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When Swan said she’d give the “real life” thing a shot, that she was braving the unknown to step out and meet him, AJ couldn’t have imagined it would happen so soon.
He hurried toward conference room B on the third floor of the White Estate Corporation building, the glittering lights of downtown Miami lighting his way down the darkened corridor. The rest of the holiday party—the music, the booze, and the people—were all on the first floor in the building’s large open atrium. The party, a glitzy, extravagant affair, was a gift from billionaire boss, Sylvester White—his future brother-in-law if that man had anything to say about it, and a man with more money than taste. The only reason AJ had attended was because someone from Harris Construction, LLC had to be present at the party to rub elbows and kiss asses.
Since Blaze, his best friend and partner, was busy making merry with his new fiancée, Anna, it left AJ holding the bag and the plane ticket to Miami for the weekend. It wasn’t that he hated flying or doing the hob-knobbing for business sake, it was the falseness and consumerism of the holiday season that soured his mood. And it didn’t help that, once again, it was just him, alone, on his own for Christmas. Sure, he could celebrate with his sister Sallina—he wouldn’t be alone then. But that wasn’t the sort of alone that needed fixing. He’d always have Sallina, and now Sylvester. He also had Blaze and Anna. Two couples. To him, they were his two brothers and two sisters. And their lives were full of love and commitment, with a future that promised more blessings than AJ could ever know. Would ever know. Because he didn’t have what they had…but God, he wanted it. Had been hoping, praying for it—craving it—for years.
And now, he just might have it.
Five minutes ago, a waiter dressed in coattails and starched, white shirt handed him a folded note, a note the waiter said had been handed to him by a woman, a message that had turned the depressing party on its fucking head.
IF YOU WANT TO MEET ME, COME TO THE 3RD FLOOR, CONF. RM. B. DON’T SPEAK. KEEP THE LIGHTS OFF. I AM WAITING FOR YOU.
It wasn’t signed, but he knew who it was. It was the woman who’d been taunting him, seducing him, enticing him for the last four months. And he was more than damn well ready to solve the mystery of the woman he’d never seen but couldn’t get out of his head.
But no more! Now the mystery would be solved. Now he would know who was behind the emails, gifts, and long nights of blue balls and cold showers. He would finally put a face and body to the words that kept him up at night, made him smile and laugh, filled his chest with terrible longing, and eased the loneliness that had been eating away at him for years. A loneliness that no amount of flirting or fucking, one-night stands, and disappointing dates could abate.
From that first email, he’d been intrigued. So much so that other women paled in comparison to his gut-twisting interest in a woman he couldn’t even completely picture in his mind. Was she tall or short, butterscotch or chocolate, curvy or svelte, blonde or brunette or ginger? What color were her eyes? Did they twinkle when she laughed? Did she have freckles, a beauty mark, a fucking dimple? What did she look like when she smiled? Did her grin light up the room, did it turn heads, did it bring men to their knees? What did she sound like? Was her voice lyrical or husky? What did she smell like? Citrus or flowers? Vanilla or cinnamon? Most importantly…what would see feel like under his eager hands? What would it be like to pull her into his arms and hold her? What would her lips feel like pressed against his? What would she taste like as he devoured her—all of her?
Over and over, on repeat, those questions cascaded through his mind, and the utter lack of answers was driving him insane.
Four months of celibacy was difficult, not impossible, but definitely painful. In an effort to prove to himself that he was still a red-blooded male, that he hadn’t lost his mind falling for a probable catfish scheme, he’d hit the bars with a few guys from work, flirting with the beautiful, beachy women who’d frequented places like Happy Jack’s and Anchors. He’d smile, sidle up to buy her a drink, and she’d touch him—and he’d balk. The very thought of another woman’s hands on him made his skin crawl, his stomach knot, and his cock deflate.
Except Maeve. You love her hands all over you.
Gritting his teeth, he attempted to push her from his mind for the umpteenth time just that day. He was minutes from meeting Swan—Maeve shouldn’t even be a blip in his mind at that moment.
Nothing about this was normal. But right then, he didn’t give a shit. He was going to meet Swan, touch her, and finally—finally!—put a face and body to the fantasies that kept him awake and hard all night, every night.
Turning down the long corridor toward the conference rooms, his stride eating the distance, the note burning a hole in his pocket, AJ’s heart pounded, his chest heaved, his mind spun. So close.
Closer.
There. Conference room B. No windows were looking in from the corridor, only a single door. One door between him and his Swan. She’d chosen this room well…which meant she was familiar with this building. He’d known all along she had to work for Sylvester. There were too many clues in their correspondence, and she’d often mention seeing him or hearing about him. So, he knew she was an employee—which did little to narrow down the prospects. There were fifty people alone in the White offices in Jackson Key, and the White offices in Miami had closer to 500. And since AJ often visited the Miami office on errands for Sylvester or Blaze, he came in contact with women from the Miami office at least three times a month. Any one of the hundreds of women working for White could be the woman standing behind the door. In the dark. Waiting for him.
Go inside.
He was shaking, his blood ravaging through him, his cock already hard and aching—because he was damned if he left that room without tasting her.
One taste.
No! That wouldn’t be enough. Not after all he’d suffered—not after all she’d put him through. Tonight, he would finally know what she looked like, smelled like, tasted like, and how it felt to press his body against hers. How it felt to be inside her.
She’s right here.
The note said to keep the lights off. That meant it was dark inside. That meant she was probably hoping to keep her identity a secret. But for how much longer? And how did she plan to keep him from touching her or hearing her voice? Yeah, her note told him not to speak, but what about her? How could they possibly meet without seeing or speaking?
Fuck that. He’d find a way. And, besides, there was always touching. He couldn’t wait to put his hands on her, know the texture of her flesh, the shape of her body, the sounds she made when he finally slid his hands over her skin, cupped her face…kissed her mouth.
I bet she tastes like the mocha coffee she keeps talking about in her emails; the mocha chocolate lattes she says she cannot go a morning without.No matter what, AJ knew she would taste better than anything he’d ever put in his mouth…or ever would. The thought of her taste alone made him drag in a shuddering breath, his lungs refusing to work even as he’d powered across the carpeted floor toward the rendezvous point.
But why was she hiding in the dark? Was she scared he wouldn’t like what he saw? Was she shy? Or did she just want to drag out the tension, the eroticism of sensory deprivation?
Perhaps she liked a good, hard fuck in the dark.
Does it really matter? She’s right there on the other side of the door. You’ve wanted this for four months!
What was stopping him from walking into the room and turning on the light despite her words in the letter?
He knew the answer before the words wholly formed in his mind.
