Dirty Nasty Billionaire [Part One] Read online

  My first instinct is to go hide in the bathroom for a while, maybe even let myself have the good cry I know is coming. But as I pass the break room, I notice it’s empty. And there’s a display of snacks that rivals the 7/11 at the end of my block. Instead of a good cry, maybe a good sugar binge will do the trick.

  I step into the gleaming white room, marveling at the white marble counter tops and stainless-steel appliances, but also shivering at the sterile nature of the room, of the entire building. Nothing about Scour is meant to make you feel comfortable. I wonder again if it’s a productivity strategy, if this is how they’ve managed to overtake the entire tech industry in under a decade.

  The fridge in the corner is the size of a Cadillac. A touch-screen the size of an iPad displays an endless scroll of tweets from the company feed. I pull it open and grab a can of Coke, pausing for a moment in front of the frigid air that bursts out. Maybe this will help me stop fucking sweating.

  On the counter, everything is in clear glass containers, like at a fancy candy store, silver scoops in porcelain bowls at their feet. I take one of the clear cellophane bags and start scooping: Swedish fish, gummy bears, M&Ms, mini snickers bars, malted milk balls, something that I hope isn’t chocolate covered raisins (because gross), and those things that looks like chocolate chips with sprinkles on them. I don’t know why, but getting a stomach ache or a cavity (or both) sounds like a really good idea right now.

  My bag is so full that I have to use both hands to lift it. When I get back to the conference room, I know Amber is going to have something snide to say about my haul, but you know what? Fuck her. It can’t get any worse at this point, so I might as well drown my sorrows in a metric ton of sugar.

  I turn around to hustle back, but am stopped by some kind of brick wall that’s been erected right in the middle of the break room. I drop my bag, the sugary contents spilling out the top. Milk balls roll across the floor, disappearing under the fridge. I look down to see my candy resting atop a pair of brown leather lace-up hiking boots. My eyes move upwards, following the line of dark skinny jeans, to an cool blue cashmere sweater, and then up … and up, until I finally connect with a pair of ice blue eyes, now narrowed at me.

  Not a brick wall in the break room.

  Nixon Blake.

  Shit.

  I want to bend down and clean up the mess. I want to take a step back, so I’m not pressed up against his rock hard chest. I want to apologize, or run far, far away. But I’m rooted to the ground, the force of his gaze gluing my feet to the floor. The only part of me that’s moving is my beating heart, which I’m sure must be pounding so hard it’s causing my chest to heave. But his eyes don’t leave mine, which only serves to make every part of me feel warm and wanting. Oh god, I want him. Because that’s what I need right now. To stand here in front of Nixon Blake and soak my panties. Fantastic.

  We stand there for what feels like forever, and I realize that he’s daring me to make the first move. He’s not going to let me off the hook. Not for this, and probably not for what I said earlier. If I weren’t so freaked out, I’d file it away as another billionaire CEO strategy, the perfect way to get the upper hand.

  I finally manage to gather my wits and take a step back, then I drop to the floor and start scooping up candy by the fistful and deposit it back into the bag still clutched in my fist.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mutter.

  “Good first day?” He asks. When I look up (way up … Jesus this man is tall), I see that the corner of his mouth is quirked up. A smirk.

  I can feel heat rush to my cheeks. I’m probably as red as Colin, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Fine,” is all I can muster in response, because I’m sure my face tells a different story.

  “Are you sure there’s not a problem?”

  I’m still on my hands and knees, chasing M&Ms. What the fuck do you think? The response is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I think I’ve said more than enough to get me in trouble. Being a smartass to the owner of the company is probably not a good decision at this juncture. Not when I’m already dealing with peak embarrassment. Not when I’m playing fourth chair at a competitive internship, letting someone like Amber take over the group when I know — I know — that this job is mine to lose. I worked my ass off to get here, and I was ready to thoroughly dominate. I should be the one ordering Amber around.

