Sloan

 

“Remember, ladies. Do it. Whatever it is you want to do. Wherever you have wanted to go. Whatever you want to try, to taste, to feel, to live... do it. This is our year.”

Probably the tenth time I’ve looked at that text since I got it New Year’s Eve. Trust me, ladies, I remember. I remember our pact. We promised to smash 2019 and live our best lives.

We also promised to be supportive of one another any way we could. Including the text messages that have streamed nonstop from that group chat for weeks.

Updates about some of the others following through. Questions about where others were in their quests. Had they signed up for that class? Had they nailed down their dream? I could not be happier for the girls who had.

Sister solidarity and all that—the bond you form being part of Sorority is unlike anything else. I always know I have those girls.

My resolution? Dare to embrace myself. As my eyes swing from my phone to the mirror, I lift my chin as it trembles. Embracing oneself is easier said than done, let me assure you. Especially if your mirror image mocks you.

Smoothing my hand down the raised and puckered scars that ruin most my left side, I swallow back a rush of tears. It should not hurt all this time later. All these years later that night shouldn’t be able to hurt me. Nevertheless, the pain is phantom and it won’t stop me anymore.

Watching myself in the mirror, I lock down my emotions right before my eyes. Steel myself against the bitter bile of self-hate threatening to drown me. I dared myself to embrace my flaws this year. Scars included. Physical and psychological.

Instead of focusing on the scars at my ribs and down my hip, I focus on the bigger picture. On the cute two-piece suit that slims my wide hips and flashes just a sliver of my soft tummy. Its navy with sharp pinstripes that make my legs look long and draw attention away from my busty chest.

“Almost look like a lady who belongs in the corner office, Sloan.” I wink at my image and fluff my thick honey-blonde hair, loving the new edgier cut.

Part one of embracing what I want: landing that promotion. Busted my ass at Morningstar Mass for the past five years as an intern and then as a junior ad exec. Almost two years—and ten projects with my name attached—later and I am eyeing that corner office with a view.

Our entire firm knows a senior spot is open because Maxwell Morningstar retired. Bastian Morningstar—Maxwell’s only son—took his seat at the head of the board and vacated that sweet spot in the corner office and his brand marketing manager title.

A title I want and have damn well earned.

Today may not be January first, but my new year starts now. I meet with Bastian at ten-o’clock and I won’t leave his new office until I know I’ll be taking up permanent residency in his old one. Making me his right-hand man. Or woman, as it were.

Working side by side with Bastian Morningstar is a win-win situation. Bastian is brilliant, daring, and ambitious. Also happens to be painfully gorgeous and effortlessly sexy. I absolutely adore him.

Too bad he has no fucking clue.

At nine-fifty-five, I pause at the front desk as his secretary Cindi glares up at me with disdain. Woman hates me. Before I can speak, I feel him. Oh yes, I feel him before his door even swings open.

“Cindi. Sloan will be and I don’t want us disturb... oh, Sloan. Hey.” Just a casual greeting. A single syllable sends heat rocketing through me.

Eyes clashing with his, neither of us move for long moments. Bastian is tall with silky black hair, piercing blue-green eyes that crinkle when I get him to smile, a full mouth that pouts when he doesn’t get his way, a strong jaw and a perfect nose.

His white shirt is crisp and stretches across his broad chest and his hands hang loose in his pockets. I try not to notice his thick thighs and the way his zipper always looks a bit snug but—as if often the case—I fail.

“Hey. Mr. Morningstar.” I flick my eyes away the second I can manage and straighten my shoulders again.

Yes, we work together often. Early mornings and even some late nights—hell even a few weekends. We have seen each other at our best wowing clients and at our worst working exhausting hours. Yet every single time I see him it feels like the first time we met five years ago. When I felt myself come alive.

“Sloan. I am ready for you.” Bastian cocks his head as his mouth quirks into his signature smirk.

I am never ready for him.

Despite being a smart woman who knows men like Bastian do not choose women like me, I can’t shut off what he makes me feel. And, Bastian makes me feel everything. Things no other man has ever made me feel.

“I am ready, Mr. Morningstar.” I lift my chin as my shoulders square and I don’t miss his smirk. Bastard.

“Mr. Morningstar, now? Since when, Sloan?” Suddenly he’s right behind me closing his door. I don’t miss the click of the lock, either.

Bastian presses close enough I feel the brush of his suit against the back of my thighs. Twisting my hands nervously in front of me, I close my eyes as I take a calming breath. Bad idea. I breathe in Bastian and can’t help the little sound of contentment I make.

