Tycoon

  It’s a dance of bodies and a battle of control as we make love, one neither wants to win or lose.

  Then he’s coming—he’s coming with me, and soon he’s lying beside me, his arms around me, his mouth on mine, our breaths too fast for us to speak.

  And me.

  I lay here and stroke my hands over his hair, memorizing the texture. Feeling so alive every one of my senses is acute, feeling so connected I don’t remember being without him.

  Maybe we’re not perfect, but right here, I feel perfect for this man and him for me.

  It just feels as if maybe, by accident, or delusion, or some miracle, or by divine planning, we’re just…right for each other.

  Like I always feared, and partly hoped, we’d be.

  Bryn

  We didn’t sleep much; neither of us seemed to need it. I get up when I smell coffee; it mixes with the smell of him on the sheets. I slip into his sweatshirt, then pad down to the kitchen. It’s Sunday, so his service has the day off. It’s just him, in the kitchen, with coffee brewing, making eggs.

  “You’re up.” He smiles.

  I smile back. This is the first time we wake up together to actually spend the morning with each other.

  I already don’t want it to be tomorrow, Monday, when I need to go back to my place and return to the hectic pacing of work.

  I’m loving it, but I’m loving the off times I get to spend with Christos even more.

  After eggs, toast, and the most delicious dark coffee I’ve ever tasted, we head to Brooklyn. I don’t see him for the rest of the day because I’m busy downstairs selecting the fabrics that we will use for the first House of Sass collection.

  I end up leaving to walk Milly and shoot him a text saying

  I missed you. Did you have a good day?

  Busy but good. See you tomorrow?

  BTW missed you too.

  I smile and sleep peacefully in my bed, hardly remembering why I need to set my alarm clocks at 1 a.m. when I start my routine.

  I meet him early in his office the next morning, full of ideas and curious about his reactions to them.

  “Do you think we could eventually expand the software to service men? I was talking to Jensen and he was complaining about his closet. And I remembered seeing this study proving men’s capability of decisions diminishes with each small decision taken, which is why many successful businessmen, including yourself, always wear the same shoes, same suits, similar ties, all to simplify the small decisions, so that their big decisions regarding their multimillion-dollar businesses are taken with all the brainpower available. That’s what you do,” I tell him. “So with House of Sass software, even for men, the task of choosing their outfit is removed.”

  He leans back in his chair, interested. “Go on.”

  “I’ve also thought of offering skin-color-tone readings from our staff to suggest a complimentary skin-tone palette. The best colors that suit you. We could also have body-shape-style suggestions, suggesting the best cuts.”

  “Inventory my closet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take my inventory. Let’s add it to the software when it’s ready. Let’s see what you’ve got for men…like me.” He winks, and I smile happily and scoot down along his desk, where I’m seated, to sit a little bit closer to him.

  “What do you think of our representatives visiting the homes of our clients in edgy modern mechanic outfits in blue. Kind of the one you used to wear. We’re tuning up their closets, it makes sense.”

  He smiles, glancing at my little dress for a hot second before looking into my eyes. “I’m more for suits.”

  “You didn’t see yourself.”

  He laughs and reaches for the New York Times, which I happen to be sitting on. “Let’s stick to basics. The software sells your product, not the mechanic outfit your reps wear.”

  He opens the paper to continue reading what he was reading before I arrived. On the back of the paper, I spot an article about the release of Café Society. “Woody Allen is my favorite director,” I tell him. “We should go watch that movie.”

  He eyes me above the top of the paper. “You like his one-liners?”

  “I like everything. I feel like he’s the only one doing his own thing, without chasing trends or catering to others. I like that.”

  “He lives just down the block.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “He plays clarinet at the Carlyle every Saturday.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “My God! Annie Hall is like my favorite movie ever!”

  “You want to go?” Before I can protest, he reaches around me and lifts his desk phone. “I’ll get us premium seating right now.”

  “You’re joking.”

  His lips curl, arrogantly so. He punches an extension, gives instruction to his assistant, then hangs up. “Yeah. Maybe I am.” He turns sober, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “I guess Saturday night we’ll see.”

  We arrive early at the Carlyle hotel and take our seats, front and center a few feet from the stage.

  “You know Woody Allen is obsessed with death too? It’s really obvious when you watch his movies. I watched a documentary where he talks about it. I suppose it made me feel less alone, like I wasn’t the only one thinking those things.”

  I flush.

  “Do you feel changed after your mom died?”

  “Sometimes. I find myself thinking things I never would have,” he answers.

  “Like.”

  “Like people who have it bad. Like whether we have as much control of our lives as we think we do.”

  I look at him. “Christos, I’m having a great time this weekend.”

  “So am I.”

  We laugh and then fall sober because we were teasing but the topic maybe wasn’t something to tease about. I’m really serious about him; and I think he’s serious about me.

  Correction: I hope, I really want him to be serious about me too.

  The music starts and Woody fucking Allen takes the stage and begins playing. He looks just like he does on TV. Except real…and so close. My eyes are wide in disbelief, and I blink several times. I feel like I’m staring at a legend.

