Bastard In Suit(14)

“Mr. Kingston, I—”

He shakes his head as if to silence me. I climb into the car and he closes the door. I’m alone, confused. My chest heaves with unspent tears.

I stare out the window at the front of the restaurant door as the car pulls away from the curb.

Duke is already gone.

My phone buzzes another text.

I can’t bear the thought of checking it—I have no words, no excuses, to offer Forest or Jake. I’ve blown it. Without even realizing what was happening, I fucked up our second chance. They will never forgive me.

How will I ever forgive myself?

I take out my phone with a sigh. But when I look at the screen, my stomach does a small flip. The text isn’t from my business partners at all—it’s from Duke.

I’m interested. Bring your partners to my offices tomorrow. 8 a.m. sharp.





Chapter 7





Duke’s interested.

I stare at the text message for thirty seconds before I hit send, trapped in some kind of trance. I can’t believe it. After a completely humiliating evening, I never thought we’d see Duke Kingston again. But he’s interested.

My mind flashes to the restaurant, the storage room, Duke’s mouth on my skin. I rub my wrists, tracing the fine lines left behind from the rope. I’ve never been tied up like that before. I should be petrified but I’m not, because the truth is, being tied up like that made me feel confident.

Sexy as fuck. If even for a few minutes.

I hit send and wait for a reply text.

Forrest: What did he think of the marketing plan?

Good question. I can’t confess that we didn’t even talk about the MicroTracker—they’ll kill me. I respond: He wasn’t specific.

Another quick text from Forrest. This is excellent, Hailey. Good work!

I wonder briefly why Jake hasn’t texted at all, consider that he may still be upset about being excluded from this pitch meeting. But then I decide not to worry about Jake and his histrionics.

The last thing I’m going to think about is the juvenile antics of one of my partners after the night I’ve had.

But still, despite my resolve, I can’t help but feel a twinge of humiliation at the thought of what Jake and Forrest would say if they knew I’d chosen an orgasm at the hands of Duke Kingston over pitching our product—our baby, that we slaved over for years.

I swallow the lump of guilt that’s lodged in the back of my throat: Big day tomorrow. Going to catch some sleep, I text.

Which turns out to be another lie. I bury myself under the covers, enveloped in the safety of my childhood blankets. I toss and turn. Try to count sheep. It’s pointless. Every time I close my eyes, I’m drawn back to the restaurant. I see Duke staring at me, as if trying to imprint his own brand on my skin.

Damn it.

I shuffle up on the bed and lean against the headboard, staring out the window toward downtown where a few of the tallest buildings stand in stark relief. The Kingston Industries logo shimmers against the black sky in the distance.

Is Duke at work? At home? Is he thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him?

Yeah, right. After my record-breaking fast orgasm, he’s probably out with one of the many more experienced women sure to be at his beck and call. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

But dear God, those hands of his.

Thinking about them makes my nipples hard. I draw the blankets up to cover them, but it doesn’t help. I lay back and run my hands across my tank top, skimming the material with a light touch. My fingers slide the tank up over my breasts. Cool air feathers across my skin.

I roll over onto my side and yank my tank back into position. In need of distraction, I scroll through my texts until I land on the one from Duke. I’m interested. A low moan purses between my lips. Me too, Duke. Me too.

Would he respond if I texted him?

My fingers hover over the buttons.

Common sense takes over and I chuck my cell across the room. I grab my book from the night stand and try to read. The words just blur together until they’re indecipherable, and in their image, Duke’s image hovers, like some kind of ghost from my inexperienced past.

I’m such a fool. I slam the book shut and shove it off the bed.

2:30 a.m.

We’re scheduled to see Duke in less than six hours. I’m struck by the sudden panic of being unprepared. I climb out of bed and begin rooting through my closet, discarding a number of items instantly. Too young, too boring, too unprofessional. My gaze drops to the black dress and torn panties in a heap on the floor. I’m right back in the restaurant.

I crawl back into bed and try counting backwards from one hundred. It only lulls me back into memory and before long, my thoughts get derailed. My hands slide along the curve of my hip, and across my stomach. I massage my breasts, the back of my neck, allowing myself to fantasize that I am in Duke’s strong arms. I imagine him on top of me, our skin touching, his grip tight on my hips as he thrusts into me.