ELIJAH

“She’s not right for the part.” I say it again, for about the millionth time, but nobody at this fucking meeting seems to be listening to me.

The others at the table – my VP of development, Gary Shulman, and the show runner, Mia Barnes, glance at each other nervously.

“But the test audiences loved –“ Gary starts.

“I don’t give a fuck about the test audiences,” I say. “I want someone else.” We’re debating the casting of a new medical drama, and these two are convinced that they’ve found the perfect actress for our lead. But she’s not impressive. She’s boring, she’s bland, she can’t hold a show together. I pick up her headshot and toss it back across the conference table.

The two of them glance at each other again.

“Find me someone else,” I growl. “I don’t care if you’ve been through every casting director in New York. Try LA. Then try Australia. I don’t give a fuck. Just get me someone else.”

They nod and gather up their papers, and after a round of “Yes, sirs” they leave, probably to get back to their offices so they can complain about me and what a hardass I am.

I don’t give a shit.

I’ve been on edge ever since Abigail Bennett left my office. I can’t stop thinking about her. Those full lips, that dress she was wearing, the way she stumbled on my carpet and then talked back to me.

Get it together, Armstrong. She works here.

But even as I’m replaying the warning in my head, I’m simultaneously trying to figure out a way to get her back up to my office. Maybe it’s about time to start having weekly meetings with all my editors, check in on what they’re doing.

Of course, I’ve already done something that I know will get a reaction out of her. I’ve hired Lucy Bastille to run the new Ravish line.

Lucy is the best one for the job. She’s smart, she’s a good worker. She knows romance. The fact that she works for Abigail was just a perk.

And then, as if I’ve conjured her from my thoughts and into being, my phone buzzes with an email.

From Abigail.

My cock pulses just at the sight of her name on the screen.

Mr. Armstrong,

I have become aware that you’ve hired one of my editors, Lucy Bastille, to be the head of your new Ravish line. In the future, I would appreciate a heads up before you poach one of my editors for your own benefit.

All the best,

Abigail

My cock pulses again, straining at her disobedience.

I immediately hit reply.

And then I have a better idea.

I check the IP address on the email to see if it’s coming from the office – perhaps this is something that should be talked about in person.

Instead, I see the IP address is from the gym downstairs.

I could use a work out.

* * *

It’s only ten minutes later when I walk into the Quest Gym downstairs, where they force me to buy some kind of bullshit guest pass.

I don’t care about the money --it’s about the time it takes to sign up for the god damn thing. The longer they make me sit here filling out forms about my fitness level and goals, the greater the chance that Abigail will be gone.

Finally the idiot behind the counter lets me through, once I tell him my goals are to get a fucking work out in and not sit here talking about it.

I spot her immediately.

She’s over on the treadmills by the windows. She’s running, her ponytail bouncing, her stride determined. She’s wearing black capri pants that hug her round ass. I can only see her from the side, but the bounce of her full breasts makes my hands tighten into fists as I imagine letting them free, hefting them in my hands.

But it’s not just the way she looks.

It’s the way she’s running.

Joyful, like she’s doing it for the pure joy of it, and not just in order to hit a certain calorie goal like the other skinny blondes that are on the machines next to her.

That same feeling hits me, the one that hit me back when she was in my office. Fear mixed with anticipation, mixed with lust and longing.

It’s unexpected and uncomfortable.

I don’t long for things.

I decide what I want and then I get it.

With that in mind, I cross the room to Abigail.

A woman on the treadmill next to her – toned, blond, tall – is getting off the machine.

Her gaze lowers as she walks past me, her eyes making it clear she could be mine if I wanted. I feel nothing but annoyance.

I climb onto the treadmill and push the speed up to an 8.0, deciding that sprints are going to be necessary, especially if I’m going to control myself while I’m next to her.

She doesn’t notice me at first, and I take the moment to run my eyes over her body, those sexy curves that are setting my nerve endings on fire. Her bottom half is encased in spandex, her top half in what I’m sure is supposed to be an oversized t-shirt, but does nothing to conceal those gorgeous tits underneath it.

The t-shirt says Columbia Law, and I wonder if it’s a boyfriend’s. Jealousy and an overwhelming urge to slam his head into a wall pulses through my veins, thick and unexpected. I reach down and up the speed on the treadmill, hoping the physical release I need will come from moving faster.

“Do you always leave work early when no one is paying attention, Ms. Bennett?” I ask by way of greeting.

She glances over at me, the color on her face rising, her stride stumbling a tiny bit as she realizes it’s me next to her. I’m pleased that I’m able to bring out this reaction in her, but to her credit, a second later, her stride is again strong.

“This doesn’t seem like the kind of place someone like you would work out,” she says. “Don’t they have private gyms for...billionaires?” She pauses just a little bit before she says the word ‘billionaire’ like maybe she wants to call me something else, something worse. Asshole? Dickhead?

