And I’m not going to do that, I don’t care how much my cock begs me to.
I stare at her, and wait for her to speak.
104
Ashley
You heard when I said Wolf of New York, right?
Like, you were paying attention and remember that, right?
This guy is a major player in EVERYTHING.
He owns the Biltmore Hotel in Soho. The Susan Duran fashion line. I think he bought the football team, New York Nailers too.
I mean, you see him on newspapers. You see him on TV.
Duh, no wonder he seemed kinda familiar.
So, I’m like fucked. No, actually, I think I’m dying. Like, really dying. I’m thinking that my heart is gonna jump right out of my chest, it’s pounding so hard and I can’t breathe right and—
I straighten my back, which incidentally pushes out my chest, which can never hurt, right? And I push back my hair.
I can do this. I may die before I get everything out, but I can do this.
“IjustcametoapologizeforstealingyourcabthismorningandI’mreallysorryaboutit.”
Whoosh. Okay, so he may not have understood anything I just said, but I said it and so that’s what counts, right? I have a clean conscience now. I’m good to go. I can—
I start backing slowly toward the door, feeling for the knob with my hand outstretched. It has to be here somewh—
He’s striding toward me, long, distance-eating strides and he’s pissed as fuck and I’m searching more frantically now because goddammit, I need that doorknob like yesterday and then whack! Something goes tumbling to the floor and glass shards are everywhere and this really embarrassing high-pitched squeak comes out me. You know, like a chew toy for a dog? Oh yeah, I just did that.
Oh my god, I seriously want to die now.
He reaches me and instead of strangling me or picking me up and turning me over his knee to spank me—my panties instantly moisten at the thought, traitorous body—he grabs the doorknob and opens it.
There it is. Dammit. I’d been creeping down the wall, searching for it, and had moved the wrong damn direction.
“Someone, get me a dustpan and broom!” he barks out the door and then slams it shut. I look down at my feet, giant purple shards of glass everywhere, and I’m trying to find the least shard-strewn path out of my predicament when he barks, “Don’t move!”
I pause, one foot slightly raised in the air, like a runner in a photograph, and then I just stand there, unsure if I should put my foot down or continue to try to balance on one foot for the foreseeable future.
I bite my lower lip in hesitation, and a smirk crosses his face. He knows what I’m debating, and instead of telling me how to get out of this mess—literally—he decides to laugh at me.
All desire to apologize to him flees instantly. I mean sure, I stole his cab and then broke his precious purple vase—what guy owns a purple vase?—but him smirking at me?
Fuck him.
I glare at him, my leg wobbling as my calf muscles get tired of trying to hold me up, and then a knock on the door breaks our standoff.
“Here sir—Apollo—Mr. Kane,” Fredrick stutters and then backs out of the room and closes the door, casting me a quizzical look as he goes. I ignore him. He’s been trying to get in my skirt for months now, but groveling, panty-waisted wimps just don’t do it for me.
“Hold still!” Apollo barks as my right foot starts to inch back toward the floor. I jerk it back up high in the air and huff out a breath. He doesn’t need to yell at me. He sweeps up the glass shards awkwardly, as if he’s never held a broom and dustpan before—he probably hasn’t—and then looks around the office in search of a trashcan.
“Probably behind the desk,” I point out helpfully. He tosses me a glare—obviously men don’t like asking for directions even indoors, but heads that direction, pan and broom in hand. I start to put my right foot down, aching for this torture to end and he barks, back turned, “Don’t even think about it!”
I huff out another breath, louder this time, but he ignores me, dumps the shards, and then advances on me again.