  Christos’s arm is around my shoulders and I lean into him with my hand on his thigh. I look at my hand, how proprietary its position is. When did I get so possessive? I look up and find him watching me with a curl of his lips.

  “What?” I ask.

  He smiles, silent. I’m pretty sure he won’t share what he’s thinking with me. He leans close to my ear so I can overhear him through the music. “You’re so cute, Miss Kelly.” His breath bathes warmly across my ear.

  I close my eyes, then open them and exhale a shuddering breath. I’m falling faster than a ton of bricks, and into the best man’s arms that could ever catch me.

  What a way to fall, Bryn!

  We take a walk after the show. The night is hot and dry, the city vibrant and alive.

  I’m in a city with so many attractions, so much movement, so many things to do, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now but…here.

  I’m buzzing.

  Every inch of me is buzzing.

  Bryn

  Beepbeepbeepbeep.

  The noise filters into my dreams. I’m instantly awake, fighting to become aware of my surroundings.

  I reach out in the dark to turn off the alarm, peering at the green led lights to confirm it’s 1 a.m. But rather than hit the top of the alarm, my hand hits muscled chest.

  A warm male body lies next to me, and a trickle of warmth fills me as I palpate the chest beneath my hand. Oh my. It’s real?

  Christos slams his hand down on the alarm and shifts his big body—tangled between mine—in bed as he cups me by the back of the head and coaxes me closer to his chest.

  “You’re okay.”

  His lips search mine in the dark, and he kisses me.
r />   I search his features in the dark. “I didn’t dream you?”

  “Nope.” I make out his smile in the shadows. “But maybe I dreamed you.”

  “Haha.”

  I slide my hand up his powerful arm, clutching him closer.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he says, running his lips along my temple as he rolls on top of me. “I’m going to give you a fuck every time these alarms ring.”

  “Oh God,” I gasp.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I said…please.”

  He smiles as he presses his mouth to mine, crushing my mouth and pinning me down with his delicious weight as he enters me.

  I hum deep in my throat.

  God, it feels amazing.

  “I love how you do whatever you want with my body,” I pant.

  “I love the way you hum when we make love, bit.”

  I hum again as he moves. “Do I…?” I ask distractedly. Too delirious by his way of fucking to think straight. “No,” I strain out. “It just…you just feel too good. Hmmm.” I hum deeper, this time more a moan.

  His hips rotate, and then he pistons them forward, his arms rippling as he holds himself above me. “Hum, baby,” he commands. Driving deeper. “Like that.”

  Bryn

  I have a corner office, on the opposite corner of Christos’s floor, until the store and offices are ready. The warehouse we decided upon is across the street, and I can watch from my desk as the workers get it ready for us to move in.

  I’m reviewing some of the designs with Sara—who’s already started to help me as my PA between dog-walking rounds—when I have a call.

  “Mr. Christos,” Sara says, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I bite down on my lip and shoo her away, answering with a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Christos.”

  “We have a problem.”

  I’m surprised by his tone of voice. He sounds bleak and dreary.

  “What is it?” I ask, instant concern lacing my question.

  “I can’t get over the way you hum when you’re in bed beneath me.”

  Pudding becomes my brain, my heart, my bones…

  “Oh, that is a problem,” I say cheekily, propping myself up on my desk and staring down at my legs as if he could see me. “Would you like me to stop by your office later today and try to brainstorm a solution?”

  “No. No solutions. I want you in my office stat—I need you to do it again…and again…” he purrs silkily, “and again…”

  Goodness. This man! I swear my cheeks could not possibly get any redder. “I’ll be right there,” I say in my most professional tone, and I press my thighs together as I hang up and organize my desk. Then I leap to my feet, head to my bathroom, fix my hair, and head over to his office.

  “I’m glad to see you weren’t detained today,” he says.

  I realize he’s referring to our first meeting, to which I’d arrived late. “Oh yes. No need to go to the corporate bathroom anymore when I have my own.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No need to endure gray shoes and pretty shoes and tattoo fucking for fifteen minutes when I’ve got my own man to do.”

  He throws his head back and explodes in laughter.

  I smile, biting my lip, waiting for him to recover. He’s still smiling as his eyes fasten to mine, and his smile gradually fades. “Come here.” He calls me forward.

  I probably shouldn’t continue to mix business with pleasure, in the office, but backing out now seems near impossible. I’m already breathing differently. My whole body feels primed for him—for now. I couldn’t back out now, not even if I wanted to—a part of me needs this too much. I want it too much.

  “We’re in the office.”

  “And.”

  “And we’re making a habit of this. A bad habit.”

  “Come here, bit. I’ll make you feel good.” There’s certainty in his words, and I glance past my shoulder and notice he’s removed his suit jacket. He approaches, pulling me back—flush against his body. His mouth presses to my forehead, and just that tiny contact makes me groan.

  His eyes fully heavy and dilated as he slips his hand between my legs. He pets me there, rubbing my clit with his thumb.

