“Get off of me,” I seethed.
His nostrils flared, but he did as I said, offering me his hand after gliding back onto his feet. I took it, still disoriented from being thrown to the ground—by him. People gathered around us on the sidewalk, watching. Célian sent a punch to the taxi’s hood, denting it in the shape of his fist.
I yelped. From this angle, it looked like he might have broken every bone in his hand, but if it hurt, he didn’t let it show. His face was back to being scarily blank and emotionless.
“Hey, man! What the hell!” The taxi driver stuck his head out his window, waving an angry fist in our direction.
“Hell is what I’m about to unleash on your ass. You had a red light and almost ran over my employee, so I pimped your ride. If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to take it up with the team of fucking lawyers who occupy an entire floor in my building.”
The driver said nothing, tucking his head back into his taxi and cursing under his breath.
Célian looked like he was about to explode, and I had to pull him into an alleyway between two buildings and plaster him against the wall, squeezing his shoulders. His breathing was hard and slow, like the mere act hurt him.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, then shook his head. “Are you?”
“Yes. He didn’t hit me, Célian.”
The taxi wouldn’t have run me over even without his help. I knew Célian had just had a knee-jerk reaction after what he’d been through with Camille, and I felt horrible for my lack of sensitivity. The light was green, so I’d just gone for it.
“Do yourself a favor and look left and right before you cross the fucking street,” he hissed in annoyance, suddenly looking embarrassed and disturbed.
His armor clattered to the ground, and I saw him for what he was: raw and incredibly tormented over what had happened to his sister, broken by his relationships with his father and fiancée, lost in a sea of people who admired and looked up to him, but were always too scared to show him real love.
“You wanted to save my life.” I cupped his cheek, not knowing if I should, but not caring much, either.
He put his hand over mine and scanned me from under his thick lashes, his throat bobbing with a swallow. His pulse slowed under his tailored suit, and we were now breathing in sync. It was reckless to touch him anywhere but behind closed doors, but I couldn’t help it. His eyes were crushed ice—beautiful, blue, and tarnished.
He clasped my chin between his fingers and brought my mouth to his. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”
He cupped my breast over the fabric of my dress and squeezed, tonguing me ruthlessly without warning. My mouth fell open and accepted the invasion. I wrapped my arms around his neck, grinding myself against him and knowing this was not enough, not even close to it. I wanted to get rid of our clothes, our underwear, our inhibitions. I wanted to strip down to the very last item on my body, then tell him all my secrets with every thrust and kiss and bite.
And I wanted to do those things not because he’d saved me—twice—but on the contrary, because for the first time since I’d met him, I recognized that he needed to be saved. From himself.
He disconnected from me, holding my jaw between his fingers and staring me down with his usual air of privilege, thick and heavy, clouded by lust.
“Eight o’clock. A cab will be waiting downstairs. You will wear the same dress, and no bra or panties. You will be mine for the evening. You will not talk back to me, just let me fuck you the way I want to—not because I paid for your shit, but because we both need a distraction. For every sass you give me, I will slap your pussy. For every no I hear, I will deny you an orgasm. Am I clear?”
I nodded, dropping my eyes to my shoes. I loved this part. Being his in a deprived, sick, and tortured way.
“Good. Now go get me a fucking lead.”
She did.
She got me the mother of all leads.
“The Vice President, Brendan Creston, did what?” Kate sprayed her coffee all over her iPad in the conference room.
Judith Humphry was an ambitious little Chucks. She managed the workload of two people. Whenever anyone had a contact or a lead they didn’t want to chase—whether they were too lazy, too busy, or simply unsure if it would result in a dead end—they threw it her way.
“Brendan Creston leaked these compromising emails.” Jude nodded, typing away on her laptop. “Now people are saying the President knew, and they were meant to be leaked. If it’s true, it’s a game changer.”
“How do we find out?” Elijah scratched his head.
“Grill the spokesperson.” Jude’s eyes shone.
I saw the way Elijah looked at her, and I didn’t like it. It was the same way I did, like a jackpot he was eager to hit—hot, smart, ambitious, and compassionate.
“Jude, you’re a natural.” Kate drumrolled on the desk.
Jessica squealed next to Phoenix, and another male reporter next to Jude low-fived her. Everybody was rooting for the new kid.
And I was the one screwing her—both over and her pussy.
“All right, let’s not cream our pants because Judith can read text messages and follow simple leads.” I waved everyone back to work.
Four hours later, we wrapped up one of the most outrageous news shows we’d ever produced, with James Townley’s name blowing up on Twitter like he had a sex tape featuring three NFL stars and a circus clown.
Everyone was talking about #LeakGate.
Coincidentally, the top floor of LBC had never been quieter.
I knew Mathias had brought Jude to my newsroom to stir shit, and in a sick twist of fate, not only had she turned out to be immune to his nouveau riche charm, but she also left mouthwatering news at my office doorstep every single day like a loyal feline.
Granted, knowing my father, I was positive he had more tricks up his sleeve to try to shit all over my progress at LBC.
When I got back home, I scheduled a cab for Judith. Normally, I didn’t liaise with people, but I couldn’t exactly ask my PA to send my reporter back to my building. I still had time to burn, so I went down to the building’s gym, punched a bag, sat in the steam room, and then had a shower. I slid into a pair of dark jeans and a white V-neck shirt and decided I didn’t want Jude to be hungry, cranky, or distracted when I defiled her face and ass, so I figured it would be in my interest to feed her before I had my way.
That was my line of thought as I poured out onto my well-lit street.
Chinese? Didn’t feel like GMO breath all over my cock and sheets. Indian? Potential nut allergies. Greek? You could never go wrong with Mediterranean food, but Lily used to complain that the place took a fucking year to deliver. I briefly entertained the idea of texting Jude and asking, but ruled that out immediately. Last thing I needed was for her to think it was a date.
Instead, I walked the extra ten minutes to the nearest Italian place and ordered every pasta dish on the menu. I’d seen her eating it last night, in what certainly wasn’t one of my finer moments, so she must not be one of those no-gluten, no-flour, no-carbs, no-joy type of girls. Never mind that I was privy to this information because, apparently, I could add stalking to my list of traits.
By the way, picking food for Lily was akin to performing heart surgery on a jellyfish.
When I rounded to my street carrying the bags of food, Judith was already standing at the building’s entrance, tapping her foot and nodding to whatever she was listening to on her phone.
What are you listening to, Chucks?
I wiggled my wrist and glanced at my Rolex. Thirty minutes. It had taken me thirty fucking minutes to get food, during which time she’d been waiting outside the building door. I didn’t have to wonder why she hadn’t called. My phone was set to silent. Newspeople check their phones once a minute, so tolerating the added ping of every message and email was pure masochism.