“Will do.” She jotted the note quickly, then gave me a side glance. “You sure you don’t want to handle that call yourself?”
I forced a tight smile. “I’ll be there.”
Yeah. I’d be there.
I just had to figure out how the hell to sit across from Calla Black without remembering what her hands looked like wrapped in leather… or how she whispered my name like a prayer when she came.
UNFAMILIAR FEELINGS
The conference room was filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, a spread of pastries from my favorite black-owned bakery here in Winston Hills, Cocoa Crumble, and a sense of bureaucratic ambition. I walked in first, heels clicking like I owned the floor. Behind me, Malik and Zoey moved with the ease of people who were damn good at what they did. We took our seats at the long, glass-topped table, our posture perfect, our expressions unreadable.
I adjusted my blazer, smoothed my slacks, and forced my mind into the zone. Calm. Cool. Professional. Unbothered.
Even though I hadn’t heard from him in a week.
Even though I’d dominated and fucked him into submission, and then some.
And even though I was still wrapping my head around the fact that we were here at all.
I’d known we were bidding on the instrumentation and monitoring contract. Had poured over the numbers, agonized over the pitch. But I hadn’t expected to win it. Not with the kind of legacy firms we were up against—companies with decades in the game and deep-pocket relationships on every board. BlackSphere Technologies was still the new kid on the block in civil infrastructuretech. Our wireless settlement systems and cloud-based pressure monitoring were cutting-edge, but they were new and unproven at this scale.
And yet here we were.
In the building.
About to present as the awarded contractor on a $1.2 billion overpass project.
I had come prepared to earn respect, but I wasn’t prepared to see him.
The door opened.
He walked in like thunder, smooth and loud in his silence.
James Carter Jr.
My mouth went dry. I blinked once, slowly, but it didn’t help. The man looked dangerous. Ralph Lauren slacks tailored to his thick thighs, a peanut butter-hued button-down with the top two buttons undone, Gucci loafers no doubt polished by someone who knew better than to scuff them. Hair fresh, beard edged so sharp it could slice through tension, and God, there was tension. That scent of his hit me, too, spiced, dark, and masculine; it was woodsy and sinful, and way too familiar.
But it wasn’t just him.
It was her.
Walking a little too close behind him. Curvy and brown like melted caramel, with a soft belly and wide hips wrapped in business casual. Long curls spilled down her back, and her skin glowed like she slept in cocoa butter and mind-her-damn-business. Those dimples were audacious. And those tattoos? I wanted to read every one of them so that I could figure out what parts of her he looked at the longest.
I hated her.
No, I didn’t. But I hated how beautiful she was—hated how she smiled at something he said, how he smiled back.
She looked like she knew him.
Like she saw the version of James that most people didn’t get. The relaxed one. The one who laughed too loud and cracked smart-ass jokes. The one who whispered things that made you forget your name.
I stiffened in my seat.
He was mine. I told him that. I claimed him—every sigh, every tremor, every broken moan. I left my marks on him in bruises and breath. I made him beg.
And here he was walking into my professional space like he hadn’t been brought to his knees a week ago.
“Good morning, everyone,” James said, voice deep and smooth. The kind of voice that made grown people forget their points mid-slide. “This is Amiyah Patterson, my assistant project manager. She keeps my schedule together, my ego in check, and makes sure I don’t show up to meetings with barbecue sauce on my tie.”