  The touch feels completely wicked—too good. He tugs the zipper of my jeans down and gives them a little yank, and before I know it, he’s pulling them off my legs.

  I forget to be embarrassed because he slides down my legs and leans his head in.

  He breathes against my curls before his tongue snakes out. He loves kissing me there. Tasting me there.

  He wedges his shoulders between my thighs and parts them with his hands, settling in perfectly between my legs. I’ve never been eaten out like this—no rush, only licking and tasting, probing and teasing.

  I want to feel close to him. I want to feel his strength and borrow it.

  My attraction to him is undeniable, the most overwhelming feeling I’ve ever experienced in thirty years. But now I know that I’m falling in love with him, and it exponentiates everything this guy does. It’s frightening, but giving in feels liberating. I’m tired of fighting it, of being scared, of being sad and alone for years. And now here’s this guy, biting my clit, lightly—and I’m constricting into a tiny ball.

  I give in and for a moment, I just want it all. I want all of this man. I want to know what he wants, what he dreams, what makes him up, I want to dissect him and let him dissect me and then I want to put each other together with the wrong pieces, so one piece of him ends up in me, and some of mine end up in him.

  It’s an obsession, an addiction, a complete infatuation.

  I press him closer, groaning.

  He stands up all of a sudden, shoots me a languorous, half-mast stare, a small smirk on his lips that tells me he’s very satisfied with how hot I am for him.

  With a gentle but firm nudge of his feet, he toes my leg farther apart, revealing my sex a little more.

  A shiver of nervousness runs through my body. He notices, smiling a crooked smile as he watches me squirm. “I don’t know that I can go off with your assistant so close…”

  He grabs me by the butt and boosts me up, kissing me as my sex settles against his hardness.

  “You won’t have any choice,” he rasps wickedly.

  “What is this?”

  “Karma.”

  “Haha, really.”

  “It was a long time coming.” He shakes his head in warning. “I’m to have my way with you daily for as long as you live.”

  “Christos, not against the door,” I gasp, pushing at his shoulders so he lowers me.

  I’m flushing, head to toe, as I head to the opposite wall.

  “You’re ravenous,” I accuse.

  “I am.” His eyes glint. “And I’m only recently discovering I’m jealous too. Even of Jensen.” He stalks forward, smirking. “Possessive—I’m feeling very, very possessive too.” He stops before me and tilts his head as he regards me—head to toe and without an ounce of apology. “I want you in every way possible, Bryn.”

  I think I’m breathing a little harder than usual, but I’m trying not to. “Like what ways?”

  He runs his gaze over my face, letting it linger on my throat. “Tie you up, grab you by the back of the neck, so you can hardly squirm. Have my way with you for hours.”

  “You’re kinky.”

  “I’m not kinky.”

  “Well…do you want to gag me too? Typical guy, wanting the woman to just shut up and look pretty and take it.”

  “No. I enjoy that mouth of yours too much.” He circles the back of my neck with his hands, as if measuring how delicate it is. “I want you undone. I want to know that you trust me. I’ve had enough time to fantasize about that, you understand.”

  “It’s about trust,” I say.

  “It’s about watching you lose control. Letting yourself get taken by me, no fear.”

  “You’re the last man I’d trust to do anything. You’re intimidating. Unpredictable. Reckless.”


  “You liar.” He slips his fingers into mine, and my heart kicks as he tugs my arms up.

  “What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly.

  He secures my arms above my head with one hand, grabs his tie, and slowly unknots and slides it from under his shirt collar. Then he wraps it around my wrists.

  He smiles when I squirm, and he grabs my thighs and guides my legs around his hips, then holds them locked by the ankles in one of his hands at the small of his back.

  “That can’t be too hard, can it?”

  “I want you,” I groan.

  He laughs against my cheek, his lips in my ear. “You trust me, little bit?”

  I groan and move my head in both yes and no directions.

  I’m wet but pretending this is all a game, which I guess it is.

  “If I do this, and you get ten minutes to do whatever you want with me, I get the same with you.”

  “That’s not happening.”

  “Are you afraid of not having control?” I ask.

  “I want my hands free to touch you.”

  “I bet I can make you forget all about touching me when you’re being touched the way I want to touch you,” I bluff.

  He laughs, shaking his head, his eyes green with the sunlight streaming through the window and shining. “This is about you. Giving yourself to me.”

  “No, it’s about you,” I contradict.

  “Yeah, it is too,” he says, eyeing me possessively.

  His eyes scan me slowly, secured for him.

  I watch his face, concentrated, as he pulls off his belt and ties it at my ankles. His jaw is set at an angle, his forehead furrowed slightly in concentration. God, a man is tying me, what the fuck is wrong with me? And I’m secretly thrilled about it. Thrilled by the care he puts into it. He’s measuring if he can fit in one finger, adjusting so that it’s not too tight, not too loose.

  “You’ve never done this before?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look at me as he continues fastening the belt. “I am now.” He grins; his gaze darkens when our eyes meet.

  “Why me?” I swallow.

  “For the same reason you’re here with me,” he says softly.