Blind Date (13 page)

Now I all but have my mother’s blessing to screw the ever loving fuck out of the man once this contract is up. I’m sure she’d feel very differently if she’d walked into my office instead of knocking, but hey ho…

I click on the email tab on my Internet browser and on a new message. I type ‘Carter’ into the ‘To’ bar and his email address comes up immediately. I click on it and type ‘Important meeting needed’ into the subject bar, hit shift, and start my email.

Dear Mr. Hughes,

An urgent matter has just come to my attention. Please let me know when you arrive back to New York so we can schedule a meeting as soon as possible.

Best wishes,

Bee Donnelly.

I send it and reach for the Sour Patch Kids sitting on my desk. The packet crinkles as I open it and grab two or three candies. My computer pings as a new email hits my inbox.

From: Carter Hughes ([email protected])

To: Bee Donnelly ([email protected])

Ms. Donnelly,

I expect to arrive back around midday. Can I interest you in a late lunch? I know a place that does great salads if tomorrow is your designated takeout pizza night.

Hope you’re well.

Carter Hughes

I smack my lips together as I hit reply. God… I really shouldn’t agree to this, but okay. He twisted my arm the second he said ‘takeout pizza.’

From: Bee Donnelly ([email protected])

To: Carter Hughes ([email protected])

Mr. Hughes,

I’m free for a working lunch at two p.m. Is this suitable for you?

From: Carter Hughes ([email protected])

To: Bee Donnelly ([email protected])

Ms. Donnelly,

That sounds perfect. I’ll collect you from your office at one forty-five. I’ll call ahead.

Also, consider bringing a change of underwear, otherwise I can’t promise you’ll be leaving with any on.

Actually, I know you won’t be.

Have a good day.

My jaw drops open at his audacity. What the hell?! Who does this man think he is?

I can’t even respond to that. More to the point, I have no fucking idea what I’m supposed to respond to that.

I click the ‘x’ in the top corner of my screen and slam my laptop shut.

Arrogant fuckwad.

I run the brush through my hair one last time and put it back in my desk drawer. I’ve been watching the clock all morning like I’m some kind of freaked out teenage girl waiting for her first date.

I want to know why he told my mom. It’s been three days since she and I had that conversation, and I’m still as mad as I was then. Hell, I’m fuming. I want to take my eyelash curlers and close them around the end of his cock kind of fuming.

Fact is, I had a plan.

Get this contract.

Do the design.

Get paid.

Never. See. Him. Again.

Ergo, my mom never would have found out about our night together. Carter made it clear during our consultation that it wouldn’t influence matters. He admitted he didn’t want to see me again. Fuck, I didn’t want to see him again. I don’t. I still don’t.

I want to erase every memory of him from my mind. If only memories were drawn in pencil, life would be so much easier.

I want to forget the sound of his voice. The dirty words that fall from his lips. The easy touches. His powerful influence. The way he treats my body like it’s more than just a tool for his own pleasure… The way he treats his as it’s a tool for
mine.

I want to forget the way his tie felt wrapped around my wrists and the way his wicked tongue felt as it flicked across my clit.

I want to forget the way it felt to be perched on my desk with his fingers inside as I all but rode his hand to my own orgasm.

More than anything… I want to forget how badly I wanted those things the second I was presented with them.

I have Carter Hughes on the brain, and it’s deadly.

My phone buzzes with a new message, and I type in my unlock code. It’s from Carter telling me he’s waiting outside, so I take a deep breath and slide my feet back into my beloved heels. My pencil skirt is tight, and I picked it deliberately this morning to hamper the efforts of wayward body parts.

Not that I truly believe a bit of black fabric will stop him if that’s where he ultimately wants to be, but I’ll definitely make it harder than it needs to be.

Harder than it needs to be.
It’s taking all my self-restraint not to giggle at myself right now.

God, I need food.

And wine. Definitely wine.

Wine is what I think about as I travel down in the elevator. It settles the butterflies in my tummy and stops my adrenaline kicking in too much.

My heels click across the lobby as I head for the door. I can already see him leaning against another sleek black car, wearing his trademark white shirt and black pants. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie nowhere to be seen, and his top two buttons undone.

I wish he didn’t look so fucking hot like that.

