Chapter 3
MOLLIE
Iwas way out of my element.
The thought hit me like a champagne cork to the forehead the second I stepped through the doors of The Evergreen Room.
Everywhere I looked were sequins, silk, and sleek suits.
Meanwhile, I was in a dress that still smelled faintly of my roommate Avery’s perfume and bad college decisions.
She’d worn it to a frat formal years ago and swore it was “timeless.”
“Champagne, Miss?”
The waiter was polished within an inch of his life—crisp white shirt, posture like a ruler, smile perfectly neutral. This was the kind of worker who’d handle my party. I wondered if they’d compare me and my friends to the classy, super-wealthy people they normally had.
Would Grady compare us? That was the important question.
“Thank you.” I chose a champagne flute from one of the dozen or so on the tray he held and looked around. Just as he started to step away, I stopped him. “Do you know where I can find Grady Thorne?”
“Mr. Thorne?” The waiter’s smile warmed slightly. “Last I saw, he was in the conference room.”
He gave me directions and I headed that way, clutching my champagne like a security blanket. The Evergreen Room was even more stunning than I’d imagined. Winter stars cascaded across the ceiling like frozen magic. White roses and silver branches created a forest of elegance.
Everything Grady had stressed about this afternoon was worth it. The space was breathtaking.
But he wasn’t here enjoying it. He was hiding in a conference room.
I found the hallway easily enough, away from the music and laughter, and counted doors. Third on the right. Conference Room, according to the brass plaque. I was hesitant to trust it, after what had happened the other day, but through the window beside the door, I could see him.
Grady sat alone at a long conference table, his jacket off, tie loosened, staring at his screen with the kind of intensity most people reserved for defusing bombs. The soft glow from the screen lit his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows.
He looked…tired. And somehow more real than he had in his office or even in the mail room this afternoon.
I shouldn’t interrupt. He was clearly taking a break, and I was just the girl who’d dumped coffee on his wall and complicated his well-organized life. He’d invited me out of politeness—or maybe pity—and now I was tracking him down like some kind of—
He looked up. Our eyes met through the window, and for a second, I considered running. Just turning around and pretending I’d gotten lost on my way to the bathroom.
But then he smiled. Not his professional smile or his polite CEO smile. A real one. Surprised and pleased and maybe a little relieved.
He gestured for me to come in. I eased the door open, suddenly hyperaware of how the borrowed dress fit, how my hair was probably already falling out of the updo I’d attempted.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hunt you down. The waiter told me where you were and I just—”
“I’m glad you came.” He stood, setting his phone face down on the table. “You look beautiful.”
The compliment hit me square in the chest. “Oh. Thanks. It’s Avery’s—my roommate’s. She said it was timeless, but I’m pretty sure she meant ‘hasn’t gone out of style yet.’”
“It suits you.” He pulled out the chair beside his. “Please. Sit. Unless you’d rather be out there with the masses?”
“God, no.” The words came out before I could stop them, and I winced. “I mean—it’s beautiful out there. Everything you planned is perfect. But it’s also…a lot.”
“It is a lot.” He sat back down, and I noticed the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “I don’t particularly enjoy these events. The actual parties, I mean.”
“Really? But you plan them.”
“Planning is different. Planning is control, making sure every detail aligns. But the events themselves?” He shook his head. “Small talk with people who don’t really want to talk to me. Fake smiles and forced networking. It’s exhausting.”
I sank into the chair beside him, relieved. “I thought I was the only one who felt like that.”
“You?” He looked genuinely surprised. “You seem like someone who’d thrive at parties. You’re warm, genuine, and easy to talk to.”
“Now, maybe. But that’s not how I grew up.” I took a sip of champagne, needing the courage. “I went to college on a full scholarship. That was the first time I had friends. A real social life. Before that, it was just me and my uncle’s empty house and a lot of silence.”
Grady’s expression softened. “That must have been lonely.”
“It was. But college…” I sighed, remembering. “It was like someone turned on all the lights. Suddenly, I had roommates who wanted to stay up late talking. Friends who invited me places. People who cared if I was okay. I was so busy making up for lost time, just having friends, that I never really…”
I trailed off, realizing what I was about to say.
“Never really what?” His voice was gentle, curious.
“Dated.” The word came out smaller than I intended.
“I never dated. In high school, I was too embarrassed for any guy to find out about my home life. And in college, I was just so grateful to have friends that I didn’t want to risk complicating things.
Plus, I was working part-time and studying and trying to figure out who I was when I wasn’t just ‘the quiet kid nobody noticed.’”
“So you’ve never…?”
“Never.” I met his eyes, feeling vulnerable but also strangely safe. “I’m twenty-three years old, and I’ve never been on a real date. Never had a boyfriend. Never had someone show me what I’ve been missing.”
The air between us shifted, grew heavier.
