The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(17)
Author: Emma Holly

He dropped into his desk chair, swiveling toward the long expanse of windows to stare at the city. August’s sunshine shimmered in sparks and sheets off the old and new buildings. He could see the waterfront from this direction, the wharves and the bright harbor. Boston was never all one thing or another: neither all modern nor historic, neither completely land nor sea . . . kind of like him, when it came down to it.

He remembered the day, two weeks after his and Zane’s fateful dinner, when he’d given in to temptation and returned alone to Wilde’s. He’d purposefully gone during lunch, when Rebecca had said she worked in the kitchen and not out front. He’d emerged with her last name and a pounding long-term hard-on. Simply coming as close to her as that had sent a storm through his libido.

The reaction was enough to shock him to sanity. He hadn’t tried to contact her. He’d pushed the thought of her behind him, telling himself his crazy ideas about her had to be in his head. Love at first sight was silly. What he felt for Rebecca Eilert wasn’t any more than a crush.

Eventually he’d stopped dreaming about her sad gray eyes. Eventually he no longer wondered if anyone but him had noticed how profoundly alone she was.

Being more romantic than Zane didn’t make him an idiot.

Or maybe it did, because when he saw her application for the executive chef’s position, he hadn’t torn it up. The letter she’d sent along had been literate, humorously thorough, and inadvertently neurotic. The things she didn’t realize she was saying charmed him as no female had for years. He had his assistant schedule her to cook before he could stop himself.

He’d changed his clothes twice this morning, taking extra care to close-trim the stubble most women seemed to love. As they rode in the limo—Zane to the airport and he to work—Zane had accused him of having a hot lunch date. He’d been teasing, but Trey had blushed like a teenager. He hadn’t told Zane he was interviewing chefs, though they both had a stake in the future Bad Boys Lounge. Truthfully, he couldn’t tell him. Rebecca was the only applicant he’d seen.

Trey was acting like a cheating husband. He needed to cut it out. He’d almost convinced himself he would when he stepped into that kitchen.

His heart had jumped in his chest like it had at Wilde’s. It’s her, sang his imagination. She’s in the same room with me. His skin had tingled at her presence, his every cell humming with aliveness.

Her littleness was a mule kick to his breadbox.

She had the same short blonde haircut, like she’d settled on a style and couldn’t be bothered to change it. Her eyes were still huge, still haunted by shadows and mulishness. She was wirier than he remembered, as if she didn’t—or maybe couldn’t—leave a restaurant’s heavy lifting to underlings. The tension in her handshake astonished him. She was like a racehorse who never, ever allowed herself to relax. He shouldn’t have found that sexy. He shouldn’t have wanted to strip her na**d and massage her all over.

“I’m insane,” he said aloud to the high ceiling.

He’d been disappointed when she didn’t remember him, though he’d been a solitary restaurant patron in Lord knew how many. That should have convinced him he was deluded. If they’d been soul mates or whatever nursery tale he was spinning, surely she’d recognize him too.

He let his head thunk forward onto his blotter. Maybe if her food hadn’t been so fracking amazing, maybe if he hadn’t watched her glow like a sun at his praise, he’d have been able to stop flirting with disaster. Unfortunately, Trey had eaten a lot of world-class meals, from Paris to Sonoma. Rebecca’s was right up there with the best of them.

She deserved this job. Hell, she’d be great at it. Worst of all, to go by what his research had uncovered about her leaving Wilde’s, Rebecca needed it.

It wasn’t fair to turn her down just because he found her treacherously attractive.

“Crap,” he said, caught in the quandary.

Unused to being indecisive, he sat up to absently rub the ache in his crotch. Too late he realized where his hand had gone. She’d done it to him again. He was as hard as a teenager, his horny c**k a pole in his underwear.

Had it been like that when he ate her food, when he’d squeezed the knotted muscle at her shoulder?

He groaned at the memory of how it felt to touch her. He’d been so focused on her he couldn’t have sworn what his own body was doing.

What if she’d seen her effect on him?

Heat seemed to explode in his groin. Sometimes his kinks really were ridiculous. So what if she’d noticed his hard-on? Rebecca was a grown woman—and attractive. Men had to throw wood for her now and again.

Other men throwing wood for her wasn’t the most helpful topic to calm him. Giving in to what he couldn’t fight, he unzipped his trousers and shoved a hand inside. God, handling himself felt good, especially when—apparently—he’d needed to for a while. He didn’t bother with the jar of Albolene in his bottom drawer. He kept the infamous jack off aid there for Zane. Trey enjoyed the chafing of his bare palm, the sexual burn that edged on discomfort. Gritting his teeth, he pumped his erection quickly, concentrating the strokes toward the top where his nerve endings were thickest. He was too impatient to tease himself, besides which he had a conference call in ten minutes. He needed this release now.

She was here, he thought, his mind running a bit away with itself. I had her hand in mine. I could have bent down and tongue-kissed her.

He saw himself slamming her na**d against the stainless steel walk-in door. She was so petite he’d have no trouble trapping her with his weight. Off her feet would be good, her thighs hugging his waist, her lush pink mouth pressed tight to and sucking his. She’d gasp when he slid his throbbing penis inside of her. Compared to her, he’d feel really big. Maybe he’d have to saw in and out to get in; maybe tease her cl*t so her wetness would ease his way. He wished he knew what her pu**y looked like, wished he knew how she kissed.

Pressure built in his scrotum, balls jerking toward the base of his erection. He yanked his flesh harder from his body, abusing it, willing the tension that rose in him to crest.

She’d called him Mr. Hayworth. Maybe he could tie her to a worktop and force her to call him Trey.

The thought of her strong little wrists and ankles bound up in leather sent his excitement rocketing. Maybe he’d truss her all over, from thighs to waist to dark crisscrosses between her br**sts. He pictured suckling her ni**les, imagined rolling them on his tongue. His breath came from him in hard quick pants as he ground his ass cheeks into the office chair. The extra friction on his tailbone made all his sensations better; made him picture her in even more detail. Knowing he was nearly there, he tugged his c**k faster. Though it wasn’t smart, the fantasy was so good he couldn’t let go of it.