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In my mind, I’m hitting the stop button and pushing her up against the wall. She’d moan out my name and theyesI desperately want to hear from her again.
I’d capture her lips with mine, suckling on that bottom lip she likes to nibble on in meetings when she’s thinking. Raven has no idea what she does to me when I look up and see her pensive.
In my daydream, I’d run my hands down to that tease of a skirt. Feathering my touch under it to feel that exposed skin again. My God, her soft arse was divine.
This time, I wouldn’t be forced to stop because of the door. Instead, I’d find her ready for me when I slipped my fingers across her center. The way her body would tremble beneath my touch has me panting for more. Just a taste of her...
“Mr. Cavendish.” Her soft voice pulls me from my thoughts. “We’re here.”
With a shake of the head, I follow the direction she is gesturing with her hand and see that the doors are open.
Without acknowledging her at all, I step off and storm toward my office.
I need as much distance as possible.
I’m not even at my desk when my mobile rings with a message. Pulling it from my pocket, I read it.
“Fuuuuuck!”
* * *
I’ve beenat 5 Herford Street for three days in a row now.
The exclusive club has been my father’s watering hole for damn near a decade. He made the conversion from Annabel’s, another prominent club, on opening, which secured his feud with Annabel’s owner. Yet another betrayal proving my father wouldn’t understand the word loyal if it hit him upside the head.
If he’s not in his office screaming down the line at someone, he can be found here. The question is, why amIhere?
I barely take a seat, and a tumbler of The Glenlivet XXV is placed before me. My father’s idea of knowing and loving me.
Fuck that shite.
I was summoned to London on short notice, flying out immediately on Monday after lunch. The bastard knows damn well I am in the middle of closing the biggest deal of my career. If the tables were turned, nothing short of murder would pull him away from a client.
Yet when he rings, I’m expected to come running.
I haven’t for three years, but something about this request is different. Over the past three years, he hasn’t bothered to reach out personally, leaving his assistant to call or send an email. I ignored each and every one.
This time, he rang. Something in his voice was off. He sounded haunted. Hollow.
As the heir to Cavendish Corporation, I’ve been groomed to take over upon my father’s death or retirement since birth, and I can’t imagine this meeting is about anything other than plans for the company.
He’s likely rewritten his will and made his serpentine bride the new owner.
Good for them. May they both rot in hell.
Three years ago, my future with Cavendish Corporation in the UK came to a crashing halt when my father decided to run a sword through my back.
I hopped on the first flight I could catch and headed to America, taking up residence on Paxton’s couch.
Pax and I met at uni and became fast friends. When he heard what had happened, he offered for me to stay with him. He was the one who convinced me to open a satellite branch in New York and stay away from London and my father’s betrayal.
Dear old Dad didn’t bother to talk me out of it. He even drew up the paperwork, allowing me to operate the New York City branch under a separate part of the Cavendish Corporation. It was no surprise, given the entire reason I fled was his doing.
“Why am I here?” I’m slouched backward in a wing-back chair, trying to give the appearance of nonchalance when I’m quaking inside.
Three years later, I’m still rocked to the core by my father’s actions.
He frowns as though my attitude is unexpected and uncalled for.
