Authors: Emma Hart
Okay. I know I did it, but it sounds really peculiar when you put it like that. Booths that are booked for sexual purposes in an apparently upscale restaurant in the middle of New York City. It’s very… Well. Odd, isn’t it?
“You look confused.”
“I’m fine.” I draw myself out of my thoughts and focus on the portfolio. I flip it open to the section full of my previous restaurants and some of Mom’s. “Take a look through these and make a note of any you like and what you like so I can incorporate those elements into my final design. Do you have a blueprint of the building?”
“Yes…” he says the word slowly, as if he’s testing it out by rolling it around his tongue.
So I changed the subject with a whiplash-inducing speed. I can’t think about those goddamn booths anymore or I’m gonna need to go change my panties before I head back to the office.
“Perfect. Do you have it to hand?”
“Let me find Joanna and bring the coffee. I’ll ask her to get it ready for you.”
“Thank you.” I flash him a smile that’s more confident than I feel and pull my camera from my bag. Carter sweeps past me, his long stride having him through the door in seconds.
Only now, with him gone, do I feel like I can breathe properly. Only now can my heart slow and my hands stop trembling.
I focus on the space around me. You can tell it hasn’t been painted for a couple years, never mind fully refitted. Not that you can tell—hell, I definitely didn’t notice on Saturday because I didn’t give a crap—but still… bringing this up to the quality of the bar area will be a bit of a job.
Still, I’m up to this.
I walk around the restaurant and snap pictures of everything. Although the blueprints will show me where everything is, having the pictures means I’ll be able to draw in the majority of the tables where they sit currently.
Ugh, why are they all square or rectangular?
Note to self: make circular tables a necessity.
No reason other than the fact that I like them. And isn’t it so nice to be able to see everyone you’re having dinner with if you’re in a big group?
When I’m done with the pictures, I spin find Carter flicking through the portfolio. He’s lost his jacket, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to just above his elbows, highlighting his toned biceps perfectly. “See anything you like?”
His gaze finds mine, then slowly, oh so slowly, he peruses my body once more, only speaking when our eyes meet again. “Plenty.”
“Ooookay,” I breathe. “I’m going through to the bar to take photos for style references.” I walk away just as quickly as I turned, noticing the coffee on the table at the last moment.
Ah, damn it. Oh well. I’ll just stop in Starbucks.
The bar area is dimly lit from the small windows above the booths and from the main door, so I reach for the light switch and flip it. The area fills with light, and for the first time, it hits me just how big this space is… And how very different it looks in the daytime compared to the evening.
The curtains to the booths are open and secured at the sides, and each booth could easily sit six to eight people. The seats are wider than I’d expected. I guess they look bigger than they feel, even when you’re lying on your back with room to spare.
Unlike the bar, the circular tables in the center of each look like they’re made of wood. Solid black wood with a shiny lacquered surface on top, but still wood.
I guess you don’t want people smashing tables if they get vigorous.
I swallow and snap a few pictures. The bar in the restaurant is easily redesigned to match this, but probably not black. Charcoal, maybe, to soften. Black, white, and gray. I run my finger along the edge of the bar, careful not to leave any fingerprints on the perfectly polished surface. I can see Carter’s from where he touched it earlier.
Really, this bar is amazing. Small and intimate, yet he’s right. Anyone could, in theory, walk past and know exactly what you’re doing in one of them.
And it is. A thrill. To know that.
My clit aches at the memory, a dull sensation that comes to life when I reach the booth we were in. Every booth is identical, not a single thing differing them, but I know this was it, because it’s furthest away from the restaurant.
My eyes flutter shut, and I steel myself as I hear the door go. I glance to the side, and shiny black shoes move across the floor, attached to legs with perfectly pressed black pants covering them. I’m not a fool. I know it’s Carter.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like brought through?” I ask, my voice cracking halfway through.
“The design concept,” he answers, still walking toward me. “The general style, color scheme, the ambiance. I’ve noted the work you’ve done previously and pulled the things I like. I doubt it’ll be too hard for you to come up with an impressive design.”
