Once we’ve finished up the sweet and sour chicken and egg rolls and the credits have run for the final movie, my lust for Christian starts creeping back in, slowly ramping up throughout the evening until my entire body throbs. By the time Carolyn says goodnight, I’m coiled tight around my desire. We move through the apartment, turning off all the lights, checking to make sure the door is locked, and then I make a mad dash to my bedroom.
After hastily brushing my teeth, I strip off the yoga pants and slide under the covers wearing just my panties and tank top.
Fuck, I want him so badly.
I could text him right now.
That’s the worst part.
I have his cell number in case I need to contact him outside of business hours for a PR emergency.
This is an emergency all right, but it definitely doesn’t have to do with his reputation…at least not yet.
Instead, I slip my hand down across the smooth skin of my stomach, down, down underneath the silky fabric of my panties until my fingers make contact with my aching clit. Then, while imagining Christian’s hard masculine body pressed against me, I get myself off—once, then twice, before I fall asleep.
I’m wishing I could spend most of the day somewhere private. It doesn’t help that Christian is my one and only client, so all of my working hours are dedicated to thinking about him. Looking at his picture. Piecing together a tentative schedule of social appearances designed to smooth out the rough edges of his reputation to convince the public that that he’s mature and professional enough to run a Fortune 500 company.
My attention is focused on Christian, but I can’t concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing. Instead all I can think about is the hot, steady pulsing between my legs, begging for a release that can’t be satisfied in the office.
Christian could help me with that, though, the voice in my head taunts me.
“Ha.” I let out a short burst of laughter under my breath. Christian Pierce could give me what I needed at any time and in virtually any location. I’m positive about that.
He said he would see me before our meeting tomorrow. That meeting is at ten o’clock.
As the hours crawl by, the possibility of seeing him today becomes completely distracting. I want to do nothing but lean back in my chair and imagine all the things we could do together—all the things that he could do to me—but through sheer willpower, I force myself to doggedly keep building the schedule of appearances, keep writing sample press releases, keep my phone tucked into my purse.
If he wants to see me, he’ll call.
There’s always the chance that he really didn’t mean what he said. I’ve met plenty of rich, arrogant guys who go back on their word or make promises with no intention of keeping them. I’ve been engaged to one such asshole who never meant what he said, so it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve fallen for someone like that.
I’m wound so tight that by the time five o’clock rolls around and the office empties out, I can’t bring myself to leave. I stare at my computer screen, finishing tasks that could very easily be left for tomorrow, until it’s nearly six o’clock.
He still hasn’t called or sent a message of any kind.
My heart sinks as I ride the elevator down to the lobby alone. Unless he’s planning some early-morning rendezvous—and how could he do that without letting Carolyn in on it?—then his word was just a playful half-promise, not to be trusted.
It shocks me how disappointed I feel.
Until I see the Town Car pulled up to the curb, the driver leaning against it.
He straightens to his full height when he sees me coming. “Ms. Campbell?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I answer, my heart starting to beat heavily. Whose car is this? I didn’t order a ride home. Should I be ready to run in case this is some kind of bizarre kidnapping attempt?
“Mr. Pierce sent me to pick you up. He’d like to meet with you.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. Despite the disappointment I was just feeling a moment ago, I know that this is so wrong, such a risk. I should leave right now and put an end to this whole thing.
“Can I see your I.D.?” I say, buying myself a little more time.
The man produces an I.D. wallet and shows it to me, smiling so that his expression matches the photo on his license. His name is Louis.
“How do I know you work for Mr. Pierce?”
He pulls a cell phone from his jacket pocket and presses a single button. Waits for one second. Christian’s voice sounds from the other end of the line. “Pierce,” he says.
“Ms. Campbell would like to make sure I work for you.” Then he hands me the phone.
“Hello?” I say, trying to keep my cool.
“It’s me,” Christian says, and the sound of his voice makes my insides melt. “Come to me. Right now.”
I hang up the call.
I can still walk away.
This could all be over.