“I’ll buy you another one,” he said. He licked the tips of her breasts, unleashing a pool of heat in her belly. “I’ll buy you a thousand more,” he said to the underside of her breast. His voice was rough with hunger, and the sound of it was like an aphrodisiac.
He reached lower. The gold thong was torn from her hips like a thin layer of tissue, his fingers anxious, his chest heaving with each labored breath.
He pressed her legs apart, and when his face disappeared between her thighs, she let loose a whimper of surrender. She’d long ago recognized she couldn’t refuse him. It had always been like this between them—a fiery passion that burned everything in its path and left her trembling, throbbing, and at his mercy.
As his mouth moved over her tender flesh, she closed her eyes and forgot their argument, concentrated on the caress of his lips and tongue, and temporarily shelved any thought of leaving him.
Chapter Two
Present day
Cyrus entered his suite of offices after his normal one hour workout in the company gym. He’d been in since before six. Roxanne, his executive assistant, who made sure she was available whenever he arrived from his workout, greeted him. A tall black woman, she had a no-nonsense set to her mouth, no matter the occasion.
“Good morning, Mr. Johnson.” She pushed her funky fuchsia glasses higher on her nose. They might have looked out of place on an older woman, but they didn’t on Roxanne. She’d worked for his father when he was alive, and from what Cyrus had heard, she’d been quite the hellion in her day.
“Hardy called you back and said he’s available whenever you are,” she said, following him into his office and reading from an electronic tablet in her hand.
“He’d better be.” Hardy Malcomb worked out of their London office and oversaw beer production in western Europe. Cyrus hadn’t been pleased to learn production levels had dropped because of bad hops they’d purchased, which meant they couldn’t meet production schedules and supplier demand.
He took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator under the bar in his office. He kept the bar stocked with the finest spirits to entertain guests, but he didn’t drink—not even the beer his family brewed. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic since his father passed away at the hands of a drunk driver.
Ironically, the man who’d killed his father had empty cans of Full Moon beer—the Johnson family brew—strewn on the floor of his vehicle. He’d been working on emptying another one when he plowed into the car carrying Cyrus’s father and his brother, Gavin.
“A reporter from the Seattle Business Chronicle called and wanted to interview you about the upswing in sales and what you think it’s attributed to.”
Cyrus emptied the bottle and tossed it in the trash. He retrieved another and swallowed a gulp of cool water before responding. “Let Trenton talk to the reporter.” Although Cyrus had been closely involved in the changes to their marketing strategy, his brother ran the Sales and Marketing division and should be the one to discuss the ideas they’d implemented. Besides, he was much better at schmoozing the press, a task Cyrus considered a chore.
Roxanne nodded and left his office. Cyrus pulled his sweaty T-shirt over his head and went through the door that led to a full private bathroom and dressing area. After a quick shower, he changed into one of five suits hanging in the closet. Today he chose black with a white shirt and navy tie.
He then had Roxanne call Hardy and pass the call through to him. The conversation went downhill within a few minutes.
“Saying ‘I’m doing my best’ is not an answer.” Squeezing a tension ball in his hand, Cyrus paced in front of the cherry wood desk in his office. “Your job is to make sure we produce enough beer to satisfy the market. If your best allows us to fall below quota so we’re scrambling to meet orders, that, Hardy, is not good enough.”
Hardy Malcomb had been with the company for many years, but right now he was skating on thin ice.