FOUR #2
I scowled at the mention of those titles, my fingers twitching slightly against the edge of her CV. Both books were relics of my early career, titles I hardly considered representative of what I had become as an author.
‘Those are my earlier works,’ I echoed my thoughts, trying to gauge her reaction. ‘I’ve deviated quite a bit since then. My newer books lean more into explicit themes, heavy psychological tension, and a long list of trigger warnings.’
Her gaze didn’t falter as I slid a copy of my latest book across the desk to her.
She reached out a manicured hand and flipped the book open, her fingers deftly finding the two-page section of the trigger warnings.
I watched her closely as her eyes moved steadily down the list, her lashes casting soft shadows against her cheekbones.
She read with the sort of composure that intrigued me – no visible reaction, no hesitation. It was almost as if she were mentally cataloguing the horrors.
Most people flinched, some feigned interest to seem edgy. But she took it in like a surgeon reviewing an autopsy report – clinical, efficient. Something else lurked in those eyes. Something I hadn’t seen in the others.
Or women in general.
And just like that, my frustration started to dissolve. Maybe she wasn’t just a name in a pile of useless CVs. Maybe she actually understood the things I wrote – what they cost. What they unlocked.
I wondered, then… what else could she stomach?
I allowed my gaze to wander for a moment, taking in the delicate curve of her pointy jaw and the few loose strands of platinum hair that had slipped free from her neat twist.
My focus shifted briefly to Vinnie, who was propped against the doorframe, wearing a smug grin. But his eyes weren’t on her face. They were firmly locked on her arse.
I focused back on her. It was the details that caught me – those that only I could possibly see.
The glint of chain-link earrings dangled from her ears, then the rest of the studs littering the lobe – a wolf, a dragon, a shell, and other tiny symbols that hinted at something darker.
She liked pain. She had too many piercings for someone who didn’t know how to enjoy it.
Something about her presence stirred a memory – an echo of Scarlett’s intensity, the same controlled strength that made surrender feel inevitable. It wasn’t just the comparison that unsettled me. It was how much I wanted to unravel her carefully placed armour, to see what lay beneath.
I dragged my gaze back to her face, trying to focus on the cool, stoic expression she wore. But it didn’t matter how controlled she seemed – her presence filled the room, demanding attention without effort.
DeLuca snapped the book shut and pulled me out of my decadent musings.
‘I’m not bothered by the triggers,’ she said.
My gaze met hers.
And then I noticed them: veins of blue threading through the green – eyes like seawater bruised by a coming storm. I hadn’t realised that a moment ago; too caught up in myself. And now I couldn’t look away.
Her face held no nervous flutters, no forced pleasantries, just that stillness, the kind you find in people who have already lived through something that left a mark.
My eyes descended to her mouth – full, curved, with a flush of peach so soft it didn’t belong in a room this sharp. She wasn’t flirting. But fuck, those lips were made to beg – pretty and bruisable whether whispering or screaming safe words. And I wasn’t sure which I would rather hear.
‘Really?’ I asked – rougher than I’d meant.
Because yeah – something about this woman was getting under my skin. And now I couldn’t tell if I wanted her to stay.
Or chase her.
She reached into the gift bag and pulled out a book. The second it slid across the desk, something in me jolted. Recognition, unease. Like déjà vu laced with a dare.
And my pulse stuttered.
I didn’t bother with the title. Didn’t give a fuck about her pen name. My fingers flipped over to the trigger warnings.
The usual suspects were there – violence, breath play, degradation. Then the deeper cuts: coercion. Captivity.
My body followed a few seconds in front of my thoughts – dumber than my instincts.
Self-harm, predator-prey…
And there it was—
Knife kink. My thoughts stilled. My breath too.
My thumb hovered over the next line: consensual-non-consent with psychological conditioning.
Fuck. Me.
I wrote about those things. I lived that.
My stomach twisted from the way my body responded. As if it recognised her. As if we had both been carved from the same kind of broken.
Shifting again, slower this time, I flipped to the prose to make it seem I was reading instead of trying to breathe through the throb low in my gut. My pulse was in my ears now. And my dick. And my fucking tongue.
I focused on the words as they jumped off the page. They felt familiar in tone and theme – dark and vivid, twisted in ways that almost mirrored my own work.
