Chapter Eight
Dante
It’s been a week. She’s barely talked to me, other than in that cool, distant tone, and every time she calls me “Mr. Knight,” as if she’s just like any of the other various assistants and employees I have, I want to put my fist through the wall. She stays in her end of the penthouse, and I stay in mine. Every once in a while, we cross paths if we both happen to want to eat at the same time. Even so, every time she walks past me, her scent lingers and it takes everything in me not to chase her down and try to get in her panties again.
I wake up every morning with such raging hard ons that it almost hurts. I woke up three times in the past week to find my pajama pants damp.
I haven’t had a fucking wet dream since I was seventeen years old.
I’m jacking off in the shower, and often before I can fall asleep at night. It’s not enough. She’s here, and nothing will ever feel as good as her sweet pussy. I know this, and it drives me nuts. She’s ruined me. I’m a fucking mess, and every time she looks at me, it’s like she sees straight through me.
I walk into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, and she’s there, sitting at the end of the table. She murmurs a “good morning,” but keeps her eyes on her phone. She’s typing quickly, and I wonder who she’s talking to.
Shit. Is there a boyfriend out there somewhere? The thought fills me with rage, but it subsides a moment later when I realize that she’s not the cheating type. I might not know her well, or at all really, but I know that much.
And why the fuck that matters is beyond me.
I wonder, for about the millionth time since the night we slept together, how it is that a woman who looks the way she does, who’s as naturally sensual as she is, was a virgin for so long. Her innocence wasn’t an act, and there’s a sick, primal part of me that revels in the fact that I was the one who claimed her, even though it scares me to death.
Virgins. I swore I’d never let myself get into this situation again. I have to admit, though, that I’m able to breathe a little easier. Her coolness toward me, her lack of any type of emotion at all, other than polite professionalism, is reassuring.
My mind flashes back to when I was Samantha’s age. Twenty-one. I feel the same old shame all over again. I was flush in my wealth and power back then, an asshole who knew he could have just about anything and took what he wanted without giving it a second thought. I’d met this sweet, sexy little thing at the park I often jogged at. She’d spent the better part of a week flirting with me, and when I moved on her, she was thrilled. Willing. Sweet. Seventeen. She was a virgin, and I took her virginity and walked out like it was nothing.
That night, the girl’s mother called me, hysterical. I’d walked out, careless, cold, and the girl had tried to kill herself.
She was innocent, and I’d nearly destroyed her with my callousness. I swore I’d never do that again, I’d never hurt anyone the way I hurt her. And then Samantha came along, and I’m reliving it all over again.
So why am I so goddamn torn? Why does it piss me off that she doesn’t seem to want me? Why does it bother me that she’s turned away from me so easily?
I hate this shit. I think again, for about the millionth time, that I hired her to avoid all this emotional bullshit, yet here I am, a fucking mess.
She looks up, and I realize that I’ve been staring at her. Probably since the moment I came into the room. Shit.
“Did you need something, Mr. Knight?”
I bite back a growl. Fuck, yes, I need something. “No. Why?”
“You were staring at me.”
“I was not.”
She looks back down at her phone. “If you say so.”
I grab a cup and pour myself some coffee. I gulp it down, even though it burns my throat. It’s a nice distraction from the way I want to spread her out on the table and feast on her cunt. I pour another cup and sit down.
“There’s an event I need you to attend with me tonight. Susan will be by later with your dress. I’ll need you ready to leave here by seven.”
I’ve been watching her, and I notice how still she’s gone. Her hands are shaking just a little, and she shoots me a little look.
“Another gala?” she asks.
“No. A night out with one of our best clients. His wife will be there, and I expect you to keep her entertained while we talk.”
She gives a curt nod and goes back to looking at her phone. “So, what? Are we going out to eat?”
“They’re theater buffs, so we’re going to that new musical everyone’s talking about.”
Her eyes light up, and I remember then about her love of the theater.
“You’re kidding.”
The excited tone of her voice is a relief from the cool politeness she’s been showing me. If I’d known this, I would have taken her to a musical already.
No.
No, I would not have. She’s an escort. I’m her boss. That’s all.
I clear my throat. “So, be ready by seven.”
“I will.”
I walk out without another word, sure that I’m going to lose my mind before the month is up.