  But I can’t say any of that. I can’t tattle. It sounds weak. It is weak. And Nixon definitely would not be impressed with that. Boss bitches don’t tattle. They take. They lead. And I’m a boss bitch.

  Until today.

  Until I’m staring into Nixon Blake’s gorgeous eyes, that seem to freeze me in place while also burning a bonfire in my core.

  Nixon bends down and plucks a gummy bear from the toe of his boot, dropping it into the bag in my hand. Then he locks me into his gaze again.

  “Good,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. Just the sound of it causes my insides to liquify. “I’d hate to think I made a mistake bringing you here.”

  I suck in a breath, feeling like I’ve been slapped.

  He stares at me for a beat longer, making his disappointment known. Then he stands up and heads for the door, crossing the floor in just two strides of his long legs, his boots thudding on the concrete floor. Just before he’s gone, he pauses and turns. I’m still on the floor, a fistful of Swedish fish in one hand, a bag of dirty floor candy in the other.

  “I was expecting more, Delaney. A lot more.” He practically growls the words, and in flash, he’s gone.

  In that moment, something ignites within me. It’s a swirling, fiery mixture of anger and frustration and a little bit of righteous indignation. Ok, sure, I said a dumb thing. But if he was going to fire me, he should have done it by now. He can’t keep me around, dangling by a thread, so he can toy with me like some sick game of cat and mouse. So I spent part of my first day being less than my best self. But if I’m here to stay, then I’m going to spend the rest of this internship showing him I’m better than that. I’m going to spend the rest of this internship showing him that I deserve to be here, and that in the end, I’m the one who deserves that job.

  I rise to my feet and chuck the bag of candy into the trash can, where it swooshes in. Nothing but net. I smooth out my shirt, push my shoulders back, and then march out of the break room. When I get to the elevator, I mash the button like the force will make it come faster. Once inside, I push the button for the tenth floor — the top, where I’m sure Nixon’s office must be. He seems like the kind of guy who stays on top at all times.

  And for a split second, that thought gives me pause, because my mind conjures up an image of Nixon, out of that blue cashmere sweater, his bare chest hovering over me, supported by those muscular arms, his eyes on me once again as he —

  Oh shit. Cut it out, Delaney.

  I suck in a breath and let it out until the elevator doors slide open, my resolve recaptured.

  I step out of the elevators into the executive suite. It’s as stark and hermetic as the rest of the building: polished concrete floors, white walls, furnishings of glass and chrome and black leather. It seems like it’s meant to make you feel off-balance, and it does. It definitely does.

  The glass-topped desk that I assume belongs to Nixon’s assistant is empty. As is the desk that must belong to his second assistant. I glance at my watch. It’s just after 5pm. I’m guessing they’re gone? It seems strange that someone as demanding and exacting as Nixon Blake, who built an empire from his dorm room, would have assistants who just peaced out when the clock struck five.

  The emptiness serves to put me more off-balance, but I have a few seconds to give myself a pep talk before I got knock on his door. That is, until Nixon steps out of the frosted glass door that leads into this office, his face buried in his phone.

  Showtime.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Blake?”

  He glances up, blinking, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m a mirag
e or a real person.

  “What are you doing up here?” He asks.

  “I needed to speak with you privately, if that’s ok?”

  He glances at the empty desks. “Fine.” He turns and heads back into his office. He doesn’t invite me in, or hold the door for me. I have to let myself in, which feels all kinds of wrong, but I suck it up and go. Operation Boss Bitch starts now.

  The office is, if possible, even more austere than the rest of the building. It’s enormous, sure, as an executive suite should be. But instead of luxe furniture, enormous, priceless works of art, or framed photos of achievements, this office is a complete blank canvas. One wall is entirely glass, looking straight out onto the gray afternoon of the Boston Harbor. There’s one desk, a glass and chrome monstrosity, topped with nothing but an enormous desktop computer, a laptop, and a few small tablets and devices. There are no photos, no handwritten notes or file folders, no nameplates. It looks more like a display you’d see in a computer store than a desk an actual human person uses for work. Across from it are two very cold, very hard-looking metal chairs that do anything buy invite you to sit in them. There’s a black leather couch tucked away in a corner. The walls — white — are empty. The floor — polished concrete — is bare. The only color in the room comes from the blue cashmere sweater he’s wearing — and Nixon Blake’s ice blue eyes.