‘That’s one of my best-sellers,’ she said, her tone even, though her eyes betrayed a hint of pride. ‘You’ll find the trigger warnings are similar to yours.’
No shit. My throbbing hard-on and the momentary moral crisis completely agreed with her.
My focus was split between the text on the page and the slow, insistent pulse in my body. I stretched my feet to the side to avoid squirming, desperate for some relief. Vinnie, the arsehole, didn’t miss it.
He winked.
Now wasn’t the time for his mockery.
And as I refocused on her, I realised that this interview suddenly mattered to me. From the few passages I’d read, it was clear she wasn’t afraid of the dark corners of storytelling. She embraced the need to confront uncomfortable truths. And just maybe, she could understand me.
‘Well, that’s a start,’ I said, leaning back and studying her more intently. ‘So you think you can handle the kind of work I do?’
Her lips curved just slightly – a hint of a smirk, too self-aware to be sweet. ‘I think the real question is whether you’re ready to let someone else into your world.’
She didn’t blink when she said it. No twitch, no shift, no sign of unease. She didn’t even try to soften it with a laugh or a nervous glance – just threw it out like a fucking gauntlet.
Something in me snapped taut.
It wasn’t just that she was a pretty face – though she was in that clean-lined, no-nonsense way that made me want to rip all that order right out of her. It wasn’t even that she was probably as unhinged as I was.
It was the fact that she knew her worth. She was like a loaded weapon – held steady, safety off, and pointed straight at me.
Hope?
No, this wasn’t hope.
It was threat. Sprinkled with something that made me want to bite into it.
And after blue-balling it through Scarlett’s session last night, I was fucking starving.
It was Vinnie’s turn to discreetly adjust his slacks.
‘Can I keep this?’ I asked quickly, turning the book over to glance at the back cover. My fingers traced the blurb absent-mindedly, though my thoughts were already racing ahead.
‘Of course,’ she said with a slight nod. ‘I brought two more – both best-sellers.’ She reached back into the bag and placed the remaining books on the desk in front of me.
I inclined my head, my curiosity already burning through my grey matter.
I wanted to tear into her stories, devour the words she wrote, not just to understand her style, but to see if her mind was as dark and twisted as mine.
Could she delve into the same shadows and come out unscathed?
Or was she like me, dragging those shadows with her wherever she went?
‘You’re American?’ Vinnie asked, breaking the moment as he casually shouldered up against the doorframe again.
His arms crossed in a way he knew emphasized the bulk of his muscles.
His Italian charm was turned up to full throttle, but Paula barely seemed to notice.
She didn’t falter even when her gaze slid briefly to him before settling back on me.
‘Yes. But my mother is Italian,’ she said, her voice clipped – impatient, as if she had bled out that answer a dozen times already. ‘I moved here two years ago. I have family here.’
‘No husband? No children?’ Vinnie pressed, his tone light, but I could see the faint glint of personal interest in his eyes. However, he wasn’t just asking for fun – he wanted to know what kind of complications might follow her into the job.
I shook my head subtly, warning him off, mindful of the strict European labour laws against invasive questions like that.
‘None,’ she answered before I could intervene. This time there was an edge to her, something hidden beneath her composed exterior. Whatever the reason, it piqued my curiosity further. What secrets did she harbour?
I cleared my throat, redirecting the conversation before Vinnie could dig any deeper. ‘We’ll fit you with a desk and the necessary equipment. The job would require you to come into the office regularly. Can you manage that? Do you live nearby?’
Her attention shifted to me, her gaze settling like heat, then spreading over my skin, raising gooseflesh.
‘I live about twenty minutes away,’ she said softly. ‘The commute won’t be a problem.’
I nodded, labouring to maintain an air of professionalism, though every nerve in my body screamed for something else.
I glanced at her CV again, my fingers brushing the edge of the paper as if the motion could ground me.
Her eyes travelled back to mine and held, steady and unwavering.
It wasn’t often a woman could hold her own against me, and I wasn’t sure whether it intrigued or unnerved me.
I knew my looks weren’t exactly a hindrance – I had even done some modelling on the side when money had been tight – but she didn’t seem fazed.
No flustered glances. No lingering stares.
Maybe she played for the other team?