Page 16 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 2

“It’s none of your concern,” he snaps, and once again, I hear the same venom in his voice that he used on the phone.

I recoil, but I don’t push him anymore. And I don’t plan to ever again. If he wants to pretend nothing happened, fine. If he wants to act as if I’m nothing more than his assistant, whatever. But I must ooze the frustration I feel, because as I hurl my keys into my bag and slam the chair into the desk, turning to stomp my way to the elevator, I hear him sigh.

“Dammit, Quinn, what is the problem now?”

I whirl around, my blond hair flying. “The problem? Well I think the problem is abundantly clear, Mr. King. The problem is you.”

“What, because I have no interest in sharing my personal life with you, you take that as some kind of affront?” He says, giving an annoyed chuckle, like I’m some fawning teenager. “I told you very clearly. I am a private person, and if you’re going to work for me, this kind of behavior on your part cannot continue.”

“This? What exactly is this?” I ask, gesturing between the two of us. “Are you talking about the screaming orgasms in your office? Or the fact that I’m here busting my butt for you every single day and late into the night? Because the line between work and play’s been a little blurred for me.”

“I have my way of doing things,” he says. “If you can’t handle that—“

“Well I have my way of doing things, and they don’t involve spending time with an asshole who plays mind games,” I snap. “It seems to me that your way of doing things is fueled by stubbornness and fear.”

He looks skeptically at me. “You think I’m afraid? Of what exactly?”

I take a step towards him, so frustrated I’m shaking. As usual. He makes me shake in all sorts of way, but this time it’s not a good thing.

“I think you’re afraid of feeling something, whether that’s with me or anyone else. I think you’ve walled yourself off in the name of privacy and doing things your way. But maybe I’m not the kind of girl who can separate sex from feelings, and I’m not the kind of girl who likes or wants to be toyed with.”

He inhales sharply, his broad shoulders rising, the muscles in his neck going ropey with tension. His fists clench, and his whole body seems to be alight with conflict. His eyes narrow as he contemplates his next move, and there’s a brief moment where I think he’s going to decide it’s all over. Where he’s going to tell me that he can’t or won’t do things my way, and so we’re done.

But then I see it, just a flash, just for a second. It’s the spark in his eye, the tiny quirk of his lips, and then his whole body seems to uncoil.

He steps forward and grabs my elbow and begins steering me towards the elevator.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Home,” he growls, and I know right then that he doesn’t mean my home. I’m not going back to my crappy studio in Somerville, and I’m not going alone. I barely have time to grab my bag on the way past my desk.

As soon as the elevator doors close, his lips are on mine, pinning me to the back wall of the elevator. I want to ask him if this is a reprieve, if he’s changed his mind, if he’s opening up, but I can’t because his mouth is opening up on mine. He nips at my lower lip, and all rational thought leaves me. I’m his now, I know it for sure.

The elevator doors open in the parking garage, and he leans away to grab my hand and pull me out of the elevator. His car is parked in one of the first spots, one of the (many) perks of being the CEO. He pauses at the passenger door of a shiny black vintage convertible roadster, the chrome accents gleaming. When he opens the door for me the scent of conditioned leather in a rich, buttery brown wafts out. It looks vintage and fully restored.

It’s the kind of car I imagine usually sits in showrooms or garages and doesn’t actually ever get driven.

“In,” he says. He’s completely serious and monosyllabic, and it’s turning me on. I climb in.

When he gets in the driver seat, he seems too consumed by his mission to say anything at all. He fires up the engine and shifts into gear, the car screeching out of the spot, then surging forward. He grips the steering wheel with one hand, the gear shift with the other, maneuvering the car like a stunt driver or a fighter pilot, the wheels screeching on the polished concrete of the parking deck.

When we hit the street, he flips on the headlights and sends us careening down the narrow streets of the financial district, headed towards the harbor. The roar of the wind over the open top of the convertible makes conversation nonexistent save for a few sidelong glances of those dark, chocolate brown eyes that are so wicked and delicious.

The drive isn’t long, but with each passing minute I can feel the tension ramping up inside of me. We’re going home. To his home, where he once promised to lay me out across his bed and have his way with me.

And it’s finally happening.

I look over at him in the driver’s seat, driving as fast as the car and the law will allow (although he’s pushing the law well past its limit), and I know I want it to be him. He is what I’ve been waiting for. I am not about to be disappointed.

When he pulls up to the curb in front of his building, which I recognize from the first night, he slams the brakes. The tires squeal and we screech to a stop. I glance at the front steps and am relieved to see no one standing there. There’s no one in our way this time.

He comes around and opens the passenger door for me, then offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up onto the sidewalk with a strength that makes my knees weak.

He keeps hold of my hand as he unlocks the front door with his free hand. He keeps hold of my hand as he pulls me into the elevator and plants his lips firmly on mine, his free hand snaking up into my hair at the base of my neck. He keeps hold of my hand as he pulls me out of the elevator and unlocks his front door, a heavy industrial door for the sleek, industrial loft he reveals on the other side.

I gasp at the sight of the wide planked wood floors, the stainless steel and subway tile of the open kitchen, the floor-to-ceiling windows that arch just before they reach the top, the exposed brick on the walls and the polished wood beams the travel the length of the ceiling.

The majority of the decor is built into the loft, the rest is minimalist. A leather couch and a single leather chair around a glass coffee table. Three gleaming industrial metal stools lined up at the marble-topped counter of the breakfast bar. A long, heavy wooden farm table surrounded by metal diner chairs.