The Hunt - Monica James Page 8

  I’m sitting at my desk, wondering where a damn pen is because I can’t even remember the last time I saw the surface. Come to think of it, I can’t even remember what color it is. My office is not anal retentive like Dixon’s because I like a little disorder.

  It has all the essentials— a bathroom, a computer, and a bottle of whiskey. It’s all I need.

  My thoughts drift back to Mary and how I happily offered up my home and office for her to redecorate without a second thought. I usually don’t like anyone in my space and avoid taking women back to my apartment like the plague. But with Mary, I wanted her here.

  The thought of her making my things hers has me rubbing my chest, as I’m hit with a bout of indigestion. This woman is hazardous to my health.

  My cell chiming is a welcomed distraction. Tossing handfuls of paperwork over my shoulder, I find it buried beneath last Tuesday’s New York Times.

  You better be dropping the chameleon home. Dixon really isn’t one for small talk when it comes to Keira. I refuse to entertain the notion that she is anything like the she-devil.

  I was thinking of taking her out for hot cocoa first, I reply, unable to help myself.

  Home.

  Jesus H. Christ. I can hear his panties twisting in a knot from here.

  Okay, Dad. Wanna tuck me in, too?

  Leaning back in my seat, I await his reply, because this can go all night. Stop fucking around. And I mean that LITERALLY.

  A gruff laugh escapes me. You’re so sexy when you get all riled up.

  I get the middle finger icon in response.

  Dixon has nothing to worry about. I have no intention of fucking around with Keira. She’s a nice girl, but I can’t shake Mary’s heightened response from my brain. Her rose-kissed cheeks, the flutter of her pulse, the hypnotic sway of her rising chest as she tried to keep her cool assaults my senses—I have no idea how I’m supposed to rid this woman from my system. Images of Crocodile Dundee showing her his ‘shrimp on the barbie’ has me snapping a pencil in half.

  I don’t have a choice because regardless of what I want, she’s made her feelings perfectly clear time and time again. I don’t know what tonight was, but there’s no point crying over spilled milk. I sigh at the analogy because there’s just too many innuendos which will make me feel worse.

  “Sorry that took so long.”

  Keira’s sweet voice has me quickly turning my phone off, afraid Dixon will be able to smell her in my office otherwise. When I glance upward, I’m surprised to see two crystal tumblers with an amber liquid inside.

  Raising both glasses, she smirks. “Macallan 55.” She knows good whiskey. The thought of drinking Gail’s $12,500 bottle of scotch is too good to pass up, so I welcome her into my office.

  She saunters in, placing the tumbler onto my mountain of paperwork. The smooth liquor mixes with her unique fragrance, a surprisingly delectable flavor. “I think I’m done,” she says, flopping into the leather seat opposite me. “He wanted notes on Redleaf Holdings.”

  Reaching for my scotch, I scoff, unimpressed. “China’s biggest real estate firm wants nothing to do with that asshole. I know that for a fact.”

  Gail has had a hard on for this company for months. He’s of the belief that they’re his meal ticket and he’s gonna close a deal with them at any moment. Too bad, nimrod, ’cause little does he know, they only play with the big boys like me.

  Keira crosses her supple legs, leaning back as she sips her drink. “He’s pretty certain he’s in. These notes are his pitch to Mr. Yeong, who he’s having a phone conference with next week.”

  “He can pitch all he wants, he has no chance.” I take a winner’s sip from my scotch, the burn even more victorious now.

  “Why not?” she asks, her bouncing high heel a hypnotizing pendulum.

  Why not is the fact I know something no one else knows. Mr. Yeong is a massive Yankees fan, go figure. We made a deal over pork dumplings and a bottle of Baijiu the last time he was in town. If I could deliver him Babe Ruth’s 1923 World Series Pocket Watch, then he would sell me his soul.

  This was as good as a done deal, or so I thought. At the time, I didn’t know this was ranked as one of the top ten most expensive pieces of Yankees memorabilia. It sold at auction for a measly 700,000 big ones, and although he doesn’t expect me to buy it, he does expect me to find and bribe the owner, so they’ll deliver me the goods.

