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“I know, Declan. I know how hard you work. And I know how much you need a break. Let me know by lunch if you’re not going to make it, all right? I don’t want a bunch of steak left over—although god knows I could go for some steak and eggs right now.”
“Got the munchies, old lady?”
“What I do in my own time is my business,” she shoots back, amusement in her voice. “Take care of yourself, you hear? I hope to see you on Sunday.”
“Me too, Gran. Goodnight.”
I toss my phone onto the side table and lean fully back into my chair, taking a long sip of whiskey. My grandmother was joking when she gave me shit about missing our Sunday dinners, but it was shit I deserved. For the past several months, Dynasty has felt like it was at too crucial a stage for me to take every Sunday night off without wining and dining and convincing investors of the power of my brand, so I’ve only made it to her place sporadically.
I’m going to make it up to her. She’s the only family I have left.
Well, the only family worth talking to that I have left.
I realize I still have my suit jacket on and shrug it off, rolling my shoulders and preparing to toss it on the couch.
I’m not prepared to catch Sophie’s scent on the cloth. It catches me off-guard, and I grip the fabric, bringing it to my nose on complete autopilot. It’s a fragrance I associate with pleasure, and I seek it out in my jacket like a bloodhound.
Fuck.
What an unbelievable fucking day.
I’m half-hard again, and half-regretting that I agreed to give her a chance at Dynasty. Because when we ran into each other again in the hallway, I was sure she was some kind of illusion brought on by the memories my secretary’s perfume had elicited.
But it was no illusion. Not even an innocent hallucination brought on by stress and sleep deprivation.
Sophie—the woman I called Sara while ravishing her for an entire night—is here in New York. And now, she works for me.
She’s just as real as my memories of her, and somehow even more gorgeous than she was in San Francisco. She seems different than she was when we met in that bar though. Despite how responsive she was to my touch, there was something reserved and vulnerable about her, as if she was trying to hold herself together. Now she seems much more sure of herself—confident enough to accost me in a public restroom—and I can already taste what that would feel like in the bedroom.
“No,” I say aloud. “Not happening.”
But it did happen. I can’t wish that fact away or put mind over matter in this situation. In that tiny restroom, it would have been nothing to grab her, lift her up on the edge of the sink, peel up that skirt, and fuck her any way I wanted.
I can still taste her. She’s someone I could easily feast on for hours.
I told her I don’t mix business with pleasure, and it’s true. I’ve made it a point to never cross that line with any of my employees. But my fucking hard-on is a distraction, and I reach down to rub my palm over the bulge, growling under my breath. It’s not like I haven’t jacked off while thinking about her and that night dozens of times over the past year.
What’s wrong with adding a new fantasy to the mix?
I toss back the rest of my whiskey, setting the glass aside and letting it burn its way to my core, and unfasten my pants. My cock springs free, relieving some of the pressure, but I know I’m going to have to exorcise this demon.
I shouldn’t. Not when the source of my fantasy is close enough to touch. I can’t let pleasure get in the way of my business goals.
But my body seems to have a mind of its own, ignoring every logical thought from my brain. I take my cock in my hand, stroking it slowly, lazily, as I lean back and breathe deeply. I called her Sara that night. It isn’t too far off from Sophie, close enough to her real name that I wonder if she thought about correcting me. Would things have gone differently if she had? If I’d known who she really was?
“Don’t be absurd,” I mutter to myself, surging up from the chair and shucking my clothes on the way to my bathroom. I need to clear my head. The best possible outcome from San Francisco—a night of pure, intense, no-strings-attached pleasure—has already occurred. Anything else is unnecessary. And unwanted.
Sophie said as much in the restroom, standing there, all heaving breasts and bright green eyes and irresistible curves…
Fucking hell.
The cold spray from my shower does nothing to deflate my erection, and I seize the problem the only way I know how. Head on. And hands on.
I turn the water temperature to something a little more tolerable as I stroke myself from root to tip. It’s good. Fine. Completely passable. But it could be better.
Unbidden images rise up in my mind as I picture what would’ve happened if I’d grabbed Sophie the moment she followed me into the restroom, pushed her up against the wall, and kissed the words right out of her. I can practically feel her lips against mine, her soft, pliable body melting beneath my touch.
I lower my head, blinding myself in the water from the shower. No. Stop thinking. I need to just come already and get over this. Move on.
