She moaned and slid her hand up to my shoulder, then curled her fingers around my neck as she arched back, thrusting her perfect breasts toward my greedy mouth. I bent and grazed my teeth over her nipple, and she screamed in surprise. “We both know how to use our teeth, Sofia.” I grinned up at her, then took her breast in my mouth, sucking and flicking one nipple and then the other.
My climax growled awake and I stilled for a second. I was ready to fuck her as hard and as deep as I’d ever been. I shifted us so she was over the counter and then braced my hands either side of her hips. “Are you ready?”
“For anything.”
I nodded and thrust into her. Over and over, trying to ignore the sway of her breasts as our bodies slammed together mercilessly. I held onto her hips, making sure I could go as deep as possible, to that part of her that she kept hidden, that I wanted to fuck into the light. Again and again and again, until I saw that look of wonder in her eyes, until I felt that stillness in my body, until I could allow myself to let go that final time, thrusting every ounce of me into her.
Twenty-One
Andrew
I’d thought about nothing all weekend other than the feel of Sofia’s pussy when she came and whether or not she could pull off the acquisition of Verity, Inc.
Would it work?
Could I trust her?
Would Goode be taken in by her?
The questions went around and around in my head like a carousel, but still I didn’t have an answer. It seemed ludicrous that I’d send in Sofia, who I’d barely known a month, to negotiate the most important deal of my career—no, my life. From what I’d seen of her, she was capable, clever, and confident. But that didn’t mean she could negotiate against Bob Goode. And it very definitely meant that I shouldn’t be sleeping with her.
For years I’d been fastidious in separating my work and social lives. At the moment, my relationship with Sofia out of the office existed in some weird no-man’s-land between the office and home; as much as I knew I should keep things professional, there was something about her that made me want to show up at Noble Rot and be James for as long as she’d have me.
My mobile buzzed on my desk and I glanced at the screen. Unknown number. I wouldn’t normally pick up, but I needed a distraction.
“Andrew Blake.”
“Hi, Andrew, my name’s Aryia Chowdhury and I’m writing a book.” I was just about to cut her off and when she added, “About your grandmother. I should correct myself. I’m writing a book about women of the last century who tried to shape their respective industries, and I’m planning on including your grandmother’s founding of Verity, Inc., as well as your mother’s stewardship.”
My hand gripped the phone so hard, it was a wonder the screen didn’t splinter.
“I was hoping I could set up a meeting to talk about it with you.”
“What was your name again?” I wanted to get a complete background check on whoever was writing about my grandmother.
She repeated her name and then offered more information. “I’m a freelance writer. I’ve written for most of the broadsheets but most often contribute to The Guardian. Verity, Inc. fascinates me because of its drastic transformation since it was founded.”
My stomach began to curdle. I didn’t need to hear this from a perfect stranger. And I certainly didn’t want a perfect stranger telling thousands of other perfect strangers how something so great had turned into the laughable publication Verity was today.
“Do you follow the fortunes of Verity and Goode publishing now? Do you feel any familial connection to the publication?” she asked.
“Is this an interview?” I snapped. I had no interest in being interviewed on the hoof. I needed more information about what this Aryia Chowdhury was doing, and what she intended to say about my family.
“Sorry, no, I got carried away. Could we arrange a time to speak? Perhaps I could take you out to lunch or come to your office or—”
“You’ll need to speak to my assistant. How did you get this number anyway? Never mind.” I didn’t know why I was asking. Everything was for sale. “Call my office and they’ll set something up.”
“I look forward to it,” she said, just before I hung up.
This was the last thing I needed. My grandmother hadn’t been dead a year, and now this writer was poking around, ready to tell the world how her work had been wasted because of all that Verity had become. It was bad enough that I knew how my grandmother, mother, and Verity’s important, groundbreaking work had been pushed out to make room for page upon page of celebrity non-stories. Now whoever read this book was going to think my grandmother’s life had been wasted.