Of course, what I really want to know is how it will sound screaming my name, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
I N THE HEART OF B URBANK ’ S Media District, we pull into a circular drive on the side of a moderately-sized brown and white brick office building, and Madden shifts the transmission into park. Within seconds, the valet is opening my door and helping me out of the car before scurrying over to the driver’s side. As the attendant drives away to park the sleek sedan, Madden approaches me, confidently takes my hand in his, and leads us to a rather unassuming entrance at the corner of the building.
As I did earlier in the day, I attempt to withdraw my hand from his, but he holds onto it tightly. Honestly, I kind of like the way my hand feels in his—protected and secure—but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Regardless of Jae’s advice, the last thing I need is a good fucking, especially not with the CEO of a firm I have a business relationship with, no matter how good looking he is, or how my insides melt a little when he looks at me. I’m pretty proud of myself for the progress I’ve made in my new life over the last week—despite the never-ending nightmares and busted lip—and I don’t want to ruin it all for a one-night romp in the sheets.
We pass under a modest burgundy sign that reads Arnie Morton’s The Steakhouse , and he opens the dark-stained wooden door, ushering me inside. He releases the grip on my hand as he gives his name to the hostess, while I scan the area to inspect my surroundings—standard operating procedure. The lighting inside is dim though, and I can barely see the people in the dining area. No one seems to take notice of our entrance, so my fear of someone from back home waiting for me here diminishes, only to be replaced with apprehension and nerves about spending an entire evening with this intimidating man.
A middle-aged man in a tie walks up and greets us with a smile, and then motions for us to follow him to our table in the back of the restaurant. Several people peer up from their meals to look at us as we walk by—mostly women checking out Madden—and I find myself wishing he was still holding my hand. As if he can hear my thoughts, he brings his hand up to the small of my back; the pressure is light, but the warmth it sends throughout my body is dense and filling. We pass through a doorway in the back, to a private area apparently used for banquets or small parties, but there’s a single candlelit table for two set up in the center of the room.
“Your table, as requested, Mr. Decker,” the gentleman states as he pulls the chair out for me.
“Thank you,” I say politely, hoping he’ll leave quickly so I can ask Madden what the hell this is all about.
Thankfully, he does, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, I narrow my eyes and purse my lips at the man sitting across the table from me. “What is this?” I demand.
“What is what?” he replies acting innocent, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“ This,” I hiss, waving my hands around the room and over the table. “A candlelit table for two in a private room. This is supposed to be a business meeting, not a date.”
Smirking, he brings the glass of water from the table to his lips and takes a long drink. My gaze naturally moves to his mouth, and the fleeting thought of how those lips would feel on mine crosses my mind before I push it away and remember to be irritated with him. I bring my eyes back to his, and the mischievous gleam tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking.
“It is a meeting, Blake. I simply requested we have some privacy so we could concentrate on our pending business,” he explains coolly. Leaning forward, his voice drops into a near growl. “Believe me—you’ll know when we’re on a date.”
His words instigate a chain reaction of tingles whizzing through me, and I suddenly need a drink of water as well. Thankfully, our server appears to
I N THE HEART OF B URBANK ’ S Media District, we pull into a circular drive on the side of a moderately-sized brown and white brick office building, and Madden shifts the transmission into park. Within seconds, the valet is opening my door and helping me out of the car before scurrying over to the driver’s side. As the attendant drives away to park the sleek sedan, Madden approaches me, confidently takes my hand in his, and leads us to a rather unassuming entrance at the corner of the building.
As I did earlier in the day, I attempt to withdraw my hand from his, but he holds onto it tightly. Honestly, I kind of like the way my hand feels in his—protected and secure—but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Regardless of Jae’s advice, the last thing I need is a good fucking, especially not with the CEO of a firm I have a business relationship with, no matter how good looking he is, or how my insides melt a little when he looks at me. I’m pretty proud of myself for the progress I’ve made in my new life over the last week—despite the never-ending nightmares and busted lip—and I don’t want to ruin it all for a one-night romp in the sheets.
We pass under a modest burgundy sign that reads Arnie Morton’s The Steakhouse , and he opens the dark-stained wooden door, ushering me inside. He releases the grip on my hand as he gives his name to the hostess, while I scan the area to inspect my surroundings—standard operating procedure. The lighting inside is dim though, and I can barely see the people in the dining area. No one seems to take notice of our entrance, so my fear of someone from back home waiting for me here diminishes, only to be replaced with apprehension and nerves about spending an entire evening with this intimidating man.
A middle-aged man in a tie walks up and greets us with a smile, and then motions for us to follow him to our table in the back of the restaurant. Several people peer up from their meals to look at us as we walk by—mostly women checking out Madden—and I find myself wishing he was still holding my hand. As if he can hear my thoughts, he brings his hand up to the small of my back; the pressure is light, but the warmth it sends throughout my body is dense and filling. We pass through a doorway in the back, to a private area apparently used for banquets or small parties, but there’s a single candlelit table for two set up in the center of the room.
“Your table, as requested, Mr. Decker,” the gentleman states as he pulls the chair out for me.
“Thank you,” I say politely, hoping he’ll leave quickly so I can ask Madden what the hell this is all about.
Thankfully, he does, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, I narrow my eyes and purse my lips at the man sitting across the table from me. “What is this?” I demand.
“What is what?” he replies acting innocent, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“ This,” I hiss, waving my hands around the room and over the table. “A candlelit table for two in a private room. This is supposed to be a business meeting, not a date.”
Smirking, he brings the glass of water from the table to his lips and takes a long drink. My gaze naturally moves to his mouth, and the fleeting thought of how those lips would feel on mine crosses my mind before I push it away and remember to be irritated with him. I bring my eyes back to his, and the mischievous gleam tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking.
“It is a meeting, Blake. I simply requested we have some privacy so we could concentrate on our pending business,” he explains coolly. Leaning forward, his voice drops into a near growl. “Believe me—you’ll know when we’re on a date.”
His words instigate a chain reaction of tingles whizzing through me, and I suddenly need a drink of water as well. Thankfully, our server appears to
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