Emma Holly (2 page)

The candidates' files sat open on the granite tiles beneath the table where B.G. lay. One candidate was male, the other female. These reports were part psychological profile, part personal history. Eric had not only directed their compilation, he had summarized them for his boss. It wasn't standard procedure, but Eric himself had taken the long-lens photos for one. That being the case, he knew the files' contents intimately.

"I heard you," he said to B.G. "I'm just not sure which option you'd enjoy more."

This spurred a reaction. Like a leopard waking from a nap, B.G. rolled onto his back and pushed up on his elbows. His chest bore creases from the table's leather seams. Though the marks cut enticingly across his nipples, Eric's eyes drifted farther down. B.G.'s cock was swollen and straight, flushed like his scrotum but not lifted yet. Because his hips were slender, his shaft seemed larger by comparison. With painful clarity, Eric recalled the silkiness of its skin.

As B.G. undoubtedly intended, remembering the pleasure they could share made the waiting worse.

B.G. and Eric had known each other since they were boys, thrown together by well-meaning parents who thought the odd-ball genius needed a friend his own age. Eric sometimes wondered if the Granthams and the Bernes had suspected what they'd begun. From the time he and B.G. were teens, it had been like this between them, a game of do-we-dare and Lord-I-can't-resist. Losing touch for a while hadn't changed their chemistry. B.G. was still the partner Eric couldn't get out from under his skin.

Similarly drawn, if not for the same reasons, Sylvia reached for her client's burgeoning erection. To see a need and not satisfy it went against her nature. B.G. held her off by spreading his hand across her diaphragm. Though his touch was gentle, it made her flinch. No more than that was needed to make her stop. Sylvia might believe in instant gratification, but like everyone at Mosswood, she knew who was boss.

"I want you to choose the candidate
you
would enjoy," B.G. said, his gaze intent on Eric's face. "I want you to consider no one's desires but your own."

"My desires?" Eric repeated. The hair at his nape prickled in a wave. He had to take a step to keep his footing, more off-balance than he could account for by the surprise. Without exception, B.G. always set the rules. He bore the ultimate responsibility for the end result. Changing that seemed vaguely dangerous, as if the haven Eric had found here could be threatened by what he chose.

Why B.G. would want to do this was beyond him.

Watching him, B.G.'s fingers played idly across the shaven skin of his own abdomen. "Yes," he said. "I want to know which of these people you could get most enthused about having. Who would frustrate you more to be deprived of? Who do you wish to help me drive to their brink?"

Eric knew the answer, and had known it even before he passed the name to their investigator to start the file. He'd never had such a strong reaction to a candidate. The thought of having this person here, at B.G.'s estate, under their conjoined control, thrust through his body like a velvet hammer blow. Goose bumps swept his scalp as he hardened with a swiftness B.G. seemed mysteriously able to suppress.

"You know you can't lie to me," B.G. said at his hesitation. "I've known you too long, and I'm too good at reading how you feel."

The knowledge that this was true freed him to respond.

"This one," he said, stooping to pull a picture out of the pile. His hand shook slightly as he held it out.

B.G. nodded, smiling faintly as if the decision was expected. "Good," he said, settling back against the table. "I appreciate your honesty."

B.G. beckoned to Sylvia, who moved eagerly forward and took his shaft between her well-oiled fingers.

B.G. was human enough to shudder at the first contact. Given her personal predilection, the reaction encouraged her to even more exquisite care. She stroked him hand over hand, from root to rim, the rhythm slow and hypnotic while his cock wavered back and forth at each pull—the tides of his blood a force both Eric and she could see.

This time B.G. didn't stop her, though his eyes, glittering within the spikes of his dark lashes, remained on Eric. As if he'd given himself permission to be aroused, he rose to full erection, his veins filling darkly, his untouched crown as taut as a drum.

The visual he presented was tempting in the extreme—and not only to Eric.

"Do you want me to suck you?" Sylvia asked breathlessly.

B.G. reached out but not toward her, the back of his hand brushing the front of Eric's thigh. Trembling now, Eric tried to breathe as steadily as his friend. His own erection felt like a club, hot behind the cloth B.G.'s feather-light caresses tugged. His employer was always gentle, always careful not to hurt. It was the only complaint Eric ever had. Right now, Eric wanted a good, firm grip so desperately he could have screamed.