  He sets his phone down on the desk and stares at me from behind his desk. He doesn’t say anything, but everything about his posture and expression reads get to it, and get out.

  I clear my throat as quietly as possible, then begin, my voice thankfully clear and strong.

  “I wanted to apologize for the inappropriate remark I made this morning,” I say. I force myself to keep eye contact with him, even though every part of me wants to stare down at my second-hand shoes. It takes every bit of my concentration to keep my voice from shaking. I continue. “I was trying to be funny — shocking — and I drastically missed the mark.”

  I take a breath, ready to launch into the second part of my speech, the part about how that remark doesn’t represent me, and that not only do I deserve to be here, but I fully intend to prove it and earn back his respect. But before I can get there, Nixon speaks first.

  “So you weren’t telling the truth, then? You have had an orgasm?” He’s staring directly at me, his mouth set in a firm line. But one eyebrow rises, just a fraction of a movement, that looks like a challenge. When I don’t respond (because my brain still grinding away on the sound of his deep voice saying the word ‘orgasm’), he levels a hard stare at me. “Yes. Or. No?”

  He’s not going to let me off easy. He’s not going to let me just apologize. I’m going to have to prove to him that I’m made of just as much concrete and steel as this building. I’m going to have to prove that I’m not going to get rattled, either by saying orgasm, or hearing it said to me (by the hottest man on the planet). So I pull my posture up, raising my chin just a bit.

  “No, I haven’t,” I say, willing my voice not to shake. “That was true. But it’s not the point.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to bulge in a way that begs my eyes to go there and linger, but I don’t.

  “What is the point, then?” He asks.

  “I shouldn’t have said it. I was trying to stand out, to make myself noticed.” Is he getting off on this?

  “Well you succeeded. Which then begs the question, why would you apologize? You’re not one of those girls who’s always apologizing, are you?”

  I grit my teeth at him describing me as a girl, like I’m some high school cheerleader who stumbled into his office, giggling and lost.

  “No, I’m not a woman who apologizes,” I reply, proud of myself for my little act of linguistic rebellion.

  He doesn’t take a bit of notice. “Good. Because lesson number one is to never apologize. Make bold moves, and own them.”

  It sounds like a challenge, and the Boss Bitch inside me rises right to meet it. He wants a fighter? He wants someone who wants it? That I can do. I fought my way to one of the top colleges in the country. I fought my way through four years there to graduate at the top of my class. And I fought my way through thousands of applicants to score this fucking internship. And so I decide to make another attempt at surprising him. This one a little more me.

  “You don’t have time for apologies, but you have time for frivolous get-to-know-you games meant to make everyone uncomfortable while you remain impervious and aloof? That seems like a bit of a contradiction.” And my voice doesn’t even shake. Not a bit.

  Now Nixon Blake’s eyebrows are both rising. That he did not expect.

  “What’s your point?” His eyes are narrowed, his voice sharp as a knife.

  “It means that now you know about my sex life, but I don’t know anything about you,” I say, my eyebrow arching, my tongue lingering purposefully on the words sex life. Take that, Nixon Blake. “I notice you didn’t tell us anything about yourself.” Now it’s my turn to cross my arms over my chest, a hip jutting out just slightly. A challenge right back at him.

  He shifts slightly in his chair, and for the first time since I walked in, he breaks his gaze. Holy crap, did I really just challenge Nixon Blake and win?

  He rises from his chair and strides across the floor. His feet fall heavy on the concrete floor, and I’m surprised the room doesn’t shake with the force of his gait. Everything about him says he knows how big and powerful he is, and he doesn’t like that for a moment, I’ve made him feel anything less than that. And I think he’s about to show me just how wrong I am.

