Dirty Headlines

I nodded, scraping up a smile. “Sorry. Zero orgasms happening under this dress. I just zoned out for a second.” Lies. I was about to orgasm just remembering how good Célian had felt parting my thighs with his big, callused hands and dipping his tongue into my slit.

Then words stopped streaming down on everyone’s heads like a scalding shower, and I realized that indeed there was something worse than hearing Célian speak in his perfect American English. And that was not hearing him speak at all. Because now the icicles were pointed at me like a cocked gun.

I glanced up to meet his gaze. He stared at me for exactly one second before his focus snapped to Grayson. “Am I understood, Gregory?” he asked.

Gregory?

“Crystal clear, sir,” Grayson bowed, his voice trembling at the edges.

Célian jerked his chin toward me. “Your cover girl material is going downhill.”

God. Damn. Bastard.

He recognized me, and I knew it. His eyes had kindled, melting the ice and growing darker the minute our gazes mingled. He remembered, and maybe it killed him that I was here in the same way it buried me.

I want my iPod back, my gaze told him. I had over three thousand songs on that thing, and they were all too good to be wasted on that jerk.

“Jude Humphry. Junior reporter. It’s her first day,” Grayson highlighted, almost pleadingly. He shifted in my direction, as if he might need to physically protect me from the sharp-tongued, suited monster.

I suppressed a smile when I realized I’d told Célian my last name was Spears. Well, he certainly wasn’t a Timberlake. He was a Laurent. An American monarch through and through. A billionaire, a powerful force, and judging by our one and only encounter—a raging playboy.

This man was inside you, I internally shrieked. And not just once. His cock was buried so deep in you, you screamed. You can still taste the salty, earthy flavor of his cum. You know he has a freckle on his lower back. You know what sound he makes when he empties inside a woman.

I internally thanked my mind for ruining my panties in public, and nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I offered him my hand, my face flushing with embarrassment at my choice of words.

Everyone was looking at us, and there were at least fifty people in the room. Célian—if that was even his name—ignored my outreached hand. Instead, he turned his face to the man beside him. “Mathias, any other words of wisdom?”

Mathias? Wasn’t that his father? Just how cold was the man with the icy blue eyes?

“I think you touched everything,” said the big boss—and he did have a heavy French accent, so at least the lie had a seed. Mathias stared at me placidly, like he could read the secret his son and I shared on my face.

Célian spun toward me, uncuffing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up his veiny forearms. “Accounting can go back to their unfortunate line of work. Couture is excused from this meeting—though not forgiven for their horrid blog. Miss Humphry?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.

He was already waltzing down the narrow hallway, knowing I’d chase him like a puppy, and no doubt taking pleasure in that fact.

“I have a bone to pick with you.”

Bone, boner—same difference, right?

I shot Grayson a please-save-my-butt look. His eyes said, I would but I still have a life to live.

I followed Célian down the hall, my Chucks slapping the floor in a hurry. He sliced through the throng of accountants, then stopped at a corner office, opened the door, barked “Out!” to the man inside, and tilted his head for me to go in. I did. He closed the door, and it was just the two of us.

Two feet of empty space between us.

His eyes said war.

Which didn’t bode well for me, since he had bombs, and I barely had sticks.

“Where’d your accent disappear to?” I asked through a painted smile.

“Where’d my fucking cash disappear to?” He answered in the same light tone, but the smirk on him was different. Sinful.

I felt my expression fall. I was so disoriented by seeing him here, I’d forgotten that had happened, too.

“I took it.” I swallowed hard.

“Well, I faked it.” He meant the accent.

“Coincidentally, so did I.” I didn’t mean the accent.

I just remembered the bet we’d had at Le Coq Tail. If he didn’t make me come, I was allowed to take all his cash. Truthfully, I’d never come so hard in my life, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Not after he’d made me feel like a fool for the second time that day, faking a stupid French accent to shake me off his back in case I wanted to exchange numbers.

“Miss Humphry.” He tsked with pity, like I was adorable and exasperating at the same time—a puppy pissing on his two-grand loafers. “It’ll be a long time before you stop thinking about my cock every time you masturbate at the end of a long workday under your cheap covers.”