“That seems like something that should be changed,” Grady said, his voice lower now.
“I think so too.” My heart was doing acrobatics. “I want someone to show me. What it’s like. What I’ve been missing all these years.”
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. “I could volunteer for that position.”
There was the slightest hint of amusement on his face, but his eyes were serious. Intense. Like he was asking a question that mattered.
“Could you?” I managed to say.
“I think I’d be very good at it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m meticulous. Detail-oriented. I believe in doing things right.” His gaze dropped to my lips for just a second before returning to my eyes. “And I think you deserve someone who’ll pay attention. Who’ll make sure every moment is exactly what you need it to be.”
My breath caught. “That sounds…thorough.”
“I’m nothing if not thorough.”
We were sitting so close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something clean and understated that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. Close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes.
“Yes,” I heard myself say.
“Yes?”
“Yes. I accept your volunteer application.”
His smile grew, just slightly, and I felt it everywhere. “Good.”
Then his eyes shifted, just for a second, to the window beside the door. The window with its clear view into the hallway. The window that meant anyone walking by could see us sitting here, close enough to—
The air between us was thick with promise, but the view through that window was a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk by. The party was right there. He was the host. This couldn’t happen here. Not now.
He let out a slow breath, the heat in his eyes banked by practicality. “I have to stay until the party is over. Protocol. But after that…”
After that felt like a lifetime away. The want that had been simmering in my veins all day was now a rolling boil, and I didn’t have the strength, or the desire, to turn down the heat.
I didn’t want to wait. Besides, the risk of being seen only sharpened the edge of my need, adding a thrilling, dangerous current to the tension.
My gaze remained fixed on the window, watching for danger, as my left hand settled on the fine wool of his dress pants.
I felt the solid muscle of his thigh tense beneath my palm.
I didn’t look at him, didn’t break my surveillance of the area outside the room, as my hand slid slowly, deliberately, upward.
The thin fabric did little to hide the hard ridge of his erection, and a jolt of pure, feminine power shot through me.
He was already this hard for me. For me.
I traced his length through the wool, my thumb brushing over the head, and a sharp, quiet hiss escaped his lips.
His hands clenched on the arms of his chair.
Emboldened, my fingers found his zipper. The metallic whisper was deafening in the quiet room. Once his pants were unzipped, I flicked the button open, my knuckles brushing against the hot, tense skin of his abdomen. Still watching the window, I slid my hand inside his underwear.
The feel of him, silken and steel, filling my palm, stole my breath. He was smooth, hot, and achingly real in my hand. My fingers curled around him, learning his shape, his weight, the pulse that beat a frantic rhythm against my skin.
This was Grady Thorne, the unflappable CEO, laid bare and trembling under my touch. It was the most intoxicating thing I’d ever experienced.
A low, guttural moan rumbled in his chest. “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”
Then, with a frantic movement, he shoved his pants and underwear to his thighs, freeing himself completely. The sight of him, fully exposed and hard with desire for me, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through my core. My hand returned to him, my strokes growing bolder, more confident.
I started slow—a long, languid glide from root to tip, my thumb sweeping over the damp head to spread the bead of moisture that had gathered there. His breath hitched—a sharp, ragged inhale. I did it again, and again, establishing a rhythm that was both a question and an answer.
A low, continuous groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure being wrestled into silence. When I twisted my wrist slightly on the upstroke, his hips bucked off the chair, a helpless, involuntary thrust into my hand.
“Jesus,” he gasped, his voice strangled.
I tightened my grip, picking up the pace. The room filled with the soft, slick sound of my hand moving over him—a secret, sinful music beneath the distant hum of the party.
His control was fraying, and I was the one pulling the threads. His head was thrown back, the strong column of his throat working as he swallowed hard. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if all his willpower was being channeled into staying quiet.
“Look at me,” I whispered, the command leaving my lips before I could reconsider.
His eyes flew open, blazing with intensity, glazed with a pleasure so deep, it looked like pain. The connection was electric. Seeing the raw, naked need in his gaze as I pleasured him was more powerful than any touch.
A shudder wracked his frame, and his hand shot out, gripping my forearm. It was an anchor, a plea, a confirmation that he was as lost in this as I was.
He was murmuring my name now, a broken litany between panting breaths. “Please…yes…just like that…”
Each word was a surrender, a piece of the powerful man handed over to me.
I felt the tension coiling tight in him, the muscles of his stomach clenching, the pulse in his length becoming a frantic, hammering beat against my palm.
He was close, so close to the edge, and the power of it was a dizzying high.
But then he moved. In one fluid, decisive motion that shattered the moment, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the tile floor, dislodging my hand.
He stood, his erection jutting straight out, his pants a dark puddle around his powerful thighs. His eyes locked with mine. His voice was rough, raw with a command that brooked no argument.
“Come with me.”