He turns his face and our eyes meet. His seem even greener than I remember, if that’s possible, and a shiver teases its way through my body. The hairs on my body stand on end as he pushes off of the car and walks to the door. He beats me to it by a split second and pulls it open with a smile that would drop the panties of a nun. “Ms. Donnelly,” he greets me in a low voice.

“Mr. Hughes,” I respond in kind, my voice stronger than I feel.

“Shall we?” He releases the door and motions toward the car.

I suppose we must. “Please.” I follow him toward the vehicle where he once again gets the door for me.

I hate the way my heart beats double-time for the few seconds it takes me to get in.

“How was your trip?” I ask politely when the car starts moving.

“It was… hot.” He smiles. “It went well, thank you. It’s due to open next month and everything seems to be on track. Well, if you don’t count the fact we need to find a new chef, but I’ll send Julia out there next week to do that.”

“Sounds like you have everything under control.”

His eyes flash. “I’m always in control.”

“Ah, yes. You’re a control freak.”

“Takes one to know one.” He winks, grinning.

I’m not even going to respond to that.

“How are things here?” he asks, apparently sensing that he can’t bait me that easily today.

“I stopped by an hour ago. The flooring is down, the wallpaper up, and the lights are being fitted. The new bar is being crafted so installation can begin tomorrow, then it’s simply finalizing the delivery date for the tables and chairs.”

“You’re very efficient, Ms. Donnelly. I like that.”

I turn my face toward him, arching one eyebrow. “I pride myself on my efficiency. Besides, the quicker this job is done, the quicker my life returns to its formerly Carter-less way.”

He rests his arm across the back of the seat and leans forward. “Sounds like you can’t wait to get rid of me, Bee.”

I make sure to hold his gaze steadily as I respond. “I can’t.” I finish with a smile.

“Cute,” he murmurs. He reaches forward and takes a lock of my hair. He twirls it around his finger gently, his eyes cutting to where the dark strands are sliding across his skin. He takes more hair, then more, and more, until half of it is gripped in his palm and he’s leaning right into me.

My heart skips a beat as he moves my face closer to his. Our breath mingles in the small space between us, and I have shivers everywhere. The goosebumps that coat my skin contradict my earlier words.

His lips curl into a knowing half-smile. “What makes you think you can get rid of me that easily?”

“A stiletto through your balls?”

His chuckle is low and dark. “Oh, Bee.” He slides across the seat and our thighs brush. I take a deep breath in. “I’ve missed your smart mouth these past three days.”

“Really? All you had to do was call. I have a special amount of snark reserved for you.”

“I’m sure you do.” He releases his grip on my hair and eases back. He touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth and runs it across my lower lip, tugging on it softly. “Actually, I think I just missed your mouth in general. It’s my favorite part of you.”

“You’re crossing the line again, Carter.”

“What line would that be? The one you insisted be drawn? The very same one you can’t keep to?”

“I’d keep to it if you’d stop touching me.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re standing on the edge of the line just waiting for me to join you there. You’re hardly pushing me away, are you?”

No, and I don’t want to. God help me, I don’t.

“Exactly,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Face it, Bee. There’s never been a line. Not between us. You know that if I wanted to tug your skirt up and drag you on top of me, you wouldn’t do a thing to stop it, would you?” He trails his hand across my side and cups my breast. “If I took off your shirt and removed your bra, would you stop me taking your nipple in my mouth?”

My breathing picks up.

“No? What about if I unbuttoned my pants and tugged your face down to my cock? Would you refuse?”

I lick my lips.

“Stop fooling yourself.” He pushes the hair back from my eyes. His strong gaze flickers across my face, studying every one of my features, before he finally catches mine. “You fight this because you can’t control it. You fight it because that’s the only way you can control it. But make no mistake, Bee, if I wanted you on your knees in front of me, you know that’s exactly where you’d be, because you know you’d want it as badly as me.”

My chest is heaving with each desperate breath I take, and I know his game. His cards are on the table, face up, and he isn’t even trying to hide them.

That’s fine.

I want to play too.

I trail my fingers up his chest and let them rest against the side of his neck. “And what if I stopped fighting it and did control it? Would you stop me?” I tuck my legs beneath me and push him back on the chair. I dip my face so my hair falls around us in a dark curtain. He slides his hand down my back and across my ass cheek.