“How long do I have?” My tongue darts across my lips.
“Three days.”
“Three days?” I spin to face him. “Are you serious? I have to find and source all of the things I need then put them together in a comprehensive design in
three days?
”
His green eyes seem brighter as they dart to the booth then back to me. My skin tingles at his silent innuendo, and my heart thumps erratically against my ribs. “Or don’t,” he murmurs, stepping closer to me. The low huskiness of his voice wrap around me and bathe me in lust-filled warmth. “I won’t deny it, Bee. I don’t want to hire you. I don’t want you in this building where I’ll be forced to see you every single day.”
“Then don’t.” I step back, but he only mirrors my action, coming toward me once more.
Carter closes his fingertips around my upper arm, holding me in place gently. “I will not hire someone because of a personal history, but I also refuse to not hire someone. If your design is best, I’ll hire Donnelly Designs. If not, I won’t. It’s that simple.”
“If you don’t want me here, I’d rather you not hire me. Full stop.” I tug my arm away from him.
In one sleek, expert move, Carter Hughes pins me against his bar. He wrenches my camera from my grasp and sets it on the glass surface behind me, then grabs the edge of the bar, trapping me. His hard body is hot, and his pelvis is pinning me in place.
It’s not all that’s pinning me in place.
“I don’t want you here because I don’t like you,” he whispers, his hot breath fanning across my lips. “I don’t want you here, because I want to fuck you.” He takes hold of my hand and presses his thumb to my wrist, satisfaction hitting his gaze when he feels my raging pulse. “I want to take you take you into one of those booths and bend you over the table. I want to hoist you onto this bar and bury myself inside you. I want to push you against the wall and fuck you until you pass out from your pleasure.”
Oh Jesus. This escalated quickly. Real fucking quickly.
I can’t breathe. At all. I’m on fire everywhere—from my lungs burning as they fight for oxygen, from the red-hot desire my heart is pounding through my body with my blood, and from the ridiculous heat trickling its way over my skin until it collects and centers in my clit.
“I don’t want you here because I’m certain that if you are, I’ll fulfill every single one of those desires, and quickly,” he murmurs, his mouth now barely a breath away from mine. “And that would not be good for anyone, would it?”
I lean back as far as I can and let out a shuddery breath. “If you hire me, I’ll be here to work, not play. So trust me when I say it will remain entirely profess—”
“Like right now?” he asks, a knowing smile playing with his lips. “Like how professional this is, with you pinned against the bar and my cock pressing against you? You can’t even look at the damn booth, Bee. I watched you. I watched your pretty little cheeks flush as you glanced inside it and remembered how hard you came. How many times you came. So don’t stand here and tell me it’ll remain professional, because we both know that if I decide I’m going to fuck you, I’m going to fuck you.”
An indignant streak shoots down my spine, and I straighten. Yes, my mouth is right by his. Yes, our breath is mingling. I’m afraid that if I lick my lips, I’ll accidentally lick his. My breasts are heaving and brushing against his chest, my white blouse a perfect match to his shirt.
Carter reaches up and twines a fistful of my hair around his fingers. The action only brings us even closer together. “Don’t pretend you won’t give in.” His lips brush mine with every word, but the touch is the furthest thing from a kiss. “You’re falling apart right now and I’ve barely touched you.”
I wish he didn’t have to be right.
“This is highly inappropriate,” I whisper, resisting the urge to grab his shirt and wrap my legs around him and climb him like a tree.
“Yet you haven’t pushed me away.”
“Yeah, well, you’re stronger than me,” I say lamely.
He laughs. God, the rich, decadent sound flows over me, and just when he leans in, he pauses. The breath that sings his hesitation passes through my parted lips and dances across the tip of my tongue. I inhale, breathing him in, expecting, waiting, for the touch.
It doesn’t come.
All that comes is a light laugh, and the cluck of resignation as he pushes away. He shakes his head. His shoulders are tight as he walks away and into the restaurant.
Do I follow?
Do I stand here?
You know what? I’m gonna stand here. Because my whole body is freakin’ trembling and I don’t think I can move anyway.
