That’s irrelevant, Savannah. Focus. You’re here for a job, not a boyfriend.

At the end of the hall, I pause in the open doorway, my heart pounding so loud the sound reverberates in my ears. Here I am. Make or break. About to meet the man who can crush my dreams or make them all come true.

Drawing in a breath for composure, I turn slowly to take in the masculinely stylish room. Gray walls frame the dark-paneled cove ceiling. From that, a chandelier that’s just a bit too minimal to be called elegant hangs. Four framed pieces of art form a cluster between the two windows overlooking the park across the street, flanked by gray Dupioni drapes. There’s a stately marble fireplace and a cozy chair beside it. A thick Persian rug that’s undoubtedly an antique leads up to a plush sofa in a soft taupe shade, draped with a cashmere throw. Behind that is a massive four-poster bed with a curved burlap headboard. A giant map of the world hangs above the bed, framed by the same dark wood that dominates the ceiling.

And sitting up in the bed is Chad Force, wide shoulders encased in crisp navy-blue pajamas. He’s combed his black hair ruthlessly into place. His fresh morning shave has given way to a five o’clock shadow despite the fact it’s not even two p.m. His infamously sharp eyes, a shade somewhere between gray and green, glare at me.

Our eyes meet. Suddenly, I feel dizzy and weak. I expected him to be gorgeous. I didn’t expect to feel an instant urge to peel off my clothes and beg him to touch me.

“Hi.” It’s the stupidest thing I could utter and the only word I can seem to find in my vocabulary while I feel his stare all over me. I don’t sound at all like the valedictorian of my high school, like I received a full academic scholarship to Notre Dame, or like I graduated summa cum laude in four years—all while waiting tables. “It’s, um…nice to meet you.”

Chad

The girl lingers in the doorway, scanning my bedroom as if she’s never seen anything so opulent in her life. The moment she breezed inside, the fresh air blew in with her.

I sit up and peer closer.

She’s painfully young and even more painfully earnest. But that’s where everything I expected ends.

She’s tamed her dark hair into professional curls that twist past her shoulders, framing a surprisingly girlish face. Her flawless pale skin possesses a hint of brown that has nothing to do with the sun. Her sculpted brows arch elegantly above intelligent, black-lined eyes the color of a tropical sea. But her full red lips shout fuck me without uttering a word. She’s dressed in a severe businesslike dress that clings to her small frame and mouthwatering breasts. The baggy, threadbare sweater she’s wearing over it tries to conceal her small waist and lush hips…and fails miserably. Her purse and shoes should have been in the waste bin long ago. She’s in desperate need of a manicure, and her jewelry is a disgrace.

But when I look at Savannah Blythe, my cock instantly thickens and rises for her.

I ignore it because, from a glance, I know her story. She’s an underprivileged—and I suspect mixed-race—kid who scraped through her poor childhood. She was forced to grow up too fast because her family needed her help to make ends meet. She exceled at school because it was something she could control, recognized it was her ticket out of poverty, and she refused to worry her loved ones about her future. She wears a façade of toughness because she learned to navigate mean streets growing up, and she has good instincts about people, but she lacks real experience. She’ll say or do anything to get ahead—until I hit whatever her ethics hot button is. By the hint of good-girl clinging to her, I know she has one, just like I can tell I make her nervous.

“Ms. Blythe.” I nod.

I’ve already read her résumé, of course. She excels at everything she touches. The letters of reference from professors and an old boss at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant back in Indiana all call her clever, hardworking, and tireless. Blah, blah, blah. They’re the same adjectives I’ve heard to describe someone who’s a cut above average for decades. I selected her CV from the stack of others because I heard two attributes I value far more than the usual platitudes.

Moldable and loyal.

Perfect…if that’s true.

“Are you going to stand there or talk to me about the cat?”

She squares her shoulders, trying to look tall and proud, then tiptoes into the room. If she passes muster today, I’ll correct the mixed messages of her body language. For now, I let it slide. She sets her purse on the sofa at the end of my bed.

Tags: Shayla Black Forbidden Confessions Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net