  I’ve searched high and low, but this anonymous buyer sure as shit likes to remain incognito. But giving up is for pussies. Dixon is on the case, and so is my P.I. This is in the bag, but until then, no one can find out about it.

  Kiera is waiting for an answer, but I won’t let a pretty face get the better of me. Tapping my pointer against the crystal and peering at her over the rim, I smirk. “I’d tell you…but then I’d have to kill you.”

  She purses her lips, drawing attention to the fact she’s applied a fresh coat of lipstick. The color is red. The air suddenly changes and a palpable hum whips around me. Oh, brother.

  “Are you sure you don’t need an assistant?” Just as I’m about to tell her I work alone, she purrs something out of left field. “I’m sure you could teach me a thing…or two.”

  I take a moment to process what she just said because I’m sure sweet, innocent Keira did not mean that in a sexual manner. It’s just my sex-starved mind up to no good again after my encounter with Shortcake.

  “Me and people”—I make a pained face, bringing both pointers together—“we don’t usually go well together.” Which is true. I made my last assistant cry because for her birthday, I took her out to my most favorite restaurant in Manhattan—Pablo’s Steakhouse. At the time, I thought I was winning at this whole boss business, but when she broke down and chanted ‘meat is murder’ at the top of her lungs because I failed to remember that she was a vegan, I knew I was better off a lone wolf.

  My bad, considering she worked for me for eight months. That solved the question to why my lunches tasted like birdseed.

  For the next month, I received such considerate gifts in the mail— brains, innards, even a suit…made of meat. For someone who claimed to be a vegan, she sure as shit knew her cuts of meat.

  So, I learned my lesson because people…are crazy.

  Keira sips her drink, leaving a fire engine red lipstick stain on her glass. I know this because she slinks forward, placing the tumbler on the edge of my desk.

  Pinning me with the eyes of the devil, she smirks. “I’m good at taking orders.”

  Okay, back up. What in the holy hell does that mean?

  I scold my cock, which is bathing in a vat of Artisan, my go-to fragrance because this cologne is known by another name, and that name is sure fuck.

  Down boy.

  No, this can’t be right. I’m reading into this, way into this because when she rises slowly and rounds my desk, there is no way her nipples are so hard that they are bursting against her dress and could cut through glass. It’s an optical illusion and I’m clearly seeing things.

  And there is no doubt I’m hallucinating when she comes to rest by my seat, clutching the high back and spinning me forcefully around to face her. But the fact she almost gave me whiplash confirms that this isn’t a hallucination. This is really happening, and she is really reaching behind her neck to unfasten the button and…oh, dios mίo!

  I blink. Then I blink again, hoping that maybe this is it, I’ve really lost it this time. But when I scrub at my eyeballs and the image of Keira standing before me, very topless, is clearer than the massive boner I’m sporting, I know things are about to turn nasty.

  She confirms my suspicions when she begins touching herself, fondling those perky, more than a handful breasts. She tugs at her pink nipples, circling her areola while I almost pass out from lack of O2. What is happening? Have I skipped a chapter?

  Biting her lip, she lets out a low sated moan while I will myself to look away, but god damn, the force is strong with this one. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, a Jedi Master
, and will not give in to temptation…says no one ever.

  This is wrong and I need to stop this before it gets out of hand…oh, sweet Jesus, her hand is now working its way to her mouth as her lips part like the Red Sea and she sucks on her finger. Make that two. It’s like a disappearing act. Now you see it, now it’s gone…down her throat as she sucks on them like a popsicle made of crack.

  I’m pretty certain I resemble a deer in the headlights because I can’t stop looking a Keira’s headlights.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” I stupidly ask just in case Keira’s heritage is Norwegian and this is how they say hello.

  She removes her wet fingers from her mouth with a pop. “What does it look like I’m doing?” She returns to rubbing over her tits in a circular motion, eyeing me as I eye fuck the hell out of her. Her rosy nipples pucker further from the wetness slathered on her fingertips.

