’t bruise her wee girly finger by pressing one whole button. It was New York decadence all wrapped up in one steel and glass package. People were starving, but this building had marble floors, and a dude who rode in the elevator all day long, just pushing buttons for business people.
She’d taken Devin’s advice to show off what tits she had. Her initial instinct had been to be stubborn, and wear a turtleneck and boot cut slacks, but whether she liked it or not, there was something to what he’d said. They both needed this piece. Anyone could break one story; she needed to build a history of being a writer who was “good to work with,” who “delivered to expectation,” who had “diverse topical interest.” Being a primadonna about her assignments wouldn’t do her any damn good, even if it would feel satisfying at the moment. She’d dressed in the most enthusiastic of her push-up bras, a charcoal gray blouse that didn’t even bother to have buttons around the neck, and a deep burgundy pencil skirt. Sensible black pumps were the only thing keeping this outfit from looking like she was actually a very high class hooker.
Elevator guy let her off at the penthouse office suite, and she stepped out, feeling entirely outclassed by the receptionist. The woman had a haircut that probably cost more than Zoey’s entire outfit, even with the pink streaks threaded through her blonde curls. She very studiously did not give Zoey a once over, which was somehow more embarrassing than actually being scrutinized from head to toe.
Three years in the city had still not gotten her used to the way this worked. Back home, if some blonde haired blue eyed beauty thought she had more gorgeous points, she would straight up tell you to your face, usually with some nasty nice comment that drove home just how much better she was than you. Zoey had learned early on to give as good as she got, with no real guilt. It was all part of the game. But the way northern women just casually disregarded anything that didn’t line up with what they wanted to see—that still stung.
She found that bright smile she’d relied on so much lately, and pasted it across her face, forcing it to glitter up into her eyes. She strode across the floor like she owned the place. “Hello,” she said. “I’m here to see Mr. Blankenship.”
Zoey got that once-over then, and she fought the urge to flinch. She kept her smile in place as the receptionist tapped at her computer. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. Brianna, read the name plate on the desk. Seriously, the receptionist had a nameplate? Zoey didn’t have a nameplate. Of course, she shared her cubical with three other writers. “Mr. Blankenship has a meeting.”
She resisted the urge to shift feet like a kid that needed to pee. “Yes, he does. I’m Zoey Gardener from the Downtown Voice.”
Brianna took in Zoey’s uninspiring cleavage, the outfit that suddenly seemed like the least professional thing that she’d ever put on, and the leather messenger bag that contained her tablet. The receptionist’s eyes focused on the bag for a longer moment than necessary, her perfectly threaded eyebrows sketching pale shadows across her artfully even skin. “Yes,” Brianna said, her tone as dry as west Texas. “Yes, I can see that. I’ll let Mr. Blankenship know that you’ve arrived. Have a seat, please.” she replied as she gestured at a gorgeous upholstered sofa—something this gracious would never be referred to as a mere couch. Possibly, it was even a settee—was ‘don’t piddle on the rug.’ Zoey bit down on her sharp irritation, and went and sat on the furniture. Whatever it was. At least this skirt kept her knees together without her having to worry about it. She daydreamed of spending a day in her pajamas. Or jeans. Jeans would be amazing. She missed jeans.
A phone buzzed on Brianna’s desk, and the woman glanced down, then stood. “Mr. Blankenship will see you now,” she said, and Zoey stood herself, following the other woman to a frosted glass door framed in steel. She opened the door, and Zoey thanked her, walking into the office. Brianna closed the door, and Zoey turned to meet the businessman who was walking across the floor with his hand extended.
And then her heart stopped.
She’d seen pictures of Alexander Blankenship before. Living in the city, writing yellow news for a trashy gossip paper, it was impossible to avoid. He was damned good looking in photos, but in person, his eyes were stellar, sparkling and deep, and his smile seemed both broad and sincere, as if he wasn’t just greeting a journalist who was here to write some nasty article about him. He appeared to be genuinely happy to see her.
But that was not why her heart was currently frozen in place.
The domino mask last night had hidden just enough of his features that she hadn’t realized who he was. After all, who expected a Wall Street playboy, who could have any woman—or man—that he might find interesting to frequent a kink club, no matter how exclusive the membership? But now, with the mask gone, she both recognized him for who he was—and who he’d been last night. “Oh holy Christ in heaven,” she muttered, falling back on the Christian exclamation, even though she’d stopped believing years ago.
For what it was worth, the realization seemed to have run him straight through as well. “You’d better sit down,” he said. “Let me get you a drink.”
Sitting was good. “No drink,” she said. “The last thing in the world that I need is a damn drink.”
“I’m having a drink,” he said, as she flopped into the chair on the other side of his desk. “Coffee? Water? Anything? Please. Let me do something.”
“Coffee,” she said, without much thought.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“No, thank you,” she said. He had one of those foul, trendy, automatic coffee makers on the same wall as his row of decanters. He popped a pod in and pressed brew, then poured himself two fingers of amber liquid. Still, as offensive as the brew method might be, the smell of caffeinated gold was delicious, and when he passed her the cup, she took it without complaint. He leaned against the edge of his desk.
“Well,” he said, after a while. “Just how awkward will this be?”
“Excuse me?”
He shook his head. “You’re here to write a gossip piece on me, aren’t you? Your editor wasn’t specific, but the mag has a reputation that I’m sure you’ll uphold. Should I expect a tell all on our event last night?” His dark eyes were cold, all the sparkle gone.
“What? No. Of course not.” Marie had been extremely clear, and Helen had backed up the zero-tolerance policy of the club. And besides, if she didn’t to be known as the hack who broke the story about the Subway Wanker, she really didn’t want to be known as the tramp who got famous by fucking the Blankenship heir. “Andy, you have my word on that. Last night—was amazing. But private. I won’t share that with anyone.”
