VANESSA
Simon Pierce is flirting with me.
Fourteen years of sexual tension underlined and bolded.
I know the taste of his lips.
The feel of his hands on my skin.
The sound he makes when he comes.
But my curiosity isn't sated. My desire isn't filled.
I want him more. Here. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow.
Again and again.
It's a bad idea. I want him too badly. I hate him too much.
No, it's not hate. It's something else. A frustration. With his above-it-all attitude. The silver spoon in his mouth. The way he runs his company, his life, his family.
The man pursues profits. I can't fault him for existing within the system of capitalism. I ask men like him for money every day.
But is he driven by anything other than cold, hard cash?
Does he want to make the world a better place?
Does he give a fuck about anything except his bottom line?
Two weeks ago, I was sure I had the answer. I was sure Simon Pierce was a stuck-up suit. Successful, yes. Handsome, hell yes. Skilled, absolutely.
And heartless.
But he's not.
He's not cold.
Or arrogant.
He's loving. Sweet even.
I was right about one thing: Simon is a control freak. Maybe worse than I am.
I took off my dress.
I stayed.
He kept his suit on. He left the second he cleaned up. He kept his heart far, far away.
But it was there. The glimpses of the hurt boy under the steely exterior.
I want to see more. To peel back his defenses. Know where he hurts.
That's dangerous.
Way too dangerous.
Wanting him is one thing. Hating him is another.
This desire to know him?
That's the first step on the path to affection, love, heartbreak.
Or worse.
I suck a breath through my nose. Smooth my spandex shorts. Adjust my seat belt.
This is a normal town car. I'm on the passenger side. He's on the driver's side. There's a middle seat between us.
Two feet. Maybe three or four.
But it feels like two inches.
He's close. I can smell his soap. His shampoo.
I have to press my palms into my thighs, so I don't touch him.
I need to touch him.
I absolutely, positively can't touch him.
One night.
One time.
That's all.
My body whines in protest. Why not him? Why not another time? Tonight.
It's just sex.
I can handle just sex.
If he can handle just sex, I can handle just sex.
He's not besting me here too.
But that's my pride. It's not true.
Maybe Simon can handle just sex. Maybe he has arrangements with a dozen women across the city.
It doesn't matter.
We're different people.
He's a man.
A tall, muscular, powerful man.
Simon has no reason to fear his sexual partners. Or his lovers.
He didn't grow up watching his father beat his brother.
He might be afraid of love or intimacy or connection, but he's not afraid of falling in love with a monster.
Is he afraid of something else? An inability to trust or connect or let go?
He's a control freak too. As bad as I am.
But he was gentle with me.
He gave me what I wanted.
Maybe the stereotypes aren't true.
Maybe the rumors are wrong. Though there are enough, one must be true. I hear a lot of "Simon is as much of a control freak in the bedroom as he is in the boardroom."
And I hear tales of interns asking to tie him up. A secret taste for older women. A vow of celibacy.
Anything and everything.
The last I heard, he ended things with a fuck buddy who called him a heartless bastard but praised his massive, ahem, ego.
She also said—
Well, we're already talking about sex. What's another drop in the ocean?
"The car is fast." I smooth my seat belt again. "Private."
He looks to the driver, a professional in a suit and cap. A rarity in the world of Lyft and Uber.
"Compared to the subway."
"Is that an offer?"
"No. Still too public," I say.
"Is it?"
The driver's eyes flit to the mirror. He looks back to us, but he doesn't say anything.
So he is listening.
Watching.
What does he think is happening here?
What the hell is happening here?
"You like mirrors," he says.
I do.
"The balcony?"
"I did."
I smooth my shorts. Suck a breath through my nose. Try to ignore the smell of his soap. Lemon and sandalwood. Why does it smell so fucking good? "Did you?"
"Yes."
Yes, let's do it again. Go straight to the hotel bar. Fuck right on the balcony. Here, now. I'm already sweaty and spent. Why not? "Have you done that before?"
"No."
"That's not what I've heard."
"What have you heard?"
"About you, specifically?"
"Unless you have more stereotypes about executives."
"I guess I should know them," I say. "Since I am one."
"What would you guess?"
"We work too hard. Spend all day in control. Don't know how to relax or let go."
He nods. "Which means?"
"We're all freaks."
He laughs, actually laughs. "Probably."
"That's what I hear about you. The romance novel story."
"The romance novel story?"
"The stuck-up billionaire who likes to take off his tie and wrap it around an ingenue's wrist."
"An ingenue?"
"A sweet young woman."
"A virgin too?"