Page 11 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

“Let’s start with where you went to school,” he says.

“Boston University. Summa cum laude,” I add, for reasons I can’t explain, and I hate myself for blushing when I say ‘cum.’

He cocks an eyebrow at me that sends my stomach flipping. “Impressive. And you studied business?”

“Yes. I focused on advertising.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” I ask, firing back a little too quickly.

Jared scoffs. “That’s a little girl’s answer. You strike me as a woman who knows why she does things,” he says, and suddenly it’s not just the wine that’s making me feel hot.

But I like the challenge, that he makes me think about it, because when I answer, I know it’s true. “Because I love business, but I also wanted to be creative. I like design and writing, and advertising encompasses both.”

“Then why not go into the arts? Write and illustrate children’s books? Or edit them?” Jared asks, and when I don’t answer, I see a spark in his eye, the hint of victory on his face. “Ah, because you also like money.”

“I don’t —“

“You wanted more than what your parents had, what you had growing up. You chose advertising because you want,” he says, his voice practically a growl, and I honestly don’t know if he’s talking about business or lust. “Let me guess. Western Mass? Your mom’s a teacher, your dad does something with his hands?”

I nod, feeling pulled along on a string. “Kindergarten. And a mechanic,” I reply, then shake my head. “But you’re wrong about the money. I don’t care about that.”

“Then what do you care about?”

“Respect. Working hard and achieving something,” I say, then pause before adding, “Being the best.”

“But you don’t care about the money,” he says, cool yet skeptical.

“I’m not wooed by wealth,” I reply, finally finding some courage and sass within me. I can’t let him run this table. I cross my legs beneath the table and feel my toe connect with his calf, which is rock hard with carefully sculpted muscle.

Jared leans forward, his face lit by the glow of the candle in the delicate glass bowl in the middle of the table. “Then tell me, Quinn, how does that lingerie, which I assume cost more than your rent, feel on your body? Do you like it? Are you wooed by it?”

I sit back in my chair, sure that even if I wanted to get up and run, my legs would not allow it. My entire body feels like it’s filled with hot lava and expensive wine, but I don’t think it’s the alcohol that’s making me woozy.

The food arrives, cutting off my answer, though I have no idea what it would have been.

Atop my plate is something that looks like beef, though it’s architecturally arranged with vibrant colors of sauces and vegetables such that I couldn’t even begin to name the dish.

For himself, Jared has ordered a steak, and when he cuts into it, I see bright red. We eat in relative silence, exchanging only furtive glances across the table as we sip our wine. I’m trying desperately not to think of the lingerie, growing wetter by the minute as I repeat his question.

Do you like it? Are you wooed by it?

I keep hoping he’ll say something more, ask me a question, or tell me what the hell is going on here, but he seems to be controlling me with nothing more than silence and a few devious looks. As I finish the last bite of my meal and place my knife and fork on the plate, I see Jared with a Cheshire grin. He’s enjoying this, taunting me.

The waiter comes to offer dessert menus, but once again Jared waves him off, and then we’re alone again, only without food to distract us from the intense gazes across the table.

This is a game, and I’m losing. He has the upper hand, and he’s using it to toy with me. I can’t just sit here and let him win. When I can’t take it anymore, when I feel like I’m coming to come from the force of his gaze alone, I finally crack.

“What am I doing here?” I ask him, the words coming out with a force I didn’t know I had inside me.

“You are my date,” he says, my stomach flipping on the word ‘my,’ because I get the sense that Jared King is used to possessing things. And tonight he’s possessing me.

“But why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why me? After that email I sent you? I was half-thinking you were inviting me here to fire me in the most elegant ways. But so far it seems you just wanted to dress me up, feed me expensive food and wine, and then re-interview me. I don’t understand what’s going on. What is it that you want?”

As soon as I ask the question, I know it’s the one he’s been waiting for, and I’ve phrased it in exactly the way he hoped. He smiles, a knowing, Cheshire grin, and I brace myself for what’s coming next.

“Because of the email, Quinn,” he says, my name rolling out of his mouth, an exquisite torture. “From the moment I read it I knew I wanted to fuck you.”