Page 4 of A Billion Dollar Romance
The fortune was also of little concern. I’d invested my money wisely, wisely enough that between the books and the inheritance I knew I never had to work again. The long hours I dutifully put in here at the office were for pride, not finances.
But thefame, the ability to walk into a room and have people stop what they were doing to whisper,That’s James Martin, he wrote that book, you know the one–
And with the fame came the lifestyle. The events, the invitations, the awards and accolades. The women.
The whispers that had replaced it–that’s the new CEO, grandson of August Martin–only reminded me of my failures. The acknowledgement of nepotism stung every time, burrowing under my skin to fester beside my own guilty conscience, asking in a whisper,Was it the writing I missed?Or was it that since I’d been saddled with the company, I had less time for parties and women…
Until last night.
Penelope.
“Ms. Woods from Editorial is here for you, sir.” Alice’s voice buzzed over the intercom, shaking me from thoughts of last night. Good. That way led only to misery.
And besides, any longer and I would have been sporting a bulge in my pants–hardly the way to greet a new hire.
I stood, exiting the office. Margaret Woods, Senior Editor, and one of the few people whose names I always remembered–I often heard it shouted out by the barista next door. We’d joked before about being on the same coffee schedule. I could easily ask any number of people to get my coffee, without ever leaving my desk. As it turned out, it was theleaving my deskthat I was after.
And so, it appeared, was our new hire. I’d followed Margaret down to the fourth floor to greet the latest addition to the Editorial department, but when we arrived at her desk,shewasn’t there to greetus. There was a bag tucked under the desk, a folder with the Verity logo stamped in gold foil on black cardstock that I expected would be full of HR paperwork, but no Junior Editor.
“She’s not at her desk,” I said, eyebrows raised. “Slacking off already?”
“Hardly. She brought coffee for everyone, she’s probably still handing it around,” Margaret responded, peeking into a conference room as we walked past. “I applaud your hiring expertise, she’ll be a great addition to the department.” She lifted her paper cup in acknowledgement.
“I didn’t hire her, you did,” I said, scrolling through emails on my phone. So many people wanted so many things. Meetings. “Tell her to stick it in the break room and be done–”
“Oh, there she is,” the Senior Editor said, and I looked up from my phone to greet her.
The words of a pleasant, professional greeting caught fast, somewhere behind my esophagus.
“Mr. Martin, this is Edie Taylor, our new Junior Editor.”
Her hair was neatly tied back, her demure blouse buttoned up to her neck. Wide brown eyes stared up at me in some mixture of fear and–no, I didn’t think it could be lust.
“Mr. Martin,” she said, quickly regaining her composure.
Underneath that high collar, were the bruises from my lips and teeth still visible?I wanted to tear it open to find out.
Just as I always had.
“We’ve met, actually,” I said, looking from her to Margaret.
Professor Martin.I’d craved the words from her, all semester. I’d never have acted on my attraction–it wasn’t right, I was her teacher, even if I was just visiting for a semester, and anyway, she was so young. Twenty-one. I’d felt a lifetime older, even if it was only twelve years: I’d gotten my first book published, and my second, and I’d been fêted by the literary elites. I’d made money I didn’t need, the kind of money I couldn’t spend in a lifetime, try as I might. After one too many drunken nights out had been splashed across the tabloids, my grandfather thought a quiet semester teaching at a tiny liberal arts college would be relaxing. Had insisted upon it, in fact.
It hadn’t been. I’d been unused to not getting what I wanted, to exercising self-restraint, and it had been a challenge, seeing her in class and around the tiny, picturesque campus, her eyes always seeming to land on me.
I could have sworn she felt the same heat, which only made her more tempting. More forbidden.
And then she showed up last night, calling herself–of all things–Penelope. Asking me to take her home, and I thought,only for one night.
For one night, I could pretend I didn’t know who she was. It was easy. I wanted it–her–so badly, and I was a writer, after all.
I dealt in fictions.
“I believe you took my senior seminar,” I said, and watched as a pretty flush rose on her face that reminded me of last night and had my cock thickening in my suit pants even now.
Then the color drained away as she stammered, “Yes, I think– I think you’re right.” I could see the pulse jumping in her neck, just below the angle of her jaw. I’d kissed that spot, just this morning, as I thrust into her, her back to the wall of my marble shower. “That was years ago,” she said, her posture rigid and her face pale. “I would have thought you had forgotten.”
“I’m not likely to forget such an eager student,” I said, remembering the way she’d moaned around my cock, her mouth hot and wet as I gripped her hair tight in my fist and whispered,yes, like that. Such a good girl.The color was back, two bright spots on her cheeks, and I smiled. “Good to see you again, Miss Taylor. Welcome to Verity.”
