Dirty in Charge Read online

  “Can we ta—“ I start, but have to stop when she puts a quick finger to her lips and then points at the tablet.

  She presses a hand to the receiver in her ear and talks to whoever’s on the line. “Chris, I’ll try to get over there in a little bit, but the kitchen crew is having a mini-meltdown and I need to get a hold of the sommelier for tomorrow. Can you hold on?”

  Whoever’s on the line seems to agree, because Emma takes the ear bud out and then looks at me.

  “Hi, can I help you with something?” she asks. Her tone is friendly, light. Not the low, sexy thing she was doing before.

  “I know you’re working, but can we go talk somewhere for a minute?”

  She holds a hand up, her eyes closing. “I am so sorry about what I said to you, Mr. Blake.”

  “James.”

  “Ok, James. I had no idea who you were, and even so, I was completely and totally out of line. I don’t blame you at all if you’d like to have a word with my boss. It was unacceptable.”

  “I think I can handle it. You don’t get a lot of chances to hear someone be completely candid with you. I can appreciate your opinion. Can we still go somewhere?”

  Her eyes hold mine for a second, as though checking to see if I’m sincere. But then she looks over her shoulder, past me, at her tablet—everywhere else. I can practically see the wheels turning as she tries to think of a way out. I simply wait and study her face. I start to notice small things I missed before. The slight dimple in her left cheek, a small beauty mark on her chin. Little things that make her even more special.

  Finally, she gives up. “Yes, of course. Let’s just go—“

  With a lunge, she takes my hand in hers and starts pulling me down the hall. I wasn’t expecting that. I have to fight the urge to run the flat of my thumb along her hand when her silky soft skin is in my palm again.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

  She looks back at me. “It’s my job to know.”

  She leads me down a series of hallways, away from the great room where the dancing is in full swing, and to a private billiard room in the back of the house. There’s a massive claw foot pool table in the center. This is coincidentally one of my favorite rooms in the house, and also, I can’t help but think, it’s one of the most remote spots downstairs.

  Once we’re inside, she peeks back in the hallway to check if we were followed.

  Satisfied, she turns back to me.

  “Ok, what would you like to talk about?”

  That direct, straightforward, no bullshit thing is back, only right now she’s all business. I don’t like it.

  “Before you knew who I was, I thought I had a pretty good shot at getting your number.”

  Her smile is all teeth. “You have my number. I work for you. You can call the Renaissance Events number anytime.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out fast. “Yes, I do,” she admits. She looks me in the eye when she says, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea anymore.”

  “I see. And the reason?”

  She sighs again. “Aside from the fact that you’re my boss this week? You’re a client. If anybody I work with sees us together, and word gets out that I was flirting with the client, I could lose my job.”

  “All fair points, I grant you.” I fold my arms and transition into business mode. “But…what about after?”

  “After what?”

  “After this week.”

  “This—what?”

  “This week. You’re right. You work for me. Super awkward, potentially. Bad for both of us. So we wait a week. There’s a party. People get hitched. And right before you and your crew pack up and drive away, I get your number. How about that?”

  I watch her blink a few times as she processes that. Later, I should probably tell Emma that she should never, ever play poker. Even when she goes blank, all her emotions and feelings are on her face all the time.

  “Ok,” she says after a while. “After.” Is that a hint of disappointment I hear?

  “After,” I repeat, confirming.

  “After,” she says, smiling.

  “Ok,” I say. And I lean back against the pool table, my arms still folded.

  All I have to do is wait.

  Emma turns to move away and out of the room, our deal sealed. And then she stops, realizing what’s just happened.

  “Son of a bitch…” she says. And launches herself at me.

  Emma is free to walk out of this room now. Focus on her job, focus on all the right things for the next five days. But a good lesson for any negotiation is once you decide you’re going to do a thing, waiting out the inevitable becomes its own torture. Tell someone you’re going to let them do something—like walk away and wait—and it becomes the last thing they even think about.