  He stops right in front of me, so close that I have to look up slightly to keep eye contact. This man knows how to work his height to his advantage.

  “You want to know something about me that would surprise you?” His voice is low, forcing me to be completely still. I can barely breathe, and so instead of a response, I just nod.

  There’s the tiniest spark of fire behind his icy eyes. “I’ve spent nearly every second since your little declaration,” he says, his tongue rolling over the word, “thinking about all the different ways I could make you come.”

  The breath rushes out of me in one fast whoosh, and I nearly let the world holy shit follow it. But instead, I whisper the words I’ve spent years trying hard not think, much less say.

  “I don’t think anyone can.”

  And there it is. My greatest fear. Since I’m saying all kinds of things today that I’d rather have kept to myself, why not let this one out, as well? Because what if the truth isn’t that Damon was terrible in bed? What if the truth is that it’s impossible for me to have an orgasm, ever, with anyone? Saying it out loud makes me feel terrified and vulnerable, but I keep all that hidden behind a mask of defiance.

  Nixon pauses, studying me, waiting to see if I’m going to step away, tell him to stop. But I don’t want him to stop. Because as soon as I said the words out loud, I realized that something inside my body is responding to him, churning up feelings and sensations I’ve never experienced before. And I want more.

  Nixon lets out a little huff of breath — a little laugh, his lips curled up into a devious smile. “You want me to try, though,” he growls, sending a chill down my spine, “don’t you?”

  I try to say yes, but no sound comes out, just a slight tremor of my lips. And so I look him in his eyes and nod. Yes, I really really do. If anyone can make me come, Nixon Blake can. I’m sure of it.

  “I could fuck you right now, you know. Lay you out across my desk. You’d come again, and again,” he says, before leaning so close his lips nearly brush against my ear, “and again.”

  All I can do is suck in a ragged breath.

  And then he steps back. The space between us widens, the heat disappearing with the growing gap. My mouth drops open slightly. I feel the absences of his body like a missing limb.

  “Unfortunately, Delaney, you work for me.” Nixon turns and strides back to his desk. “That would be inappropriat
e.” His lips curl around the word, like he’s laughing at the notion.

  Inappropriate. All I’ve been today is inappropriate. Telling my boss I’ve never had an orgasm. Following him into his office. Challenging him. Standing so close I could practically feel his heart — assuming he has one — beating against my chest. What’s a little bit more? The tension may be dissipating, but I know how to ratchet it up again. I know how to get Nixon Blake going.

  So I square my shoulders, chin raised, a devilish grin playing at the corners of my lips. Two can play this game.

  “Or maybe it’s that you’re afraid you can’t do it?”

  His gaze snaps to mine, and then he smirks.

  “I think you know that’s not true,” he replies. He looks amused by me, like a tiger watching a kitten try to join the hunt. He seems to pause, turning an idea over in his mind. He leans back until he’s sitting on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over the expanse of his muscular chest.

  “Ok, I’ll take that challenge. I’ll make you come — right here, right now,” he says. The words practically knock me to the floor. This is not what I was expecting, but it’s an offer I definitely want to entertain. He stands up to his full height again. “Just once. And then nothing else can happen. Never again, because you work for me. And I don’t make a habit of mixing work with pleasure.”

  Just the word pleasure coming out of his mouth is enough to send me teetering on the brink of an orgasm, and suddenly I have absolutely no doubt about what’s about to happen. I have no doubt about what he can do, about what I’m about to feel.

  “Deal?” He asks, and I nod. But he shakes his head. “I need to hear you say it, Delaney.”

  “Deal,” I say, forcing my voice out as strong and authoritative as I can muster.

  Before the words have even left my lips, he’s crossing the floor. He pulls me to him roughly, one arm snaking around my waist, the other at the back of my neck, my hair clutched in his fist. In one movement, he’s taken control of my body.