He studied her for a long moment, but it was nothing like Brianna’s calculating stare. He wasn’t ranking her in comparison to himself, and he wasn’t even considering her as a friend or foe. He was just—seeking the truth. And she had a funny thought, all of a sudden, that he was smarter than he let on, and much more aware than people gave him credit for. She thought that not much got past him at all. “Alex,” he said, after a little bit. He gave her a small nod, and his arms uncrossed, his hands settling on the edge of the desk. “They call me Andy at the club, but I’m Alex. Always have been.” He held out a hand again.
She slipped her fingers into his, carefully pushing the frisson of interest to the back of her mind, where it couldn’t bother her. “Zoey,” she said. “Zoey Gardener. From the Downtown Voice.” Dammit, he knew that. “I’m sorry to hear about your recent loss.”
“Did I leave bruises?” He hadn’t let her hand go yet, and his index finger trailed out and caressed the sensitive skin inside her wrist. She fought to keep her shiver strictly internal.
“I’d like to talk to you about your father’s influence on AEGIS. With Philip gone, how do you think the direction of the company will be affected?” Her voice was shaking. She had to look away from his eyes. She’d never felt lust rush through her like this, especially not with someone who was essentially a stranger. And he was still holding her hand, still tracing her wrist with his fingertip. She’d worn sensible panties today, but they were going to be soaked inside a few minutes at this rate.
“I ask, because you’re squirming. Just a little bit. Does it still hurt?”
She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “I woke up with the marks of your fingers in technicolor all over my ass and thighs, and I loved it so much that I considered finger fucking myself in the shower just so I could think straight. Okay? The readers of the Downtown Voice are desperate to know if the unfortunate passing of your father means that you’ll be under pressure from your board to settle down and get serious about the business.”
He brushed away the comment with a smooth gesture. “Your readership would be heart broken if I had to get serious about anything, they’d have to find someone new to talk about. Why didn’t you touch yourself this morning?”
Zoey had reached down into her bag to grab her phone and her tablet to record and make notes, but she let her hand fall away from them. She wanted to answer him—she wanted to see where answering him would lead—but everything inside of her was turmoil. Writing the gossip piece would be no big deal, she didn’t even need quotes from him to do it, but the more detailed AEGIS piece she’d been taking notes for this morning? There was no way. If the fact of their dalliance last night ever got out, she could kiss any shot at a real journalistic job good bye. Everyone would assume that she wrote the piece to spin it, whether it came out favorable or not to AEGIS. It was just one story, just one idea, but this morning, it had felt like a lifeline. It had felt like a way out of the hole of a studio in a shitty walk up. “I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage. Which wasn’t much, all things considered. “This isn’t going to work. Do you have a PR person I can contact for a couple of quotes?”
He reached out, his fingers brushing over her shoulder, and she had the strongest urge ever to twist her head over and bite into his skin. Not enough to hurt, just enough to see what he would do. Would he sweep everything off his desk? Push her up against the wall? Take her on the floor? “Why won’t this work?” He sounded almost sad.
“Because you’re a Wall Street tycoon bad boy, and I’m—” She couldn’t think of anything to say. She shrugged. “Just look at me.”
To her serious frustration, he clearly did, his eyes gliding over her outfit. She could see him taking it all in in fits and starts, his lips pursing here, his eyes narrowing there. “Not bad, overall,” he said, “But you can do better. You did better last night.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Last night, you were all casual contact only, now, you want me to tell you about why I didn’t touch myself in the shower?”
He cocked his head slightly to the side. From the way he was leaning, she could see the outline of his dick, lying down along his right leg. She wouldn’t put him at fully hard, but decidedly interested. “Is that so strange? Dirty talk not your thing?”
Zoey stared up at him, at Mr. Alexander Blankenship, who looked so calm and in control. He was still leaning back against the desk, every line of his body carefully placed to maximize his influence and power and ease in the situation. Afterward, she wasn’t sure exactly what possessed her to lean forward and mouth his cock through his suit pants. Maybe just that she wanted to see how he reacted to someone turning the tables on him.
He let out a low groan in response to her hot breath ghosting over him. She loved taunting men like this. She could use her teeth with abandon, go full out erotic eye contact, and generally enjoy herself. “Is this what you want?” she asked, tracing his belt, running her index finger down his fly.
He let out a sound that was raspy and low. “If you’re offering, I’m sure as hell not going to turn you down,” he said. “I’d love to see what you can do with that talented mouth of yours.”
She worked his zipper and belt with quick ease. He wore silk boxer briefs underneath his pants, and where the tip of his cock lay, there was already a spot of creamy wetness. She pulled him free from the top—he was harder than she’d guessed already, and took the tip of him in her mouth. One of his hands clenched hard on the edge of the desk, the other came to her hair. She’d left it down today, and he wound a length of it up in a tail, and around his palm. It was enough that he could direct her head, if he wanted to, and it wouldn’t pull. “Don’t bother trying to take the whole thing,” he said. She could hear him striving for that voice of command and control he’d had the night before, but he was in a very different place now, she suspected. “It doesn’t feel that great, even if you do pull it off. The tip—you can use your teeth—”
She responded by grazing her teeth lightly over the sensitive skin at his tip. He was glorious up close, and the way he shivered in her mouth made her own body respond with a surge of wet heat. “Like that?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
She took the tip of him again, suckling it with more force than she’d usually use, and he responded with quiet, thick sounds. “What if I tell you,” he murmured, stroking her hair, “That I didn’t bother with anyone else last night? That I went home after you left, and I woke up twice in the night, too hard to sleep, and I imagined fucking you all over again?”