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I frown as I place the phone on the side table. Why would the New York Times be sending any messages to Zara? From what she said, she’s not a socialite and definitely not in business. And even though she is pretty, I know she isn't a model or an actress. Is she in PR?
The question pounds in my head. Is she trying to catch me? Am I really a stranger to her, or has she been planning this the entire time? I think back to the shy smile she'd given me at the bar and the coquettish looks. I don't think she planned this, but I know women can fool men easily. I know when a woman is trying to trap you that she can do many things. I look at Zara's innocent face as she sleeps, wondering if this was a setup from the beginning.
I try not to think about it and bring my attention back to my phone. My dad has called me five more times and left several messages. But even worse than that, my mother has called me as well. And I know that if he's gotten my mother involved, it's important. I take a deep sigh. I’ll have to call him in the morning once I leave Zara.
I think about getting out of bed then and just leaving her. That way, she would understand that she hadn't trapped or gotten me. She doesn’t have any good information for an article. I mean, who would want to write an article about having a one-night stand with one of the richest men in the country, only for him to leave you in bed by yourself?
She shifts next to me, and I freeze, wondering if, somehow, subconsciously, she's realized I'm awake, but she doesn't stir. Instead, she murmurs something under her breath. I lean closer to see if I can decipher what she's saying.
"What’s your fantasy, written by Zara Hathaway," she mumbles under her breath, and it only makes me angrier.
So she is a journalist, I think to myself. I wonder what her endgame is. I wonder what piece she is trying to write about me and my family.
I turn over, put my back to her, and close my eyes. I want to shout at her, tell her off, but I don't care enough. I've not given her any information that would be damaging to myself or the family. She's not a great journalist because she has not mentioned or asked me anything. But maybe she’s smart enough to know that bringing it up in the beginning was not going to yield much information.
I have a feeling that when she wakes up in the morning, she'll start asking me sly, little questions. She'll most probably push me on my back and get on top of me, ride me like a cowgirl, and then she'll start asking me, "Do you have any interest in working for the family corporation? What is the reason why you work for Rosser International instead of your own family business that's worth billions?" I have a feeling I know exactly what she wants to know, but she isn't going to get the answers from me.
I'll make sure that she won't even attempt to ask the questions. I'll make sure that she knows in no uncertain terms that all this is to me and for me, is one night. It means nothing. It’s sex. S-E-X.
I let out a deep sigh and rub my forehead. I feel all my anger building inside me, but I know most of it isn't toward her. It's toward my dad. She is just doing her job, and if I’m honest with myself, the sex has been amazing. She's been amazing the entire night. She’s captivated me with the way she laughs and smiles and the way she acted like she hadn't been fucked in years. Everything about the way she reacted to me has been like a dream come true. My cock twitches as it relives the feeling of being inside of her pussy. Oh, how gloriously tight and wet it had been.
I get out of bed and head toward the bathroom. I know that sleep will not be coming anytime soon, so I might as well have a shower. I must've stood under the water for at least twenty minutes because by the time I'm out, Zara is awake and her big brown eyes are staring at me sleepily.
"Are you okay?" she asks with a slight yawn, stretching. My eyes immediately move to her breasts and her hard nipples.
"I'm fine. Just needed to clean up," I say gruffly as I sit on the bed next to her. "Did you sleep well?"
"I'm still sleeping," she says, groaning when she looks over at the alarm clock on the side table. "It's only four o'clock in the morning."
"You're telling me you don't wake up this early?"
"No, I don't wake up this early. Are you crazy?" She pauses. "Oh my God. Please don't tell me you're crazy. Please don't tell me I had a one-night stand with a psycho."
"Well, do you see any duct tape or rope?"
"No. Why?" she asks, sitting up slightly.
"Because if I were crazy, I'd have duct tape over your mouth, and your wrists would be tied together with rope," I say, winking at her. "That's how the psychos do it."
"And I guess people who are into BDSM," she says, blushing.
"Oh, so are you into BDSM?" I ask her in surprise.
"No. Well, I mean, I've never tried it. I've read a couple of romance books where the heroines were into it. And it seemed like it was cool, but then I was like, 'I'm not really into pleasure and pain.' And…" She pauses. "Well, you don't need to know all that."
"No, pray tell. There are romance books about BDSM?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't know."
"Well, do you really read romance?" she asks.
"No." I chuckle. "I have absolutely no interest in reading romance."
"I bet you read political thrillers and stuff, huh?"
"Maybe," I say, nodding, forgetting for a moment that I believe her to be a journalistic spy who's trying to get information about me and my family so she can write an exposé for the New York Times. "So, you're still sleeping or…"
"I'm still sleeping," she says, nodding and closing her eyes. "I'm fast asleep, and I'm not going to wake up for hours."
"Do you always sleep talk?" I ask her.