  The first kiss is all hunger and speed, lips and teeth and her tongue tangling with mine.

  It could have been just a hot, passionate kiss—heady promise of what’s to come. A cutesy make-out session to draw out what we both want. No, the second we touch, something hot and charged goes off between us.

  Match, meet kerosene. Her hands go right for my hair, locking my mouth to hers, and my hands close on her ass, locking the rest of her in fast. Her body, head to toe, is everything I fantasized about this afternoon. The cheeks of her ass full and lush in my palms, her breasts pressed taut to my chest. In no time, I have one of her legs up and curled around my hips, the whole body grind doing us both in.

  I pick her up in my arms and turn her so she’s perched at the edge of the pool table. I push between her thighs just because I can, and look down to watch her skirt ride up those perfect honey thighs. Her panties are a royal blue lace, and from this vantage, I can also see down her shirt to a pink push up bra.

  “Are we going to do this, too, do you think? After?” I can’t help teasing her a little. I drag my tongue to her neck and suck the soft, sensitive spot there. I know baby girl likes it when I feel her thighs tighten around my hips.

  Emma moans and tries to pull my mouth back to hers. “After. Sure. This too.” We kiss another minute before I drag my mouth away and back to her neck. Lower. I want to fill my mouth with the taste of her skin and that vanilla sweetness.

  “But what about this?” I ask against the top of her breasts. I push the cups of her bra up so the mounds are just under my lips, and I bury my face there. She squeals as though it tickles, but her body surges harder against mine, not away.

  “Yep,” she pants, pushing her tits to my mouth, her hips starting to rock back and forth. “Let’s, ah, definitely…put a pin in this one and come back to it.”

  “After?” I ask, and grin and pretend I’m moving away.

  She growls low in her throat and yanks me back hard. “Shut up.”

  She pulls harder now, demanding, grabbing up fistfuls of my shirt for leverage as she presses closer. She bows up against me one more time, and the erection I’ve been sporting since she took my hand in the hallway triggers that place between pain and pleasure. I take her right hand in mine and press it to my fly to relieve some of that pressure, rubbing my cock against her palm. The moment she feels it, she takes over, cupping my balls through my jeans before rolling right back up to my cock and feeling the outline against the denim.

  If I hadn’t already come thinking about her today, I would be damn close to embarrassing myself right now. But good as this feels, I’ve got a little more in mind.

  I take both her hands in mine and hold them together, kissing the tips of her fingers to calm her down. When I feel the breath and motion start to calm, I trace my tongue along her fingertips, sucking the tips into my mouth, and turning her palm over to run my tongue across her wrists. She inches closer to kiss me again, but when she tries to use her hands, I don’t release them.

  Transferring both her hands into each of mine, I press them behind her back so she’s forced back and propping herself up on the felt. She’s open
and panting for me now, her tits straining against her shirt where I pushed them up, her thighs wide apart. Her head falls back as I start to run my hands down her ribs and over her hips and thighs. She’s gorgeous leaning back like that, her long, milky neck exposed, her body arching with every stroke of my hand.

  As my hand skims her thighs, I feel a tremor go through the muscles. For a moment she’s completely open to me like this—I can see the tendons, taut in her inner thighs, leading up to her pussy. Before I can slide down to bite one, she shudders and tries to close her legs briefly.

  All I have to do is press my face to the seam of her closed legs, coaxing them open with my face and tongue. I place small, wet kisses further and further up her naked thighs as I burrow closer. I can smell her sweet salty arousal waiting for me, and as much as I want to be gentle, nothing is keeping me from tasting her.

  Not “after.” Now.

  I split her thighs the rest of the way open and pull her panties to the side. Her pussy lips are swollen and soaking wet as I run the tip of my tongue along her pink slit, going deeper with every pass. The mewling sound she makes when the tip of my tongue slips between her folds is like music.

  We both know what’s about to happen, but she makes a show at stopping me, just one more time.

