker.
‘No interconnecting rooms, or creepy open-plan suites, alright? I want my privacy. This is a work trip.’
‘I promise you, Genevieve, I won’t try any funny business with hotel rooms,’ he says. ‘That good enough for you?’
It’ll have to be, I suppose.
When we finish the call, I put my head in my hands.
I’m going to need some serious Maddy time to get through this.