Images streaked through his mind of taking someone against a wall, of pounding recklessly into them until he came. Who it was he hardly cared, though he couldn't deny the phantom had a face.

The guilt this specificity inspired didn't weaken the fantasy.

"What do you think?" his old friend asked. "Shall I have her take me in her mouth?"

Eric shivered, his inner vision seeing someone besides the masseuse performing the task. Unused to having the power to choose, he took a moment to decide. He had no doubt what Sylvia wanted the answer to be. "Yes," he said, "but don't let her bring you to climax."

B.G.'s hand shifted sideways, his palm closing gently over Eric's crotch. "If I can't come, neither can you."

Eric gritted his teeth. B.G. was already rubbing his erection, probing for vulnerabilities, stretching him impossibly inside his skin. When his longest finger dragged toward the nerve-rich flare, Eric couldn't repress an anticipatory twitch.

His zipper was a barrier he wished his heat could melt.

"Agreed," he gasped, knowing his employer—his rescuer, truth be told—would make it as difficult as possible to comply.

"I want us all to wait," Eric added impulsively. "Nobody gets off until our candidate arrives."

B.G.'s brows quirked in surprise—this edict more his style than Eric's—then relaxed as his eyes briefly closed. Sylvia had bent to surround the upper half of him in her mouth. She held him for a moment, her tongue working against the cap, before beginning to move up and down. As before, her pace was languid, her suction strong. A sheen of sweat broke out on B.G.'s face as his now-rigid cock grew wet.

Sylvia would get him off if he wasn't careful. Then again, "Careful" was pretty much B.G.'s middle name.

Despite the battle for control he must be going through, when he spoke, his voice was only a little husky.

To Eric's relief, he did not seem angry at his demand. "This," B.G. said, "should prove more entertaining than usual."

Eric got the distinct and somewhat unnerving impression that, in addition to making his own choice, he had vindicated B.G.'s.

Charity
Wills was late. Slipping hastily into her nice ergonomic chair, she set her cardboard cup of Seattle's Finest beside her keyboard, far too frazzled to worry about flashing thigh. She had a lot of thigh to flash, as it happened, her legs being long and her skirt being mighty short. She bit her lip as she caught a look at the clock.
Damn
. Four months on this job and she'd yet to make it to her desk on time.

She'd been certain she could be punctual if she tried. She'd rolled out of bed on time for once, then spent the morning checking her watch every other minute and making a determined mantra of
Don't be
late
.

Despite her efforts, it seemed the universe was against her. Right up until the end, she'd been fine. The line at her normally speedy coffee kiosk had only looked slightly longer than usual. Unfortunately, the woman in front of her, a Californian with blazing red hair, had changed her order three times. When the woman had finally turned away with her half-skinny, half-fat caramel macchiato, she'd had the nerve to smile at Charity as if this were the pleasantest morning in the world. Maybe for her it was, but Charity was beginning to think her mother was right. Maybe no Wills woman was destined to set the world on fire.

Exasperated, she blew her dark wavy bangs out of her eyes.

"9:22," noted the guy in the next cube over. "You're getting closer."

His skinny arms were folded on the low dividing wall. He propped his chin on them as he grinned. He was her age: mid-twenties, although his glasses—not to mention his aura of responsibility—made him seem older. He was cute, she supposed, in a geeky sort of way. She just wished he didn't find her imperfections so entertaining. She couldn't help it if she wasn't cut out to be a suit.

Of course, she hadn't been cut out to be a waitress, either. That job had only lasted a month.

"The coffee place was packed," she said, hating that she felt the need to explain. He wasn't her boss, and who cared about twenty-two measly minutes?

His grin took on a gleam of interest as she tugged the hem of her tight black skirt. Generally speaking, she wouldn't have been self-conscious. Charity liked being a girl in every possible way. She liked being ogled, liked having doors held, liked when cars let her cross ahead of them rather than wait. To her, being female was a lovely perk. Sadly, the other women in this office didn't agree. Few Seattleites knew the meaning of dressing up, but here they took it to extremes, wearing serious trousers and plain, button-down shirts—as if working for a high-tech firm required them to dress like men. Though Charity refused to go as far, she had decided to leave her belly-baring tops at home.