  “Checking for loose change?” I offer, completely under her spell.

  Her lips curve into a sultry smile before she places her monster pumps between my splayed legs. I should be downright ashamed. I could poke out her eye with what’s currently protruding from my pants, but my pride checked out about two minutes ago.

  “I’ve dreamt of this…” she reveals, inching the tip of her stiletto closer to my groin. I shrink away, but it’s useless. Where am I going to go? She’s a woman on a mission and she makes her mission clear when she makes contact with my hard on.

  It’s like a slap to my balls and I jump up, almost knocking her to the floor. “Keira, stop this, you’re drunk.” Lame as lame comes, considering she was drinking water all night, but I need her to see reason.

  When she lunges for me, I use the chair as a barricade, my only saving grace from going back on an oath which is slowly looking like a dog’s breakfast. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest however. If anything, her eyes ignite in challenge.

  “I’ve dreamt of you bending me over this desk and eating me out…with a spoon.”

  Spoiler alert! Here lies Hunter O’Shea. He lived a simple life. He died of complications…like underestimating a blue-eyed devil with a wicked tongue.

  The leather creaks beneath my fingers as I clutch the top of the seat, holding on for dear life before I’m tempted to hold onto something else. I need to propel this chair forward and knock her out cold. I need to run from this room and scream for Tom Cruise to save me.

  “Keira, I’m…” Ready when you are? But go with, “Flattered that you’d want to…dine with me, but this can’t happen. Office romances can get messy. We’d have to see one another every day, and well, I’d never be able to look at my desk or a spoon the same way.”

  “Who said I want romance?”

  My jaw drops because…I can’t even single it down to one reason. I’m being awfully presumptuous. Women can live it up just as much as us men do, and if Keira wants to do, then do she will.

  “Don’t look so surprised.” Her voice drops an octave. “You’re not the only one with a dirty mouth.”

  This is too much. It’s what every perverted man’s dreams are made of, but Dixon’s words of warning decide to reproach me— a complete mood killer. “It’s not a what, but rather a who.”

  But looking at Keira with her tits on full display, ready for the picking, I refuse to believe that he’s right. Why can’t this hot, sweet—scrap that—sexy woman want me, no strings attached?

  I know this is wrong, and I know I better stock up on sunblock ’cause I’m riding the bus straight to hell, but I suddenly don’t care. We’re both consenting adults. Actually, I better make sure.

  “How old are you?” I manage to push out between clenched teeth.

  “Twenty-one,” she replies, her peppy tits bouncing in corroboration. “Stop overthinking it. I want you.” She lasers in on my wood. “You clearly want me. What’s the problem? Is it the redhead?”

  And this is the time my good sense should tap me on the shoulder and call it a night. It was fun while it lasted, but now it’s time to be the grown up before Kiera does something she’s sure to regret.

  But the mere mention of Mary and her rejection, and her plus one who gargles balls for brunch has my inner caveman punching me in the solar plexus and scolding me for turning into Finch. Mary doesn’t want me, but Keira does. Even though she’s not who I want, she’s not a poor substitute either.

  She said she doesn’t want romance and this is what I do best—sex without strings. Dixon, your words of wisdom can board the Disney Cruise Line and sail the fuck away.

  “What do you want?” I ask, ensuring we’re on the same page.

  “Whatever you want to give,” she hoarsely replies. The top half of her dress is bunched up around her waist, so her pussy is out of sight, which is probably a good thing.

  Her tits are fucking glorious, and all I want to do is bury my face between them and go to town. Keira reads my train of thought because she sidesteps the chair, walking toward me as she would a rabid dog. “You want to touch them?” she poses, cupping both and squeezing lightly. I grunt in response. “You want to fuck them? Put that big cock between them and come all over me?”

  I’m getting too old for this shit, because her clichéd dirty talk does nothing for me. “Sweetheart…” I finally release the chair and push it off to the side. Nothing separates us and she’s in so much fucking trouble. “That’s for amateurs. All the little boys you’ve been with wouldn’t know their dick from the end of their nose. This is your final warning to back out now, because once we start, there’s no getting off this ride.”

