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It was either that or the fact that I have barely slept in three nights. Sleep has eluded me for days. I catch a few winks in the early morning hours, but that’s about it. Every night my head touches my pillow I think of her.
Riley.
Her feisty mouth and emerald green-eyes haunt me. I want to taste her lips, touch her curves, and most of all, I want to see if her eyes change in shade when I drive her to the edge.
A groan escapes my throat as I shake the images of me fucking her out of my head. I can’t seem to get her out of my mind, and now it’s affecting my ability to work.
The corners of my lips tilt up as an idea springs to mind. Since it’s Riley’s fault I can’t focus, she can help solve my problem. She can be the rabbit in my hat. My eyes are drawn to my desk as I imagine what working late with Riley could lead to; I shove the thoughts aside and buzz my receptionist.
A few minutes later Riley steps into my office. “You’re looking for me?” She asks as she brushes a piece of hair out of her face. Today she’s wearing skin tight jeans with a leather jacket and bright red pumps. For a moment the reason I called her vanishes from my mind until Riley cocks a brow in question.
“Yes. I need you to work late tonight.” I say more gruffly than I had intended. I walk over to my desk and collect the brief I had received from Fitness Trainers. I
offer it to her, and our hands briefly touch. A spark fuses in my arm, sending a current of desire up my arm.
Riley gasps softly as she takes the brief and glances at it. “What is this?”
“They’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning to look at the designs for their latest sneaker. I need you to help me.”
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. Her eyes widen, and she mocks me, “You want me, the arrogant, pompous new designed, BPC Advertising’s latest black sheep, to help you with this campaign that’s of utmost importance?”
“Who said it was important?”
Riley laughs, shaking her head. “Branson, I doubt you would be working on it if it wasn’t.”
I shrug and sigh. “Fine. It’s important. Fitness Trainers gave me my first big contract; they’re one of my oldest clients. Cancel your plans if you had any, you’re working late.”
She doesn’t hesitate and walks over to my desk and takes a seat. “Well, are you going to stand there, or are we going to think up a campaign?”
My eyes briefly narrow, anyone else would’ve argued at the short notice, but not Riley. She’s already scribbling something on a piece of paper as she tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth.
I feel my groin stir at the sight and take a seat behind my desk. “The new product line of sneakers is aimed at a younger market. They are priced lower than your average fitness shoe, that’s the challenge. We need to sell it as quality without saying it’s cheap and affordable.”
“Hmmm,” Riley says still scribbling furiously.
“What are you writing?” I ask irritably. We need to throw around ideas before she can start on a design.
Riley puts down the pencil and holds up a sketch, still holding her lip hostage. I glance at it, and for the first time in three days, I laugh. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how tightly wound Riley has gotten me.
She’s drawn a pair of sneakers with a bunch of dollar signs surrounding it. In the middle, she scribbled in a child’s writing: low price, not nice.
“So this is what we don’t want?” Riley asks me with bright eyes and a serious expression.
I nod, still laughing and shake my head. “How did you know I needed to relax?”
“You’re wound about as tight as wheel nut on a truck. There’s no way your creativity can flow through that.”
I drag my hand through my hair and smile at her ruefully. No one else has read me as accurately as Riley just had. It bothers me to no end that she understands me so well. I walk over to the liquor cabinet concealed in my bookshelf and pour us each two fingers of scotch before taking a seat across from her.
She’s right, I need to relax before I can do anything creative. I know I’d relax faster if I just lay her on my desk and have my wicked way with her, but I know then we’ll get nothing else done for the rest of the night.
“Here you go,” I say offering her a glass.
I expect her to cringe or at least flinch when she takes her first sip. Instead, she sighs contently. “Irish scotch, at least fifteen years.”
My eyes widen with surprise. “I’m impressed. You know your scotch.”
“Few things matter more than scotch… and BPC Advertising,” she adds with a teasing glance.