  “We could wait for this, you know. After.” The joke is fleeting. “I have a job to do. You have to get back to your party.”

  I throw her left leg over my shoulder, my eyes fixed on her face. She’s leaning back on the table, watching too. Every move. Her mouth is open and her eyes are hungry watching me as I tease her pussy with my tongue, my fingertips, working the very edge of her clit.

  “Are you saying I should stop? Wait?”

  Without warning, I dip my tongue down and slide it right over her clit, once, twice. Her eyes flutter closed with each stroke, but then they’re open and watching again, the look on her face growing more intense each time.

  “Well?”

  She whimpers and shakes her head. Her eyes are dark. “The party?” she offers lamely, not even trying anymore.

  “It’s my party and I’ll do what I want. I want to make you come.”

  She nods and bites her lip. I feel her thighs tense in anticipation. Her eyes narrow, never leaving my face. Ready and waiting.

  “Decide, baby. Tell me what you want. Now or after? Tell me.”

  I dip my tongue in again and swipe in a firm circle this time, fascinated when her eyes flutter closed and her body bucks. Her right hand shoots out from behind her to grip my hair. I pull back, out of reach, until her hand falls away again.

  “Open wider, baby. That it’s…show me.” Her legs fall open, and I twist her panties even further to the side. “Good. Now tell me what you want.”

  I dip my tongue to her again, and flatten it, dragging it slowly across her clit. I can feel the pulses beginning for her. It won’t be long.

  “I w-want your mouth on me. Please…don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  I lower my mouth the moment the words are out of hers, loving the sound of her begging. I tease one more long lick along the lips of her pussy, then dip straight to her clit, flicking and rolling my tongue on the swollen nub. Emma’s hand is back in my hair, holding my mouth to her, and I don’t even feel it until she’s bucking against me, riding and grinding the rest of the way. I feel the pulse and flutter on my tongue as each wave crashes over her, her cries getting softer and lower as she comes down.

  I stand up and pull her with me, pushing my tongue into her mouth, letting her taste herself on my lips. She hangs on, but this time her grip is as limp as a rag doll, her body soft and quivering.

  Neither of us hears the crackle of the speaker until it’s shrieking loud enough to be heard through the headphones.

  Emma lurches for the headset at the edge of the table, holding the speaker away from her ear as she listens to the loud chatter at the other end.

  She dials down the volume and speaks into the mic. “Yes! Justine, yes, I’m back in range. No, it was the wine cellar. I’m coming back up.”

  She looks at me as she straightens her clothes. I’m sorry, she mouths silently. I have to go.

  I take her in my arms for the briefest second, to reassure her it’s ok, and then I let her go.

  “Soon,” I say out loud, but soft enough not to be heard over her microphone. Emma rolls her eyes and then smiles and nods. And then she’s out the door and gone.

  Five

  Emma

  Idiot. As in, I am. I can’t believe I did that.

  I’m lucky that the cheap motel shower I’m standing in has good water pressure, but at the moment I wish it were even harder. My face is still on fire after what I did last night. It would take an industrial pressure washer to blast the shame away.

  And god help me, the rest of me is on fire, too. I went to bed last night feeling like my bones melted, and woke up after dreaming about his mouth all night. Just the memory of looking down my body, watching his mouth on me. And when he…

  Gah! I don’t even know the guy! And I don’t know how things went so far. It started off as just a kiss…

  I turn the water off and just stand there for a second, my head against the bathroom wall.

  After a while, though, it’s time to pull myself together. I have a long drive ahead of me, and an even longer day with Justine.

  Event planning is something of a cut-throat business, very high profile at times, and we are always competing for a clientele that has loads of money to burn. Rather than a revolving team of freelancers, Renaissance Planners has a core design crew. We’re one of the very few companies that do elaborate stage design for events, heads and shoulders above the average wedding planner consultant.

