The Dirty Truth

Needless to say, we’re all in a good place now.

I nibble a bite of toast, watching West work—a sight that would’ve sent me into a frenetic tizzy months ago. There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it.

Contracts.

Deals.

Hearts.

There’s no refuting that West has a way of making everyone fold to his whims sooner or later.

“He has until the end of business today,” West says before hanging up.

I perch on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and towel slipping loose.

His mouth pulls into a sideways grin as he watches me. “You’re making it impossible for a man to get any work done around here.”

“I’d be happy to take my breakfast elsewhere, Mr. Maxwell,” I tease in a terrible mid-Atlantic accent.

Abandoning his chair, he strides across the room, all but pouncing on me like a lion about to make a meal out of a gazelle. In an instant, the warmth of the damp towel around my body disappears, replaced with cool air and the heat of his mouth against my goosefleshed skin.

Slipping his fingers between my legs, he drags them down my seam before sliding two inside of me. My hips rock against him as his lips crush down onto mine. Without wasting another second, I work his belt and fly, freeing his throbbing cock and guiding it to my slickened sex.

“I have a conference call in a few minutes,” he groans against my ear.

“Then you’re going to have to be quick,” I whisper back, taking a nibble.

Shoving his veined hardness deep inside, he drives himself into me again and again, deeper, harder, faster.

“For the record,” he says, breathless after collapsing over me after a mere three minutes, “that was a record.”

His phone rings, and he slides himself out of me, tucks his still-engorged member into his pants, and makes his way to the other side of the room.

“Let me know when you can pencil me in for another meeting,” I say before wrapping my towel around my body and returning to my half-cooled breakfast. “We didn’t really get to touch on everything I wanted to touch on . . .”

West shoots me a wink before pressing the green button on his cell phone. “West Maxwell speaking.”

West Maxwell. I say his name silently in my head, noting that it no longer sends a nauseating tightness to the pit of my stomach. A radiating heat floods through the entirety of my body as I watch him work, appreciating the way his muscles strain against his white dress shirt and the deep tenor of his voice as he commands the conversation.

Funny how I used to loathe this man—and now all I can think of is how easy it would be to love him.

“About damn time,” West teases me the following night when I get back from taking Scarlett to an evening production of Hamilton.

Settled in his favorite chair, swirling a glass of bourbon and looking every bit the part of a sexy, refined gentleman, he gifts me a wink before closing the magazine in his lap.

We were halfway through the intermission when a uniformed theater staffer pulled us aside and said to stick around after the show because they had a surprise for us.

“I’d have been here sooner, but a certain someone phoned in a favor to another certain someone and managed to get us a backstage meet and greet.” I place his drink aside before climbing into his lap.

His fingers lace around the back of my neck as he guides me in for a kiss. A smooth hint of bourbon dances from his tongue to mine.

“What were you reading?” I ask when I come up for air.

“The column you wrote two Septembers ago,” he says. “‘The Dirty Truth about Open Relationships.’”

“Ah yes,” I say, recalling that interesting little rabbit hole of research I jumped into for that write-up. It turns out open relationships aren’t as prevalent as people think. And most of those who engage in them are doing so on the down low for fear of judgment. It took me two straight months of asking everyone I knew to ask everyone they knew if they were aware of anyone who was in an open relationship and willing to be interviewed about it. “Interesting choice. Any particular reason you’re reading that one?”

He shakes his head. “Just grabbed a random issue off the shelf. Felt like being surprised tonight.”

“Really?” I lift my brows. “That’s not like you to want to be surprised . . .”

“A wise woman once told me to take something I normally do and then do it in a different way, and it would change my life,” he says.

A smile spreads across my lips. “She sounds like a genius, this wise woman.”

“Some could argue that,” he says. “Some could also argue she’s kind of in her own little world with her own little rules.”