Which was a shame, really. Her cubemate would have gotten a charge out of her navel ring.

"You know, Charity," he said, "if I may be so bold as to call you by your name—seeing as how you keep forgetting mine—people at Future-Tech are pretty laid back. No one's going to yell at you as long as your work gets done."

"I know," she whispered back, taking hold of the wall to roll her chair confidingly closer. "I haven't been reprimanded once. But everyone else is on time. In fact, everyone else is early. It's completely freakish.

Nobody should be that eager to get to a job. And anyway, I know your name is Dan."

"Dave," he corrected, laughing softly.

"
Dave
." She knocked her fist against her forehead. "Tomorrow I swear I'll tattoo it on my arm."

"I can think of more interesting places than that," he said, then flushed and cleared his throat. "You should find work you like. Then you won't mind getting out of bed."

His big-brother air was ruined by the fact that the thought of her in bed made him blush as well. Charity immediately felt better about being late. Freakishly punctual or not, her co-worker was human. She was about to razz him when she heard her name being called over the PA.

"Charity Wills," said the smooth female voice. "Please proceed to Human Resources as soon as you're free."

Charity cursed under her breath. This job had been relatively tolerable, but it looked as if her luck had expired. Resigned but defiant, she headed out.

"It's probably nothing," Dave called after her, but she was already stalking grimly down the aisle.

The best thing about working at Future-Tech had been the location. Unlike Microsoft, which had a creepy, overly manicured "campus" out in Redmond, Future-Tech was housed in one of downtown Seattle's sleekest buildings, a tall, round tower with different departments arranged in wedges around a central shaft. As offices went, it was swank. Pale wood floors. High ceilings with exposed struts. Plenty of plants and windows all the way around. The cube walls were low enough that you could actually see the outside world. At the moment, given the city's typical summer morning fog, the view was three hundred sixty degrees of gray. The Space Needle floated to the west of them like a ghost, and Elliott Bay might as well have been Neverland. By afternoon, when the clouds burned off, Charity would be able to see Mt. Rainier… assuming she was still here.

She assured herself she couldn't be fired yet. That, after all, generally required a warning.

She fought a wash of depression that she was getting this familiar with being let go. She didn't think she was a bad employee—just one who danced to her own tune.

As she neared Human Resources, her heart jolted unexpectedly in her chest. A familiar figure sat leaning over his knees in one of the waiting area's chrome-framed chairs. Eric Berne, a vendor who sometimes took her boss out to lunch, was a solidly muscled stretch of good-looking man. Tall and outdoorsy, with squinty gray eyes and sunstreaked hair, he looked like he should be sailing out on the bay. Instead, he poured his broad-shouldered physique into beautifully tailored Saville Row suits that would have cost her a couple months' rent. The first time she'd seen him—on her first day here, interestingly enough—she'd nearly swallowed her tongue. At the moment, his shapely hands were clasped between his knees. His gaze was on the carpet, his brow a pucker of serious thought.

He shouldn't have appealed to her; he wasn't her type at all. Charity liked fun guys, guys who maybe didn't shave every day, guys who knew a Chili Pepper from a Stone. Maybe her boyfriends weren't prizes. In fact, maybe something was wrong with any guy she could get. What mattered was that they were comfortable to be with. That was what counted when the lights went out.

Despite knowing this extremely well, every time she saw Eric Berne—or smelled him, for that matter—her pulse began to patter between her legs. She was so obsessed she was beginning to imagine she saw him everywhere. At the grocery. In the park. Hanging around the tattoo parlor, of all places.

Every time she thought she saw him, he'd be gone when she turned to look—which didn't keep her hormones in check at all. He was just so hot and yummy, so totally out of her league. A guy like Dave she could probably coax into unbending over a beer. This man would spend five minutes with her and know she needed to grow up.

"Um, hello," she said, because they hadn't been introduced and it would seem odd if she knew his name.