  I’ve been hanging on as an assistant designer under the senior crew leader, Justine, for months. I don’t understand why, but it feels like the more success we manage to have—higher profile parties, write-ups in design magazines and society columns—the harder it is to make the dragon lady happy. She’s an ice queen on her best day, but it’s getting bad fast. I’m running around trying to please her all day, but nothing I do or say is right for this woman.

  Still, I’m grateful for the opportunity to design the occasional large-scale society bash rather than a back yard wedding where the only creative decision I’d make is between bashful or blush for the table linens.

  Though the perks outweigh the hassle (so far), I’m struggling in other ways. For one, I’m staying at in a small economy motel forty miles away from the job site, and I’m working sixteen-hour days. My company pays for meals and lodging when we’re out of town for jobs like this, but they only reimburse after expenses. Blake House is in such a remote location, the only convenient hotels are bed-and-breakfasts that cost an arm and a leg. Not exactly an economical lot, the folks out there. I’d max out my meager credit card after just a couple of nights. So I have no choice but embrace this daily commute.

  “Oh, stop whining Emma,” I say to myself, and climb out of the shower. A cup of economy motel coffee later, and it’s time to dry my hair and get dressed.

  Standing naked in the mirror, I’m mentally planning what I’ll wear today. Color is easy—all the crew wears black, no matter what. I have a pair of capris that are comfortable for the long day and have a sexy silhouette. Bra, panties… I hold up black and pink lace and settle for a matching pink set. Buttoning up the black oxford blouse, I leave a button, and then two, undone at the top. No, not the capris. I pull on a stretch pencil skirt and then turn so I can see myself from the back.

  I close my eyes and sigh. Some days I can’t even be bothered to put on foundation, and now I’m checking out my ass in the mirror and scrambling for extra mascara.

  It’s all for him. I know I’m going to see him.

  I push thoughts of him aside long enough to get ready, get in the damn car and start driving. And even if I can’t stop thinking about him, I try to distract myself with thinking about the house.

  I’m still em
barrassed over my big mouth comments about the guy’s house. Trash talking to the owner to his face isn’t a path to job security. Neither is sleeping with the client.

  God… James Blake. Hard jaw, gorgeous, dreamy eyes. Dreamy everything. The cologne he wears, his easy jokes and smiles, shoulders as wide as a linebacker. The whole package. Women invented the word “devastating” to describe guys like him. And then there’s the fact he’s a frigging gazillionaire.

  “Which,” I say out loud to myself in the car, even pointing a finger at the dome light, “I did not know until after I liked him!”

  Yesterday morning in the foyer there was this immediate electricity between us. I don’t know, maybe it was the unexpected full body contact combined with adrenaline. He’s so tall, I was suddenly surrounded, and tingling where he touched me for hours after. I thought he was just one of the wedding guests. I don’t make it a habit of flirting on the job—or flirting at all—but there’s something about him.

  Then again… he’s wealthy, he’s charismatic, handsome, charming, funny. And I’m just some girl on the crew putting together his brother’s fancy wedding at his over-the-top, crazy beautiful historic estate.

  The charming hills and trees that line the coast are a backdrop to the estate. They’re verdant and alive, gorgeous in early October as the trees slip into the last of their color for the season. The house itself is out of some kind of dream. Years and years ago, my parents took our family on family vacation to California, and we took a day trip to Hearst Castle, the opulent monument built by the billionaire newspaper magnate. As a little girl, the castle dazzled me, floating around the marble terraces pretending to be a princess. Years later in college, I watched Citizen Kane, the movie based on the billionaire’s life, and the way it was portrayed made me feel differently. All that ostentation seemed more sinister and lonely rather than glamorous.

  Blake House isn’t quite a castle, but the Hearst and Gatsby comparisons aren’t that far off. It’s a place from another time, and it’s hard to imagine the sheer amount of money it takes to live there, much less own such a thing. And then there’s all the land. About forty minutes into my drive and I’m only just now turning onto the road that leads to the estate. Off of the main road, it’s still another fifteen minutes before you reach the house.