Funny. That’s usually how I see my female conquests as well, and it’s usually a game they’re more than willing to play, obeying my rules. And I have some very particular rules. Very particular tastes.
But Skye Manning? I can tell she’ll be a challenge.
She may not like my rules.
But
she’ll succumb eventually.
I’ll make sure of it.
Because I can never resist a challenge.
…
After spending a good portion of the night dealing with the shitstorm that resulted from yesterday’s meeting with Legal, I finally fall into bed around three a.m.
But my sleep is anything but restful.
Dreams of Skye Manning plague me.
That kiss—how perfectly her lips aligned with mine, the delicious flavor of her mouth, her intoxicating scent of raspberries and roses. Red roses.
So much of her is still a mystery—the color of her nipples, the taste of her pussy, the way she’ll look lying naked, her wrists bound to my headboard.
Regardless of my sleepless night, I rise at six a.m. sharp because my day is full of more meetings to deal with the fallout from the supplier who’s in breach of contract. Another cold shower. They still suck, but they give me the burst of energy I need to face each day with renewed vigor. My personal physician recommends them for stress tolerance, but I learned the benefits of cold-water bathing long ago, when I was just a kid. Our water heater broke, and we couldn’t afford a new one, so it was cold bathing for several months. I hated it.
But looking back, in the midst of the shitshow that was my childhood, I recall feeling better after those cold showers.
Alert.
Ready.
Alive.
From that time on, I knew if I wanted to make something of myself—and I had a burning desire to do so—cold showers would be a part of my life. They taught me willpower and courage—it takes sheer will to stay under the cold when the dreamy hot water is only a flick of the faucet away.
But as I said, despite the myth, cold showers do nothing for aching balls. Nothing to ease the desire for Skye Manning, either.
No matter. There’s work to be done, and I have never let anything—or anyone—interfere with my goals. An hour later, I’m dressed to the nines in a navy-blue custom-tailored suit and sitting behind my desk at my offices in downtown Boston, answering emails and doling out tasks to staff members.
“Find me a new supplier,” I tell them. “We’ll pay whatever’s necessary to get this damned contract filled with time to spare.”
A chorus of Yes, Mr. Blacks later, I’m confident the job will be done and done well. I tolerate nothing less.
And I’m right. By eleven thirty, a new supplier is located and a new contract drafted.
I allow myself a sigh of relief.
My stomach growls, and I chuckle out loud. I skipped breakfast this morning to get here and get moving on today’s problem. I haven’t thought about food until now.
I’m hungry.
For lunch.
And for something else.
Now that the crisis is handled, Skye Manning is back in my thoughts. It’s not enough that she plagued my dreams. She’s starring in my daydreams as well. And daydreams aren’t something I’m used to. I focus. I get the job done. I don’t waste time on daydreams.