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Oh, NO!
My chest jangles like a fire alarm. A buzz starts up deep in my core.
The huge video screens show my face. The image streams around the globe.
Relax. Breathe.
Her hips roll and sway as she strides, swaggering. My breath thickens in my throat. Her scent is raw.
My blood rushes. She holds out the red envelope. Her smile as her lips part makes my pulse hammer.
Her eyebrow lifts and her eyes shine. “Happy, Dickie?”
Swelling stiffens in my pants.
Chapter Seven
Ram
Her innocent smile stays perfectly in place. How fucking dare she ambush me like this? I want to have her. Right now. Get up between those amazing thighs. I should get her thrown out.
“I think you’d better move behind the podium, Dickie.” Her lips shine. She nods and keeps her eyes firmly on mine as she adds, “Unless you mean to point that at everyone.”
I realize what she’s talking about. Self-conscious of the tightness now, I’m careful to stay behind the thin podium. Keeping my face frozen, I turn and take the hook lines out of the red envelope.
At that moment, the presentation spells out the lines, punched on the filthy beats of the rising jazz, as I read them out. My voice is down low. It sounds like the hooks are being read out by a toad.
An explosion of applause tells me I got away with it, at least.
The screened presentation moves on. I had more words prepared to say for this part, but my throat is thick, and they are not essential.
Virtual models of the product pop up on selected guests’ screens, holographs of the phone spring into the rooms, here and in all the major city venues. On a thunderclap of sound, the perfectly choreographed event rolls into the next phase of music and dance.
Keeping my fixed, thin smile on, I make sure the mic is off. “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Thanks,” she smiles. Impish. “And you’re welcome, Dickie.”
Her hip roll to the music as she looks down at the circus tent in the front of my pants. “Are you that pleased to see me or do you treat every woman to such an outstanding greeting?”
“Look, why are you even here?”
“You’re rude, you know that? You’ve got no manners.”
“I have perfect manners.”
“No, Dickie.” The soft dress furls and wafts over her thighs and her shoulders. Her stomach rolls as she moves her hips. The urge to spin her round and grab her incredible ass is almost overtaking me. I don’t know how much of this I can stand. She juts her chin. “You may know perfect manners, Dickie. If you had perfect manners, you’d know they’re not optional.”
“It’s not manners to call me ‘Dickie,’ is it?”
“It’s not manners to act like a Dickie, is it? Besides, what else would I call you when you haven’t told me your name?”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“Why, have you forgotten, Dickie? You’re Dickie.”
I can’t talk to her. She’s impossible.
“Ella, by the way,” she says, “thank you so much for asking.”