Jesus. Fuck. Christ. Asshole. I don’t think this will work at all.
Carter storms back through the door, my purse in one hand and the portfolio in the other. “Your notepad with my requests are inside your purse.” He hands them to me, and I hook the purse over my arm, then tuck the portfolio against my chest. His fingers burn through the fabric of my blouse as he touches my back and guides me toward the door. With his hand clutching the doorknob, he turns to me, barely inching the door opens. “Fuck, Bee,” he hisses out, stepping back and rubbing his hand through his hair. It messes up the usually perfectly styled locks, and I have to fight my smile. “Please do a really bad job in your design. I might just go crazy if you’re around all day.”
One of my eyebrows quirks upward. Do a bad job? Is he kidding me? I don’t want this contract any more than he wants to give me it, but I’m not going to flunk it the way I flunked Geography in high school.
For the record, Milwaukee is
not a
cocktail.
I brush his hand from the doorknob then grasp it with my own. The door is weighty, but I pull it open with one tug and take a step out onto the bustling, sunny sidewalk, and then turn. Our eyes meet as the sun warms my skin. “Oh… Carter. Don’t hope I’ll do a bad job… You need to hope someone else does better.”
“I’m going to
kill
you.”
Charley rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. I made you go on a date—not take a ride on his disco stick.”
A small noise like a strangled scream escapes me. “I hate myself.”
“No you don’t. You just hate your inner slut.”
“No, no. I like her. She stops me being too uptight. I just hate that outside Bee doesn’t argue with her.”
My best friend picks up a canvas picture of a flower. “I suppose. You do need your inner slut when you work with your mom. Especially your mom. No offence,” she adds quickly, putting the canvas back on the shelf and glancing at me. “I love her, but damn.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, finding a gorgeous black-framed photo of the New York skyline. I take a picture of it with my phone and note down the price.
Mom just about lost her shit when I finally got back to the office. So what if I took a detour to Starbucks, to book a manicure, and had my cab driver drive around a couple of blocks a few times? I needed to breathe. I needed to take every bit of Carter Hughes’ essence left inside me and let it go before going back and talking about him again.
Needless to say, after thirty minutes of grilling about the meeting, another thirty with her asking me why my office still looks like a tornado traveled through it with whiplash, and two hours of her flitting between clients and asking poor Carlos for everything but his first born and testicles.
Mom’s difficult, for sure. But she means well in all she does… Even if she does those things in a way that errs on the side of mean.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” Charley asks, pointing to a clear glass vase filled with shiny black stones. Black and white fake flowers are sprouting from the top, and I snap a picture, if only so she doesn’t get offended. I’m dying to get hold of her apartment and take her shopping. “Earth to Bee.”
“Know what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“That you made like a football in the end zone and scored with your prospective client.”
I roll my eyes. Sheesh. Can no one say ‘had sex with’ these days? “No, my mother does
not
know, and neither will she find out.”
I can’t imagine the hell that will rain down upon me if she ever found out. It’s actually terrifying to consider it.
“You can’t really think that.”
I run my hand over the back of a leather bucket chair. Charley gives me a thumbs up. “I do, okay? She can’t find out. She’d probably force me to sell my share of the business to her and write me out of her will. It doesn’t matter if I get the contract or not. If she finds out, she’s going to think that if I get it, it’ll be because we… you know.”
“Horizontal tangoed.”
“Yeah. That. And if I don’t get it, she’ll think it’ll be because we… well.”
“Did the wall-waltz.”
“Oh my God. Just say sex!” I snap, finding black leather dining chairs that match the bucket chairs. They come in charcoal too, so I add those to my list of potential items for the restaurant.
“Fine. You sexed each other so hard you can’t even be in the same room,” Charley summarizes, picking up one of the black mats on the table. “Accurate?”
“I… yeah. Shut up.”
“And now you’re going to design the shit out of his restaurant and hope that someone else does it better.”
“I… yeah.”
“Why? Why not just screw it up deliberately or do such a basic design that there’ll be no way he can pick you?”
