One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

I’m not a kid. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but everything in me craves her. She haunted me after Wilmington, yet I was able to dismiss it. So many elements came together to make that memory incredible it didn’t count.

Then she showed up here.

I grip the arms of my chair insisting we can keep up our no-strings agreement if that’s what she needs. What just happened here was hot, but it’s a safe place to stay. She likes rough, angry sex. Fuck, who doesn’t?

Last night was more dangerous. I held her in my arms, we laughed, we talked about our families, birthmarks, and... everything. It was gentle and loving, and I know exactly why she panicked and ran out, even if it pissed the hell out of me this morning. I get it. I value my freedom as much or more than she does.

Twenty-five is young, and it’s the rule now for women her age to focus on building their careers first. For me, I feel like I’ve managed to survive the days of dodging matrimony, settling down.

I’ve never wanted that. I want what I have—comfortable bachelorhood. Freedom to do whatever I want, whether it’s bed the newest heiress or spend the weekend buried in my office working on the latest case to excite me.

Derek Alexander would still be in fucking jail if I hadn’t had the freedom to drop everything, meet his fiancée Melissa, and catch the first flight to Baltimore. It’s what makes me the top in my field, and I’m not going to lie and say my ambition is second fiddle to any woman.

The clock ticks louder. My eyes land on it, and all the arguments I’ve just presented are overruled. I’m also smart enough to know when something special walks through my door. What Amy and I share is different. It’s fucking amazing.

I don’t feel trapped or like I’m answering to anyone. The notion of captivity disappears with her. It’s more like... freedom to have her as much as I want.

I sound like a fucking philosopher. Or worse—a pussy-whipped husband.

I’ve got to get a grip.

* * *

Amy

Marcus has invited me to lunch twice this week, but I’ve turned him down both times. I don’t trust myself since our “business dinner” followed by pretty much twelve hours straight of scorching hot sex.

The mark on my breast slowly fades, and every day it grows lighter, the pull of temptation grows stronger. What the hell is wrong with me? We’re in a mutually agreed upon no strings “fuck buddy” relationship. I should not be frustrated. We should be banging our brains out whenever we want.

The whole point of a no-strings “fuck buddy” relationship is to have all the sex we want, a’la the all you can eat buffet (hmm... warm tingles at that suggestion), until we eventually tire of each other, shake hands, and walk away.

That’s. The Deal. Right?

My stomach twists at the thought. He walks down the hall, and my insides flip. I’ve established my temporary workstation in the firm’s library. It’s across the hall from Paul’s office. Very safe.

Why am I so hung up on safety? If I’m being honest, I’ll say Marcus scares me. Only I’m not being honest. I’m a professional businesswoman, and professionals do not fuck at the office. A shiver moves across my shoulders.

Tuesday morning was scorching. I asked for it. I

knew he was wound up, and something wicked in me couldn’t resist pushing him. His anger turned me on, and I wanted to see how far he’d go.

Jesus, it was amazing, and it’s possible things got a little too real. As a result, I keep his office door wide open any time I have to show him a design idea or ask for input on a page, and I’ve stayed hidden here in my safe little office with his genial partner steps away happily chatting on the phone.

“When did you plan to take those pictures we discussed?” I jump at the sound of his low voice.

Marcus stands at the table where I’m working all sexy deliciousness, teasing the desire I’ve been fighting all week. A quick glance across the hall—Paul is rocked back in his chair, attempting to trap a pencil between his nose and upper lip.

Bingo. I’m back in control.

“I don’t think they’re necessary.” Looking up, I catch his grin like he’s figured out what I’m doing. It kind of pisses me off, and it totally makes me want him more. Clearing my throat, “Anyway, I thought you wanted a professional photographer.”

“You suggested a professional photographer.”

No table-turning. “Only because you’ve invested a lot in this rebranding. Any new images should be top quality.”

“I’ve been more than pleased with your work so far. I’m sure you’ll do a good job.”

This is supposed to be my last day here. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, my eyes go to the clock over the door. “I don’t have my equipment, and it’s nearly five.”