And, yeah. My scalp is stinging from his grip and my back aches from its permanent arch, but his cock pounding into me and his balls swinging and slapping against my clit has me edging closer and closer.
I hold my breath.
There.
The edge.
He stands.
Reaches round.
Presses his thumb.
To my clit.
I explode.
I scream.
He moves faster.
It’s quick.
Harsh.
Rough.
Brutal.
Everything.
He releases my hair and I relax, collapsing onto the table. He leans forward, his chest against my back. Fucking hell. Fuck, shit, damn. There isn’t an inch of me not feeling the waves of heat and trembles of oblivion he just gave me.
He slides his hands down my arms and lifts his head to undo his tie. I flex my wrists the second they’re free and bend my arms to dive my fingers into my hair.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I have no words that don’t start with ‘fuck.’
Carter stands and with his hands planted on my ass once again, pulls out of me. He hooks his finger through my thong and repositions it over my pussy.
What a gentleman.
“It’s a shame one night is all the time I have to offer a woman,” he muses, pulling me up and spinning me into him. His arms wrap my body tightly, and I muster all my remaining strength so I don’t fall into him. “Because you’re a fucking delight, Bee.”
“A delight. That’s exactly what every woman wants to be called after sex,” I breathe, my blood still thundering through my body almost deafeningly.
He smirks, the amusement in it reaching his eyes. He cups my chin and lifts my face, looking into my eyes. “I’d fuck you all night long if I could, baby. But I have business to attend to. There’ll be a car waiting for you to take you home. Take the door to your left instead of going through the restaurant.” He presses his lips against my cheek in a touch that feels warm but lacks any real heat, then releases me.
I grab the table to steady myself and watch as he does up his pants, rebuttons his shirt, replaces his tie and jacket, and walks out of the booth without another word, perfectly composed.
And even though I still have aftershocks shuddering through me, I straighten. I pull my dress down to cover my ass and grab my purse from the floor. Digging it in, I pull out twenty bucks, throw it on the table, then walk out of the booth myself.
There’s a car waiting indeed. I doubt my twenty dollars even touched the price of the wine, but I can pay my way.
I pass the doorman, step outside the restaurant, flag a cab, and climb in.
And that’s how you do a blind date—the blind isn’t in not knowing who you’re meeting.
It’s in fucking them and knowing you’ll never see them again.
Chapter Three
I hate Mondays.
My heels click against the linoleum floor of my office and echo around the spacious room. Mind you, it would be much more spacious if I didn’t have whiteboards and corkboards and fabric swatches all over the place.
Hey—I never said it was fucking tidy.
I don’t do tidy. I do organized chaos. I know where everything is, because it has its place—even if that place is the last spot you’d expect to find it. Like… a pile of color charts stuffed into the vase on my windowsill, or the flowers meant for that vase now dead and dry, resting on top of a pile of books about various middle-Eastern methods of organizing your house and the like.
I’m not sure I’ve ever read them, but whatever. It is what it is.
I sit at my desk and move a file from it so I can put my laptop down. A few more things shift, and it briefly crosses my mind that maybe I should tidy it…
Nah. Thought came and went before I could finish it.
I click on the Gmail shortcut on my desktop and flick open my diary. My morning is clear, so I do what I do best. I open a new tab on the browser and head straight for the Victoria’s Secret website.
What? I got a coupon in the mail this morning and I didn’t have time to look before I came here. I’m simply being a responsible adult and saving money. You know… When I should be earning it.
Good thing I work with my mom.
“Come in,” I say when two sharp knocks echo through my office.
The door squeaks open, and my mom steps in. Her softly curled mahogany hair bounces off her shoulders as her heels click against the linoleum. With her hands on her hips, she peruses my less-than-tidy office with her blood red lips pursed tightly. “You really need to tidy this space.”
“I know, I know.” I shoot her my sweetest smile. “What’s up?”
“Carlos double booked me,” she says, absently collecting sheets together from one of my armchairs.
“Again?”
“Hmmm.” Her dark eyes cut to me, and one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows quirks up in displeasure. “I think he was supposed to book this consultation with you, given your empty schedule this morning.”
“Mrs. Cortez cancelled again. Something about having to get her bunions removed.” Having an empty morning is a rarity, and she knows it. We didn’t build this interior design company overnight. While I worked my ass off in college for my degree, Mom was working to build a clientele with one of the most prestigious interior design firms in New York City.
The day Donnelly Designs Inc. became a registered company with the state of New York, she brought the clientele with her—and with the clientele came rave reviews and solid recommendations.
This is the first empty morning I’ve had in weeks.
Mom tuts and puts a book back on my bookshelf. With her slim figure and almost wrinkleless skin, you wouldn’t believe she’s fifty. Of course, I’m certain her skin has had a little help from Botox, but she’ll never admit to it. Unfortunately for me and my theories, she has Grandpa on her side insisting that Nanna was the same.
“Sienna Cortez has more bunions than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. If she does it for a fourth time, you politely tell her that she’ll have to find another designer to… What does she want doing now?”
“Her kitchen.”
“Tell her to hire a builder.” Mom sniffs and turns. “Anyway, as I was saying, Carlos double booked me. Since one of my appointments is a home visit with Louis, I need you to take over the other.”
“Sure.” I reach for a notepad and eventually find one in my desk drawer. And a pen… Ho hum.
Mom rolls her eyes and hands me a pen from a pot on my windowsill.
Aha. That’s where I put the fuckers.
“Thanks. So, where do you need me to go?” I ask, looking up, pen poised and ready to write down the address.
“A restaurant on 58th street.” She wipes a fingertip across one of my shelves, and I barely hold back my own eye-roll when she wrinkles her face up and wipes the dust from her finger. She focuses her dark eyes on me, then glances pointedly at my notepad. “Two eighty E, 58th street. Carter’s.”
I freeze, horror washing over me in a chilling shiver. “Wh-where?”
“Good Lord, Bee, don’t make me repeat myself.” She sighs. “I’ve called ahead and said you’re going. The owner, Carter Hughes, will be waiting for you at eleven a.m. You have plenty of time to wipe a wet cloth over your shelves and perhaps have Carlos order you some form of filing system. Then again, he’d probably purchase you a dressing table instead.”
Carter Hughes. A consultation.
Right.
Because we didn’t have enough of a consultation not forty-eight hours ago.
“Bee?” Mom says my name for what I’m assuming isn’t the first time. “Can you do it?”
“I…” Damn you and your bunions, Mrs. Cortez. “Sure, Mom.”
“Excellent.” She claps her hands together, and for the first time she entered my office, her face breaks into a wide smile. “I’m lead to believe that he’s meeting with several companies throughout the day, including Parker Interiors.” Her smile drops and her lip curls in disgust.