“Because…” I sigh, turning to face her. “I don’t want to do that. It’s not honest. I don’t want to work for him, but I don’t want someone to see bad designs and think they could be my best work. Plus Mom will know. She knows I don’t half-ass anything, even if I only have three days to do it.”
Charlie blows out a long breath and pauses. Her eyes cut to me, but she averts her gaze as she picks up a candle holder then puts it back down again.
“What?”
“This could be the most obvious question ever,” she hedges, “But why not just refuse on the basis that the time frame is too short? The other designers will have had more notice than you. Why did you only get three days?”
“Scheduling? I don’t know. It was Mom’s appointment, remember.”
“Was it?”
“Charley, he said so. I don’t think Carter Hughes has to stoop that low just to see a woman again. He didn’t even look like he particularly wanted me there.” Well, he wanted me there. He made that very clear—just not in the way I should have been there.
“Just sleep with him again. Get it over and done with then refuse on the basis of your irresistible personal relationship.”
“Irresistible personal relationship? Really? You think I should walk up to a sexy as sin, rich as hell, successful man and tell him I can’t work for him because he’s irresistible, right after he’s told me the numerous ways he wants me naked and against him?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, yeah, let’s do that. Let’s see how long that conversation lasts.”
“Jesus. You’re bitchy when you need sex.”
“I’m bitchy all the time. I just like you enough to not voice it all the time.”
“Oh, I’m honored.” She snorts, but flashes me a grin anyway. “Do you have enough stuff here? I’m starving. Like my stomach is about to nibble its way through my gut hungry.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Let’s get food.”
***
Sometimes having a best friend who’s the ice to your fire isn’t a good thing. Sure, she’s generally more reserved and quieter than me and usually holds me back before I blow, but it also means that she thinks before she acts. I tend to act and then regret. As evidenced by this past weekend.
I barely slept a wink last night after considering her idea about the appointment.
Did he actually book it before we met? Mom never said if it was a late booking or not. Then again, she was more concerned with my office than anything else. But she did also call ahead… Someone had to have gotten that message and passed it on to him, right?
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that Carter Hughes absolutely knew I’d be the one coming. I also believe he’s the kind of man who hires companies and staff personally. For all his ‘it’s not my business what happens in these booths’ bullshit on Saturday night was likely just that. Bullshit.
I’d bet anything that he researched Donnelly Designs before he booked the consultation. I bet he knew exactly who I was the second we were introduced on Saturday evening.
I bet he didn’t care a single bit, because the appointment wasn’t with me.
What if it was? What if he’d been booked with me? Then what would have happened? I couldn’t have walked out of dinner… But I sure as hell wouldn’t have slept with him.
Although… What if I’d thought to ask Charley who my date was? Or looked at the name of the restaurant?
What if is always the issue, isn’t it? What could you change? I’d change just about fucking everything in this situation if I could. I wish I could. I wish I could take all of this and erase every moment.
I click my mouse as I work on the digital bones of what will be my design for the restaurant.
Either way, he knew who I was when we had that date. I’m sure of it.
How dare he? How dare he do what he did knowing there was a possibility that he could work with Donnelly Designs?
How fucking dare he?
Maybe Charley was right. Maybe refusing to do this is for the best. But then what would be the point in that? I’d just have to explain my reasoning to my mother and get my ass kicked… And then he’d win, wouldn’t he?
Not in the sense that this is a game. This is business, and despite the fact you have to bend the rules of business to come out on top, I’m willing to fight.
If my design is his favorite and he hires me, he couldn’t touch me. You don’t mix work and pleasure. You don’t play while you conduct business. If that were the case, you’d have a bottle of vodka next to a fucking chess board on your desk, wouldn’t you?
No. I can resist Carter Hughes. I know that much. After all, wasn’t he the one who approached me yesterday? Wasn’t he the one who crossed the line between talking and flirting, then continued to undress me with his eyes?
Wasn’t he the one who put into words all the things he’d like to do to me?
God. It was so much easier in high school when boys just jerked off in the shower to those fantasies. It’s such a bastard when boys become men and have no qualms about telling you how and where they’d like to fuck you.
