The photo is of Sloane, sitting in an avant-garde modern patio chair, dressed in his usual expensive suit, holding a glass of something. Scotch, whiskey, hell maybe it’s not even anything alcoholic, for all I know. Though, I doubt it. Guys like Sloane drink from bottles that cost more than my apartment.
His watch shines with an elegance, catching the sunlight. The article credits it as aStone Timeworkspiece, which means it probably costs more than I could imagine, but it’s not the watch that draws my attention. It’s his hand. I can’t help but stare at the way his fingers are barely holding on to the rim of the glass, like it means nothing. Like it’s an afterthought; a delicate thing that exists and doesn’t matter. My gaze settles on his long, lithe fingers. My mother used to say men with long fingers and good hands were good at one of two things—building things or destroying them.
Part of me wonders which is the case for a man like Sloane Pierce. The way he holds the glass so delicately makes me think those fingers are capable of intricate applications. I could see those hands stroking the keys of a piano eloquently or typing away on a keyboard for hours on end; the melodic tappy-taps becoming a song of his own making. But I could also see those hands—those perfectly shaped fingers and pronounced veins running through like a maze beneath his skin, being capableof destruction. I could see those hands balled into fists, those labyrinthine veins sticking out before they flex. I could see those hands signing contracts and making deals with the devil. I could see them wrapping around someone’s neck—like mine—and crushing them until they couldn’t breathe.
Or maybe that’s just me and my fucked up thoughts.
My gaze travels up his long arm to his shoulder, and then his face. He’s turned away from the camera, so we get his profile. His dark hair is carefully swept back with a timeless elegance as he looks off into the distance at the setting sun. Like some brooding hero in one of those romance novels Helen used to sneak away in the office to read when the library was dead.
“Yes,” Robbie said. “And then I’d make him fall in love with you.”
I rolled my eyes as Robbie squeezed my neck, his mouth finding mine without hesitation. His kiss was messy, sloppy, but I didn’t fight him. I couldn’t.
His heavy body against me stirred things I knew I shouldn’t want. The parking lot was bad enough, and I still felt like shit about it. So I didn’t move. I didn’t push him away.
“And then what?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Robbie’s mouth moved over my jaw, along the free side of my neck. His kisses were not soft nor sweet, but rushed and harsh.
“Then we take the fucker down. We make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“You want to honey trap Sloane Pierce, is that it?” I asked. A dry laugh escaped my throat, though his tone was anything but funny.
Even drunk, I’d never heard him so serious.
“I want what belongs to me,” Robbie bit, shoving my boxers down with his free hand. I stared up into his eyes, seeing the glaze of interest, the hunger I knew so well.
My body tensed beneath him, my heart racing.
“It’ll never work,” I told him. “There are too many variables. It’s too much speculation, not enough evidence to support—”
Robbie pushed my legs apart with his knee, and my breath caught in my throat, knowing this game well.
Guilt and shame swirled with the desire inside of me. My cock twitched with anticipation while my heart raced with anxiety.
I hated the feeling, but I also loved it. Knowing he wanted me like this, even if it was nothing more than impulse.
That’s all anyone wants, right? To be desired like this?
“It’ll work. There’s an opening for his personal assistant, and you’re going to apply for it.”
It was the way Robbie said the words. It wasn’t asuggestion, and this wasn’t just some drunken tirade. It was a command. It was a fact.
“And if I say no?” I asked as he shoved his boxers down, freeing his cock with one hand. The other continued to rest on my throat, holding me in place.
“You won’t,” he said, offering me his hand.
I looked up at him, his dark gaze holding mine hostage.
I sucked in a breath as his other hand tightened around my throat.
“Spit,” he commanded. I could have said no. I could have pushed him, could have told him this was different, but I didn’t.
I did as he said, knowing it was what he wanted.
And maybe a part of me wanted it, too, even if I wouldn’t admit it.
“You’ll do as I say because you’re such a good boy, Oliver.”
