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That goddamn horndog—he could have stopped them. Nic is officially on notice.
It takes me about five minutes to find out what happened. Yesterday a customer recognized the fabric of one of the thongs on the pictures from last week’s party, connecting it to a teaser post about my autumn release on my social media, and left a comment. The influencer confirmed the commenter’s suspicions, calling it a sneak peek.
I should’ve asked her to take the photos down the moment I knew they were up—what was I thinking? I knew the damn risks.
Even if I chain myself to my sewing machine and work all day every day, I won’t be able to meet half this demand. I don’t know what happens next, but unhappy customers tend to be loud about it. This is going to ruin me.
Goodbye expansion. Goodbye dreams. Might as well crawl back to Cruella de Vil and beg for my old job back.
My frustrated, strangled cry echoes through Timothy’s silent house and I stomp into the kitchen because I can’t look at my computer, and tech support has had me on hold for an hour.
Maybe it’s good if my website stays down. No one else can join my subscription service.
Timothy’s out, and for once, I don’t know where he is or who he’s with. He’s been secretive this week. I know he’s up to something and I should probably care more about what it is, but right now, I can’t focus on anything beyond my disaster.
I should sew my ass off while I’m on hold, but I need to hit something. I’m going to the boxing gym instead.
I feel marginally better when I return, but it’s not until Timothy comes downstairs and wraps me in a hug that I feel like everything will be okay.
“I needed this,” I whisper into his neck.
Timothy’s hands slip up my shirt, warm and rough against my shoulders. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. How do you give the best hugs?”
He pulls me tight. “Because I don’t hold back.”
A little shiver zips down my spine, and I wish I could be more like him. “Don’t hold back,” I whisper in his ear. Maybe some of him will rub off on me.
Timothy growls and my shirt is gone, flying through the air. Even though Nic is no longer living here, we race up the stairs to the first bedroom—my room—shedding clothes, kissing and groping as we go.
“On the bed, on your hands and knees.”
I want this so bad I complain when his hard dick brushes against me and he ignores it in favor of running his hands over me. Timothy laughs, but his hands slide over my ass to my thighs as he kneels on the floor behind me.
He licks from my clit to my entrance and I shudder at how good his tongue feels.
“That better?” he asks, doing it again. I answer with a moan. It’s so much better, and it doesn’t take him long to get me there. He lets me come, guiding me through it, pushing his dick inside me before it’s ebbed and now I feel better.
The tight way he grips my hip, every demanding thrust…I am so thoroughly his and he’s mine. He lets go of my hips, wrapping my hair around his fist and letting me thrust back onto him for a while. When he’s had enough, he tugs me upright, I reach over my head to lock my hands around his neck while he kisses mine and plays with my tits. And when I barrel toward my next orgasm, he’s right there with me, telling me how good I feel, how much he loves me, and how he’ll always be there for me.
I’m sorry, but at this time, my label isn’t for sale.
My website is up and running again, my subscription list locked down. I’m tempted to send a mass email to the one thousand new subscribers, explaining the situation and apologizing for not being able to take them at this time. The only thing stopping me is the fear that at least a few of them will mount a campaign against me and I’ll lose both my credibility and ability to expand in the future. Everything I’ve worked for.
I’m tempted to sell Wild Things to one of the half dozen companies sniffing around me, so it’s not my problem anymore. But I’ve been building this brand for five years. I’m not going to hand it over without a fight.
I need to figure out what to do. I want to tell Timothy and ask him for advice. He fixes so many problems in my life, though, and if I’m going to stand on my own and run this business, I need to figure it out. On my own.
I send the email declining the offer and toss my phone onto Timothy’s bed, turning to the mirror on his dresser. Tonight is the Warwick wrap party, and while I don’t want to go, I am happy to put on this brand-new Mioe dress. Pear green with an asymmetrical neckline, the silky fabric pours over my curves in the most magical way. It’s not as short as the other dress, thank god, hitting just below my knee. It’s the dress of a woman not on the brink of all her hard work collapsing, which right now, I aspire to be.
“You have an eye for this stuff,” I say to Timothy’s reflection as he steps out of the walk-in. As beautiful as this dress is, my eyes are immediately drawn to the way Timothy wears his Tom Ford dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled, and he has one more button undone than most men would wear that shirt, but it works for him.
“I have an eye for you,” he says.
I turn as he stalks up to me, ready to warn him not to mess up my hair and makeup, but he makes it to my lips first, grabbing me and kissing the hell out of me.
“I have a surprise for you,” he whispers when he pulls back, eyes twinkling.