It’s hot. Don’t get me wrong. I needed a new pair of panties stat.
But it’s still a bastard.
Because now I’m thinking of those things, aren’t I? I don’t just have the memories of the weekend, of the way I squirmed against his wicked tongue, or the way he pushed me to oblivion more times than anyone ever had before. No. No fucking siree. Now I’m imagining the asshole with me against the wall while his tongue explores me. Now I’m imagining him setting me on the bar, opening my legs, and driving into me until nothing makes sense anymore.
Now I’m thinking that I really can’t resist him.
And to think. The man has never kissed me. Not even once.
Oddly enough it makes total sense. Kisses are intimate things. More intimate than sex, in a way. With kisses, it’s the overwhelming sensation of being taken to another place without your feet ever leaving the ground. It’s the slow build of desire that can only hum with life and electricity when lips meet. It’s the feverish way each kiss becomes hotter than the last until reason becomes too much to comprehend and you’re driven by nothing but instinct.
Yes. Kisses are absolutely the most intimate thing in this world.
And I would very much like to protect my mouth from Carter Hughes.
Perhaps I’ll get a human muzzle.
For him, that is. Then maybe he won’t be able to tell me any of the things he wants to do.
Although… that might be illegal. Ho hum.
I grab a Post-It and click my pen.
Check if it’s legal to muzzle a human.
What? It’s worth a search.
I put the pen down and push back from my desk. The wheels of my chair squeak as they roll, and I blink harshly several times, as though that movement will alleviate the ache growing behind my eyes. I’ve been staring at this computer for three hours without moving, and not only have my fingers seized up and my eyes gone blurry, my ass feels like it’s been sat in ice for hours it’s so numb.
It’s almost impossible to concentrate with all this crap going on in my head. There’s really only one way to find out, isn’t there?
I sigh and pad through my office barefoot. My door opens silently, and I look out into the spacious waiting area. Design magazines and mini portfolios litter the glass coffee tables surrounded by plush blue sofas in the center of the floor, and Carlos’ desk is directly opposite those.
He’s on the phone right now, so I walk across the empty area and check the magazines. Carlos is supposed to check and update them every two weeks, but who knows if he’s done it? He didn’t last time and got his balls handed to him by Mom.
He hasn’t done it again. I collect the outdated ones, roll them up, and put them in the titanium trash can just behind his counter. The phone clicks as he puts it back in the hold and he winces at me, somehow managing to blow his blonde hair from his face at the very same time.
“Sorry,” he hurries out. “I was going to do it this afternoon.”
“Just make sure you collect the new ones, okay? She still hasn’t forgiven you for that double booking.” Neither have I, I want to add. I don’t, though. Carlos is also a bit of a gossip. “Talking of that double booking…” I lean forward and glimpse at the open diary right in front of him. “Carter Hughes—the appointment Mom gave me yesterday. When did he book?”
“Carter Hughes…” Carlos mutters, grabbing a notepad and flicking through it. “I’m pretty sure he called on Tuesday. Why?”
“Tight deadline,” I explain. “I was curious why it was.”
“You were both fully booked,” he responds and puts the notepad back. “I didn’t know Carla had an appointment with Louis because it wasn’t in the diary.”
My lips twitch to one side. “Carlos, if my mom’s appointments with Louis are about his house, then I’m pretty sure the conversations are conducted between his bedsheets,” I whisper. “The man’s been getting his house redesigned for a year now.”
“That’s reasonable. It’s a big house.”
“Oh, sure. But who needs their dining room redecorating twice in that time?”
His response is a stare. “Point well made.”
“Thank you.” I tap my nails against the counter and spin on the balls of my feet. “Can you hold all my calls this afternoon? I have to get this design done for Carter Hughes. I already had to reschedule eight appointments because the man gave me a deadline tighter than a city full of virgin vaginas.”
Carlos snorts. “All right. Any particular message?”
The previous one would do if I didn’t have a professional image to uphold. “Just that I’m incredibly busy and to leave a message. I’ll get back to everyone at the end of the week.”