“I thought that perhaps you’d like to discuss your email in person.”

“You came here to talk to me?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Every email sent through the office email system comes with an IP address. Yours showed you were here.”

She swallows. “So you’re stalking me?”

“I came to talk,” I say, avoiding the question.

“Okay.” She turns off her treadmill and turns to me. “Why did you hire Lucy Bastille without even asking me if it was okay?”

“Why would you think I needed your permission?”

“Okay,” she says. “Let me rephrase. Why didn’t you do me the common courtesy of letting me know you were going to offer her the job?”

“Common courtesy isn’t always necessary in business, Ms. Bennett.”

She reaches over and pulls the emergency cord on my treadmill, turning it off.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she says. “You wanted me to be pissed off about it so that I would work harder.”

“Did it work?” I look at her as the belt on my machine slows to a halt. Her cheeks are flushed from the exercise. A few strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail, and my hand itches to reach out and push them from her forehead. Then another thought, darker – fisting her hair in my hands, pulling it hard until she screams as I plunge my dick into her from behind, those big tits bouncing with every thrust.

“It worked,” she admits grudgingly. “I was already going to work hard, but now I’ll be working even harder to make sure the Sweet Kisses line is a success.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Ms. Bennett.”

“I’ll also be submitting the paperwork to HR so I can get started on a new hire for Lucy’s position.” She reaches down and grabs her water bottle, uses her teeth to pull the pop-top up before taking a long swig. The sight of her lips around the bottle makes my cock ache.

“You look surprised,” she says.

Surprised at how sexy you’d look sucking my cock.

“I wonder if it’s the best idea to hire someone new in the middle of a line relaunch,” I say.

“It’s not a relaunch. It’s not even a rebrand.” She frowns, the first hint of doubt crossing her features as she realizes that without the financial power a rebrand would have behind it, there’s nothing except her own ideas that could make her line reverse its trajectory.

“We will discuss this over dinner.” I grab the towel the not-so-helpful attendant had given me along with my guest pass and swipe it across my forehead. Why the fuck was I sweating? I’d only run for a few minutes. And yet I felt hot all over.

“Dinner? With you?” She looks doubtful.

“Yes, Ms. Bennett. Unless there is someone else you think has the power to make decisions.”

“No, I just… ” She trails off, biting her bottom lip.

“I will pick you up at seven.” I step off the treadmill, done with running. I need to lift weights, to really get my muscles burning if I’m going to get rid of the gnawing ache inside of me.

Something else would do it, too. Her pussy wrapped around your dick.

“Wait,” she calls after me. “Don’t you need my address?”

“It’s in your file.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes Mr. Armstrong?”

“Make sure you wear something appropriate.”

* * *

My phone rings an hour later, just as I’m getting out of the shower back at my penthouse.

The session with the weights had eased the uncomfortable need that was pulsing through me, but only a little. I’d jerked off in the shower when I got home, my hand fisting my cock as I thought about Abigail Bennett down on her knees, her hands cuffed behind her back, choking on my dick as I fisted those long dark curls of hers.

I thought that once I came I’d be sated.

But there is no satiety.

There is only more longing.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling. In the past, sex had always just been sex. One beautiful woman melted into another beautiful woman. The physical pleasure was there, sure, but I’d never had this reaction to a woman before, the reaction that I needed to have her specifically.

My phone rings again, shaking me out of my thoughts.

Get it together, I tell myself. You’re acting insane.

“Armstrong,” I growl into the phone, wrapping a towel around my waist.

“It’s Darren.”

“Did you find anything?” I make my way to the walk-in closet, pull out a pair of dark slacks and a tan cashmere sweater.

“Abigail Bennett, age 23. Graduated from New York College with a 4.0 GPA, major in English, dual minor in marketing and publishing. She got scholarships, worked her way through school by tutoring private school high school kids and working at a coffee shop.” The sound of him tapping on a screen. “It was called The Coffee Bean.” Darren scoffs. “Original, eh?”

“So there’s nothing else?” I grab a pair of brown boots and shove my feet into them, then return to the bathroom and slide some gel through my hair.

I glance at the clock on my phone.

6:30.

I press the button to summon my car.

It’s a second later, as I’m walking out the door, setting the alarm on my security system when Darren answers.

“Oh, no, there’s more.”

I pause, not liking the tone in his voice. “What is it?”

“Her mother is in jail.”

“For what?”

“For murder?”

“Jesus. Who did she kill?”

“Some John Doe. Apparently Abigail’s mother, Jane Bennett, was a prostitute. She went crazy one night and took the life of one of her johns. They never figured out who he was. His body was too wrecked. She cut him to pieces.”

“She slashed his body so bad he couldn’t be identified?”

“Yeah. With a razor blade.”