The Price Of Scandal(32)

“One veto,” I offered.

She squeezed me with those magic thighs, and my dick rubbed against her enthusiastically. The breath she let out was shaky. “Five,” she countered.

I gave one small, testing thrust. I was a beast. An animal. I was seconds away from seeing exactly how far she would let me go.

Her eyes were unreadable.

Disgusted with myself, I tried to lift her off me, but her thighs tightened again. Dear God. This woman was going to kill me. I only hoped she’d let me make her come before she did.

“Not until we have a deal.” Her voice was raspy, breath hot on my chin.

“Three vetoes. Final offer,” I said.

This time, it was she who gave the shallow little thrust. Even fully clothed, I was the Ponce de León of female anatomy. I knew that my cock was coasting through her open folds. There were people in easy view of this tableau. Witnesses who could watch me dry fuck my client into oblivion.

“Fuck,” I breathed. Where was that control I was so proud of?

“You must have left it in your other pants,” Emily whispered.

And now I was speaking my inner thoughts out loud. The woman was a witch. An enchanting temptress.

“What are you doing?” I gritted out the words.

She dipped lower until we were nose to nose. “Winning.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Love, three vetoes or I’m not going to be able to control myself, and I’ll do something that will go a long way in ruining not just your reputation but your ability to enjoy other men in bed.”

She arched an eyebrow.

I groaned at the friction against my cock.

“Someone’s cocky,” Emily whispered.

“Is that a pun?” I gritted the question out.

“Three vetoes and allow me to restate that there will be no physical relationship between the two of us. You’re not my type.”

The woman was a manipulative liar, and I was already half in love with her. I just needed to be patient, give her enough time with my smoldering sexiness before her resolve shattered.

“A physical relationship with you is the last thing on my mind,” I groaned. My cock twitched painfully against her at my lie.

“Good. We have a deal,” she said. And then the great and powerful billionaire CEO kissed me playfully on the nose before hopping to her feet.

I lay there on my back, staring up at the fluorescent lights that hung from the twenty-foot ceiling. What the hell had just happened to me?

A peek at the real Emily Stanton. That’s what.





Me: Revenge favor.





Rowena: My fave. Who?





Me: Malcolm Ellis.





Rowena: Level of revenge?





Me: General douchebag. Make it sting. Make sure he knows it’s me.





Rowena: Lemme see what we’ve got…





Rowena: Seems Mr. Douchebag has been bidding on a particular piece of art that the artist isn’t keen on selling. Female artist. Takes offense to his hot mic comments regarding the “blow job lips” of the journalist interviewing him. He’s got a hard-on for the painting and keeps raising his bid.





Me: Buy it and send him a thank you note for making the artist so amenable to my offer.





16





Emily





“From drugs to scars: The inside story on heiress Emily Stanton”

“Game-changing new scar treatment in the works at Flawless”

“Bookie lays odds on billionaire’s rehab prospects”





“Listen, ladies. If we stay focused and don’t let any of these people derail us, we can get out of there in forty minutes flat,” Daisy said with uncharacteristic optimism.

We were on her terrace, preparing for the Bluewater quarterly neighborhood town hall. One would think that an enclave of wealthy neighbors would be too busy to attend a boring community meeting. But no. Not in Bluewater. We’d accidentally built a community of eccentric, lovely weirdos who were as invested in the community as its founders.

It was charming, sweet even.

But tonight, I just wanted to crawl into my bed, binge watch something mindless, and pretend that I was a normal human being.

I was so. Very. Tired.

It had been two weeks of Derek running me from public appearance to interview to photo op. Two weeks of me squeezing in late hours of work at home. Two weeks of me trying not to think about the kiss… and the erection.

Things felt more out of control than they had the day after my near arrest. There was some good press but not nearly enough to turn the SS Sinking Emily around.

I felt beaten down in a way that was entirely new to me.

I needed sleep. And comfort food. And a vacation.

“We’ll talk like the Micro Machines guy.” Cam’s suggestion pulled me from my internal pity party.

“Pregame?” I suggested, digging deep for some semblance of energy. I’d often wondered how royalty did it, performing at their public appearances when they were uncomfortably pregnant or teetering on the verge of exhaustion. Be a duchess, dammit, I told myself.

“Pregame,” Daisy agreed. She produced a bottle of organic French vodka. “For the snooty vegan palates.”