Risky Business

“But it’s still just one more fuck-up to dear old Dad. If I’d kept my head down, the situation would’ve still been handled but there wouldn’t have been all this drama and dragging Americana Land and the Steen name through the mud again.”

“Again. The key word there is again. Nobody’s perfect, least of all Ben Steen. Fuck knows, he messed up, and his personal choices definitely affected his professional image. Back then, things were different, though. Gossipy grapevines were forgetful, not instantly and perpetually searchable with the click of a button. And you don’t have to be some perfect robot son to be worthy of your role as CMO or as his son.”

“If only that were true,” he scoffs.

“Are you sure it’s not you who expects you to be perfect? Because obviously, I’ve got my own issues with that.” I offer a small smile with the self-deprecating sense of camaraderie. “Maybe we’re two peas in a pod?”

Carson looks up at me through thick lashes and finally offers a hint of a smile. “Not sure that’s a good thing. This pea pod is pretty fucked up.”

“Nobody wants pristine, organic pea pods anyway. I had to do image rehab once because an actress went all Mother Earth-granola-crunchy to the extreme, telling interviewers about her detox shits because ‘Everyone poops and it’s perfectly natural.’”

I laugh at the memory and how hard I had to fight to keep a straight face during that conversation, especially when my client wanted to discuss my own bowel habits. No, thank you, not interested in that convo.

“You’d think that wouldn’t be controversial, but you’d be so very wrong. She went from beloved to most hated overnight because everyone thought she was being all holier-than-thou about it, and honestly, she was. I had to help her find a balance between her personal self and the image she needed to be hirable. Point being—perfect is boring, and people hate it even though they think they want it.”

“You might want to repeat that to yourself,” Carson quips pointedly. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself about not coming up with the festival idea sooner.”

“Hey!” I protest, pointing my finger at him accusingly, “Don’t use my own mental mojo on me. I’m working my magic on you.” I mean as a client, because sometimes my job requires me to be more like a therapist than anything else.

Carson grabs my hand, encircling it with his own until our fingers interlace. “Yes, you are.” He brings our hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the back of mine. The scratch of the scruff along his chin against the sensitive skin of my hand sends a jolt straight to my core. “There’s one more person you’ve got to bewitch, though.”

He kisses my knuckle.

“Huh?” Okay, so intelligent wordsmithing isn’t my forte when all the blood in my body has gone south.

“We need to tell Dad about the festival.” His tongue dips into the valley between my index and middle fingers. “It’s going to take funding and coordination between all departments. I need to grease the way for Spencer and Kyleigh.” Another kiss, this one wetter and promising similar attention elsewhere on my body.

His dad. Ben Steen. Carson’s own devil.

Well, that’s one way to splash cold water on the heat that was building. I think my pussy just went drier than the Sahara.

“Could we not talk about him while I’m imagining you kissing me like that somewhere else?”

Carson’s evil grin is diabolical. He releases my hand so that our fingers aren’t interlocked any longer but then takes my index finger into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the pad. He nibbles the plump flesh there gently. “Where do you want my mouth, Jayme?”

He lays kisses along each fingertip, leaving me fascinated by the pucker of his lips, the pink fullness surrounded by dark scruff, so soft and yet coarse, both sensations driving me crazy. “Everywhere.”

“Tell me . . . do you want me to kiss your neck?”

My head lolls over, giving him access, but he simply takes my middle finger into his mouth, sucking gently. I whimper in disappointment, but it’s because I want more. More of what he’s promising—with words and actions.

“Your breasts?”

I nod, arching my back to lift my chest encouragingly for him.

“What about your pussy? You want me to lick and suck you there, lapping up your cream until you come for me?” He turns my hand over, laying a soft kiss to the palm before licking a long line down the center to show me exactly what he’d do to my core, which is pulsing in time with my racing heartbeat. I scissor my legs, looking for relief.

“Yes,” I moan.

He flicks his tongue along the sensitive skin between my thumb and index finger, and it’s easy to imagine it’s what he’d do to my clit. This has been building between us over weeks, and I’m weak with desire, on the edge without so much as a touch to my pussy.