  Her chest rises and falls. “Show me what you got.”

  Challenge accepted.

  Closing the distance between us, I stop when she’s almost pressed to my chest. I know what she’s expecting. She thinks I’m going to swoop in and kiss her like some hero out of a Mills and Boon novel. But it’s been well established that I don’t kiss, nor am I a hero.

  As expected, even with her heels, she doesn’t reach my lips, so she stands on tippy toes to invade my personal space. My hand shoots out, a knee jerk reaction, and I fist the back of her hair. She gasps, my forcefulness catching her off guard. “I don’t kiss on the lips,” I very matter-of-factly state.

  Her hair feels like silk beneath my fingers and I have the urge to tug on it harder because I know she can handle it. When I do, she groans and arches her neck backward, the slender, creamy column all mine to devour.

  Unable to help myself, I lower my chin and run my nose along the length of her neckline. She smells sweet, but my appetite raises a limp shoulder because it craves strawberries and cream. Frustrated with my constant need to compare everything to her, I dive forward and bite over her galloping pulse. I’m not gentle, but I warned her, and besides, we’re way past formalities.

  With my hand still threaded through her tresses, I suckle at her flesh, determined to lose myself just this once. Her moans express her enjoyment, but my dick, even though interested, knows this will be a repeat of the past few performances with no encore to follow.

  Her nipples are pert, pointing up toward the heavens, surrendering to a night of empty promises. She cups one breast, while with the other hand, she works her way under her short hemline. Even though she’s wearing stockings, it’s fairly obvious that makes no difference as she commences to get herself off.

  Such an impatient little thing. This should be fun.

  When I tongue my way upward and kiss over the sensitive spot just behind the ear, she screams. Works every time. “Do you kiss on the lips…?”

  “I told you, I don’t kiss on…”

  But she cuts me off. “Not those lips.”

  I’m beginning to like Keira’s dirty mouth all the more. “I don’t kiss…I fucking own and devour.” She writhes in my grip, her breathing mounting until she’s a hot, heaving mess.

  Finally giving in to her not so subtle demands, I fondle her breast, flicking my pointer against her nipple. Her skin breaks out into goose bumps and her red lips part in ecstasy. “
Be gentle with me, Hunter…I’m a virgin.” I slam on the brakes, needing a minute, or maybe two, to process what she just shared.

  Yes, she is sweet, innocent, and virginal, but I didn’t think she was an actual virgin.

  Slap me in a fat suit and call me Saint Nick because all my Christmases have just come at once. The way she was talking, I would not have guessed that, but I suppose tonight has been a night of the unexpected. As much as I’d love to be the first man to plant my flag on her moon, I wouldn’t do that to her. She deserves a nice guy and that guy ain’t me.

  Releasing my hold in her hair, she hums in relief, but quickly goes to work on my belt buckle. I still her fumbling fingers. “How about you learn how to walk before you run.”

  “How about you let nature take its course and fuck me,” she counters, slapping my hand away so she can finish the job. Her vulgarity strokes my inner barbarian, but I suddenly don’t want to fuck ’cause the thought of punching in her V-card at work kind of ruins the mood.

  My dick is furious at me, demanding to be emancipated, and to find someone worthy of his time.

  “Keira…” I tsk, gripping her chin between my thumb and pointer. “I plan to fuck you…just not with my cock.” It’s the perfect derailment. Win-win.

  A gasp leaves her before I grip her bicep, spin her around, and push her onto my desk, tits first. I’ve caught her off guard, so when I yank up the hem of her dress and palm her firm ass, I know she’s seconds away from melting into a puddle of the good stuff.

  As I rip off her stockings, the same fate destined for her thong, I wonder if maybe it’ll be different this time. I suppose I won’t know if I don’t try.

  Rubbing my hard on over her ass, I lean forward and whisper, “So…you got that spoon?”

  Who Doesn’t Like Schnauzers?

  The next morning I wake, primed on burning down my apartment and the ringing cell which sits on my bedside dresser.