Seems he hears it too because he lowers his head, his words hot against my neck.

“Don’t call me that, Sloan. Don’t be like the others. Treat me no different today than you did yesterday.” I wince a little because I wish it were that simple.

Yesterday we were laughing in this very office about a client’s ridiculous demands that we were having fun denying. Today is different. Today I have to show him I am worthy of the title I so desperately want.

“I... I can’t. Not today.” I jump when he drops his hands at my shoulders and presses closer.

“Maybe not. Maybe I don’t want you to. Truth is, I have absolutely no desire to treat you like I did yesterday.” I frown as I twist to ask him why.

Bastian slips his hands down my arms as he stares down into my eyes. I know I should move. Break out of this strange almost-embrace. I can’t. Looking up into his midnight blue eyes, I can’t move. I can barely breathe let alone consider physical action to separate me from him.

“What is... what is this? What do you mean?” I cock my head as I stare up at him on confusion. And then his hand touches the bare skin between my jacket and my skirt and I jump away. Hot angry tears flood my eyes as I twist to face him.

“Sloan, don’t.” Where he touched my skin flames with heat and I’m sure it’s a mix of shame and phantom pain.

“Don’t touch me. Not there. What am I here for? Why are you being so... strange?” I rub away at the sting in my skin as he closes the distance between us.

“Had to hold the interview, Sloan. Don’t mean to scare you and I don’t want you to think this has a single fucking thing to do with the job. Come here.” Again, I frown, utterly confused by how desperate he sounds, by the rough rasp of need in his voice. And yet, I obey him.

I close the few feet of distance between us. Tipping my head back, I watch his eyes as his hands come out again. Cupping my hips, he tugs me against him and we both make sounds as I’m brought tight against all his hardness. All of it. Including the weight between his legs that he notches between my thighs. 

“What is happening? Why are you touching me? Do I not get the interview I was promised?” Unable to stop myself, I wrap my hands around his thick biceps and feel his body flex beneath my touch.

“Don’t need it, Sloan. Had the job before I even left it if you need to know. Father chose you knowing he’d be leaving soon. It was always going to be your job. And,” Lowering his head, he catches my fleeting gaze, his voice going impossibly low.

“Touching you because I can now. Not being able to touch you has driven me fucking mad. Probably ought to be careful but I’ll risk it.” My head tips back further as I gaze up at him in a foggy haze of lust and confusion.

What. The. Shit? Is this real life?

“Make me understand, Bastian. Please.” My voice is silky and heated, sounding unlike me and he groans, lowering his head until his words breathe hot against my mouth.

“Sloan Walsh, I have wanted you from the very first moment I laid eyes on you.” Shaking my head, I push at his firm chest, even as my hands clutch at him.

“No. No. Not funny. Nothing about this is funny, Bastian. Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t.” Bastian growls and twists to lift me atop his desk. I gasp and my legs lift as he shoves between them.

“No, Sloan, nothing at all funny about how bad I want you. How it’s driven me crazy working with you and wanting you every single day for the last five years. Nothing funny about waiting for the right moment to take you. It’s been hell, beautiful. A delicious hell that I am so fucking lucky to have endured. My old title and that corner office were yours before today and will be yours after. Even if you don’t want me too. But I think you do.” Bastian lowers his head as his eyes watch mine. I gasp into his mouth as he drags his lips over mine gently.

Just once. Not even a kiss, really. Barely brushes his lips against mine but it feels like touching a live wire. Bastian growls and yanks my head back as I press closer, legs closing around his waist, arms yanking at him. I want to feel the weight of him against me, want to wrap myself around him.

“Jesus. Is this real life?” I moan as his tongue licks at the shape of my mouth and his hips rock against me.

“It can be. Take the day. Go home and celebrate your promotion. It’s yours, Sloan. It was always yours. Honestly, I was always yours too. I want you to think about being mine. If you want me, come back tomorrow and tell me. Can you do that for me, baby?” I almost combust as he licks at my lips again and calls me baby as he thrusts his body against mine.

Um, yeah, I think about that all the time, actually.

“Yes... I can. I can do that.” I whisper it against his lips as I steal another almost-kiss.

“Tomorrow, baby.” I whimper as he breaks away before setting me on my feet.

I spend the rest of the day doing just what he asked. What I have done almost every night for five years, honestly.

I think about being Bastian’s and him being mine.