Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
It’s difficult, but I resist the urge to adjust my tightening groin.
I stay in control.
Finally, she speaks. “Are you always so blunt?”
“I find it useful in negotiations to lay most of my cards on the table outright.”
“I guess I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”
“Everything’s a negotiation, Skye.”
She looks down, the first to break the laser focus between us. Nice. Her first act of submission. Where there’s smoke…
“This is dinner,” she says, “not a negotiation.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Think about it. You have a reason for everything you do. You may not think it through, but your subconscious does. For example, you have a reason for accepting my dinner invitation.”
She returns her gaze to mine. “I do? Other than being hungry?”
“You didn’t have to accept my invitation to sate your hunger.” I lick my bottom lip, my mouth suddenly dry at the thought of her sating her hunger on me.
Her eyelids flutter slightly. “What other reason would I have?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I want to be seen with you.”
“That’s a crock.” I hold back a scoff.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re working for Addison Ames. You work behind the scenes. You’re not interested in being seen just for the sake of being seen. You’re interested in furthering your career, and you’re willing to put in the time.”
She clears her throat. “Maybe I want to—”
“Stop this game, Skye. There’s only one reason you accepted, and we both know what it is.” I burn her gaze with mine. “You want to go to bed with me.”
I’m not wrong. I expect resistance. Appreciate it, even. This isn’t a woman who’s interested in my money or my prestige. This is a woman who’s willing to do what it takes to get ahead by working, not fucking. Why else would she have taken a job with Addison Ames? Scrubbing toilets would be more pleasant.
She draws in a breath. “You said you lay most of your cards on the table up-front. Most, not all.”
She impresses me even more. Not everyone would catch that. “True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”
“What’s that ace tonight?”
I lower my eyelids slightly, measuring my next words. “I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early.”
She draws in another deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”
“Braden,” I say again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”
A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”
“Absolutely, Cory,” I say. “Skye?”
“Vodka martini,” she says. “Extra olives.”
“Any particular vodka?”
“Grey Goose?”
Cory nods and then turns to me.
“Wild Turkey on the rocks.” All the bartenders here know I mean one rock.
Still my favorite, even though I can afford the top-shelf brands now. I guess a guy never really leaves his roots. Coming of age in South Boston, I was lucky to be able to afford a six-pack on a Saturday night.
“Very good. Any appetizers?” Cory asks.
“Yes. A dozen of your best oysters on the half shell, please.”
“Any particular ones you want to try tonight?” he asks.
“Three of the Blue Point, and you choose the rest.” I nod to Skye. “Do you want anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I love raw oysters.”
I smile—a big one. A woman who loves raw oysters. Not that a person who loves raw oysters is hard to come by in Boston, but I can’t wait to eat oysters with Skye Manning. Already, I know it’s going to drive me wild.
I say nothing. I like silence. I’m comfortable in silence. Most women—at least most women who date me—aren’t. Except for Skye Manning. She doesn’t try to make the dreaded forced conversation, and I appreciate her all the more.
A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a drink. The bourbon is smoky and slightly harsh, and I love it. I let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, let it glide over every inch of my mouth before it trickles down my throat.
And I wonder how my cock will feel jammed up against the back of Skye Manning’s throat.
Later, I’ll find out.
“Tell me,” I say after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”
“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”
“For her influencing?”
“Yeah.”
“But those are selfies.”
“Actually, they’re not. I take the pictures, and she positions her arm so that it looks like a selfie to the untrained eye.”
Why am I not surprised? I grin. Another big one. I’ve got to watch myself. I never smile this much. “Sounds like classic Addie. Everything has to look perfect.”
“How do you know Addison?” she asks.
Now there’s a loaded question. The party line is that Addison Ames and I dated briefly when she was eighteen and I was twenty-four, and the relationship didn’t end well. The party line is correct. But another several layers exist to the story—layers we don’t talk about.