Money Man (King Maker 1)

“It’s always been that way,” he said matter-of-factly.

I closed myself in a stall and leaned on the wall, reminded how we’d spent our first time together.

“The other night,” he began.

“Was a mistake,” I quickly said. When his silence became too much, I rushed to say more. “You were an ass, but I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

All I got in response was his breathing, which got increasingly louder over muffled conversations in the background. “Where are you?” I asked.

It was a second before he said, “In the gym.”

That fit with the sounds I heard. Which begged the question as to why was he calling me?

He didn’t sound drunk or seem like the type. “What are you doing?” I asked, wondering why I was the one taking the lead in this conversation.

“Using a punching bag to forget about you,” he said.

Okay. I wanted to be pissed off by his response, but his voice was like lava, burning me inside and out. “Calling me probably isn’t helping,” I tossed out.

“Just tell me one thing. Is this Matt guy your fiancé?”

“No,” I said, quickly looking up at the ceiling. I should probably apologize for that, but I found that I couldn’t. “Now that that’s cleared up, I’ll let you get back to working hard to forget me.”

My finger hovered to end the call when he spoke. “I need to see you tonight.”

“No,” I asserted.

“We both handled last night badly,” he retorted. Several rapid thumping sounds came through the line. I imagined him sexily dripping with sweat as he circled a punching bag.

“True, but seeing you will only lead to sex, and you don’t hold me in high regard in that area.”

The word “sex” combined with his rough breathing were doing a number on my underwear.

“It’s none of my business what you do,” he said.

I laughed, flattening myself to the wall, and covered my head with my forearm. “You already passed judgment on me. I’m surprised I’m not in your cast out pile.”

“Me too.”

My mouth opened, and then I paused before flatly stating, “Goodnight, Kalen,” in response to his thoughtless comment.

“Wait,” he said, and I paused, though I should have just hung up. “Let me take you out to dinner?”

Shaking my head, even though he couldn’t see, I said, “No.” And I ended the call. Not wanting to be tempted by answering if he called back, I put my phone on silent, not vibrate.

I went back to the conference room, grabbed my things, and headed home. After a hot shower, I sat on the sofa, prepared to find a movie that wasn’t romance-based to pass the time until Lizzy got home.

A banging noise startled me awake. Flustered that I hadn’t realized I’d fallen sleep, I fluttered my eyes open. As I tried to figure out if the noise was real or a remnant of my dream, another knock came and truly woke me up.

I went to the door and peered through the peephole. There he was, all six-feet-three, maybe four, of solid Scottish man. From what I could see, he wore jeans and a sweater that clung to his muscled chest. He looked around like he expected to see something or someone else.

And that just pissed me off. Frowning, I swung the door open and said, “Why are you here?”

Twenty-One

He wasn’t at all intimidated by the glare I’d thrown his way. Promptly, he stepped in and closed the door, forcing me to take several steps back. His stalking forced a hitch in my breath as my pulse raced. My body immediately came alive.

“You don’t want me,” I weakly protested. It was one thing to make a stand over the phone. It was another to try that in the flesh.

He stepped closer to me and took my hand, pressing it against his solid erection. My mouth went wide, partly in protest and partly in desire.

“My cock says otherwise,” he answered, responding to my you don’t want me statement.

Feeling the moisture grow between my legs, I snatched my hand away and managed to say, “I can’t do this. I’m not the kind of woman that does casual relationships.”

“I’m not the kind of man that thinks about a woman twice after I’ve had her,” he said.

“That proves my point. This isn’t going to work.”

“Yet, I’ve had a hard-on since I heard your voice today and it’s not going away. I have the worst fucking case of blue balls. I can’t think except about being deep inside you.”

“And that’s supposed to be romantic?” I asked, looking up at him.

“I can’t help that I’m sexually attracted to you any more than you can help wanting me.”

I wished he was exaggerating.

“That doesn’t solve anything,” I said, folding my arms, afraid I might reach out and touch him.

“We can come to a compromise,” he began. “Neither of us wants a relationship.”

“Agreed,” I said stubbornly, though it was the truth.