He wastes no time pulling it back then smacking it with a serious amount of force. “You wouldn’t be in control, baby. Don’t think you would be.”

“Really? Because I beg to differ.” I drop my face so our lips touch, but there’s no kissing in the movement. Just a gentle hover. “What if,” I whisper, “What if I pushed you on your back right now, hiked up my skirt, and crawled up your body so my pussy was right over your face? Are you telling me you wouldn’t slide my panties to the side and lick it, Carter? Are you honestly telling me that’d be you in control? Or if I reached down right now and pulled your cock out and climbed on top of you to fuck you. Who’d be in control then?”

His fingers dig into my ass, and his other hand scoops my hair up and tugs.

Hard.

He yanks my head back and grazes his teeth down my neck. “Who’s in control now, Bee? Now who has who where they want them? Because the way I see it, you can’t move.”

I drop my hand and cup his cock. I can feel its hard length pushing against the material of his pants, and I run a nail along it, right next to the zipper. “Fifty-fifty,
baby.
”

“Touché,” he responds, swirling his tongue across the exposed curve of my neck. “There is a difference though, isn’t there?”

“There is?” I ask breathlessly.

He pushes my head forward quickly and my eyes flutter shut. His lips brush over mine. “Yeah. My control is very, very fucking close to snapping. So behave yourself, Bee. Because the place I know that does great food also delivers, and it’s already waiting for us.”

My eyes open quickly. “Where?”

His lips curve up with the knowledge he has me cornered. “In my fucking kitchen.”

Oh, boy.

***

I honestly wish I’d insisted on meeting him in a restaurant. I don’t care if this house is huge and immaculately decorated, or if the rustic charm of the kitchen had me sighing with happiness as I stepped through the door.

My pussy is wet, my nipples are aching, and my clit is considering a petition for release.

Still, I’m sitting at the island counter in the middle of Carter’s majestic kitchen, my chin propped up in my hand, waiting for him to unpack our lunch.

Many things are wrong with this situation. The first being is that he decided to remove his shirt and throw it over one of the chairs opposite me. So I’m sitting here trying to refrain from giggling like a sixteen year old as the muscles in his back flex with his every morning.

Seriously. Backs. Sexy as fuck. Why? Who knows? Who cares?

I’m trying to think of something—of anything, that will take my mind off this whole situation I’m in. It isn’t working. It’s so screwed up. I should have told him hell no the second he told me we were here. He couldn’t have forced me in, could he?

No… He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t have the whole kidnapping credentials. Although I’m sure if he really wanted to, he could finish me off and hide my body without another thought.

Oh God.

Mayday. Mayday.

“Wine?”

I squeak as I focus on him.

His lips curve on one side. “Am I interrupting a sordid fantasy?”

“Does you killing me and hiding my body count as one?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

He stares at me for a moment then holds up a bottle of pink wine. “Wine?” he repeats.

No. “Please.”

Dammit, brain
.

He pours a glass and sits it in front of me, then turns and produces a plate full of Caesar salad. My eyes narrow, but I quickly return my expression to normal as I thank him and gets his own. He takes the seat opposite me, all rippling muscle, and grabs his wine glass. “To a successful project.”

“To a successful project,” I echo, much softer than he spoke. He sips his wine and sets the glass down. I, meanwhile, take a mouthful and left the fruity taste linger on my tongue for a few seconds before swallowing.

Carter doesn’t say a word as he picks up his cutlery and eats. I drop my eyes, get my fork, and stab it into a piece of chicken. It smells really good, but honestly, I’m not sure if I’m even hungry anymore. I’m still reeling from our exchange in our car, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m more embarrassed than anything. I rarely speak to anyone like that, and if I do, I sure as hell never see them again.

Now here I am, sitting in his kitchen, eating lunch with him. In a suspiciously quiet working lunch meeting.

It feels horribly comfortable.

You know that sensation when you go somewhere you feel like you’ve been before or that you should be? That kind of comfort. It’s as if I’ve been here a thousand times or are destined to be here that many.

It’s unnerving. It doesn’t have a place in my world, yet I have an inexplicable need to set down my fork and explore every possible nook and cranny of this gorgeous house. I want to browse every bookshelf and open every cupboard and run my hand over every wall.

And I wish I could say it’s from the perspective of an interior designer—it isn’t.

It’s from the perspective of something I don’t want to think about.