Devil In A Suit (Book Two) Read online

  Devil In A Suit (Book Two)

  Ivy Carter

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Devil In A Suit (Book Two) by Ivy Carter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Copyright © 2016 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

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  Devil In A Suit (Book Two) by Ivy Carter

  Chapter 1

  When I get home, I feel like I’ve just been yanked out of a wonderful dream that’s ended in a nightmare. My body feels loose, but my head feels fuzzy. Everything seems sort of tilted.

  I’m back in my apartment, where I was just a few hours earlier, but nothing’s the same.

  As I stare around at my shabby furniture, the mostly bare shelves, the brick wall outside my one and only window, I realize there will always be a before and an after for me now.

  Before I walked into that restaurant and after. Before I let Jared King put his lips on me and after.

  Before I knew how good I could feel and after.

  It should have been amazing. But instead the after feels like trudging through thick sand.

  What does it mean that Jared had shut down like that? Will there be, as Jared said earlier at the restaurant, “another time?” Will I never feel his lips on mine again?

  The questions spin in my head until I start to feel like I’m on a merry-go-round. And as I spin out, I start to get angry. Not at him, but at myself. I can’t believe I let myself think it was going to happen — that I wanted it to happen — only to have him brush me off so abruptly. I knew his reputation. I knew how he’d treated me before. Why did I think it could be any different? Why did I think Jared, King of the Brushoff, would do anything less with me?

  Why did I think I was special?

  After taking a desultory shower and then getting into some comfy shorts and a t-shirt, I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to just sleep and forget all of this.

  But try as I might to go unconscious, memories of the night keep playing on a loop.

  The way he looked like he wanted to possess every part of me when he said I knew I wanted to fuck you. The way my body warmed from the inside out when I heard those words. His strong hand on my back guiding me through the restaurant and into the car. The feeling of his thumb brushing across my nipples, his fingers gliding over my skin and inside me. His tongue and his breath and the hum of his lips as he brought me all the way to the edge, then roughly pushed me over.

  I can’t believe that after all that, I’m simply lying in bed alone.

  And so I do the only thing I can think of.

  I call Janet. And despite the late hour, she’s more than happy to listen when I start telling her about the restaurant and the limo. I tell her, with just a little bit of stumbling and blushing, about what happened between us in the backseat. The one thing I haven’t told her, was that this dashing sex god was Jared King.

  I know what she’d say if I admit the truth. The same thing I’ve been saying to myself. Mistake. Disaster. Playing with fire. Gonna get burned.

  I don’t need to hear it from her, not when I’m already mortified by my own stupidity and gullibility. To have started to believe that Jared King actually gave a crap about me—that is just sheer stupidity.

  “A coworker,” I tell her when she asks, because I don’t want to hear her judgment. Or maybe I just don’t want to hear her tell me what I know to be the truth, that getting involved with your boss, who is the CEO of the biggest firm in the one and only industry you want to work in, is not just a bad idea, but the worst of ideas.

  Luckily, the description of my orgasm in the back of the car is enough to distract her from too many questions as to the true identity of my mystery date.

  “Jesus, if I knew staying a virgin until I was twenty-two would get me the holy grail of orgasms in the back of a limo, I might have waited, too,” she says now. “I guess this guy went all out, getting a limo for a date, huh?” he says. “He must really like you.”

  “I don’t know. I guess,” I say, hoping we can move on.

  “It’s not a typical date car is all,” she continues.

  “I think he comes from money,” I say.

  “Well, he obviously took advantage of the perks of having a limo for the night, didn’t he?” Janet chuckles.

  Janet has never had my nervousness around all things sex. As a funky free spirit in the art department in college, she’d had her fair share of painters and potters and performance artists (and even that one organic chemistry major who she said made her toes curl), and I’d been more than happy to serve as her sounding board.

  She’s more than happy to return the favor, apparently.

  “Anyway, I don’t know if it was the holy grail of orgasms,” I reply. “It’s not like I have much to compare it to.”

  “Quinn, you were panting while you were describing it. That’s a pretty fucking good orgasm.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still a virgin.”

  Janet sighs. “I know you’re disappointed. Hell, so am I, because I’m sadly single and would frankly love to hear what this man can do when given access to a bed and a few hours,” she says. I have to stifle a groan just thinking about it. “But I think you’re reading too much into this. What if it was a work thing? Maybe a deal fell apart? Or his bookie! Maybe he’s a gambler, and that guy was there to kneecap him, break his legs.”

  “That’s not making me feel much better,” I tell her, but I feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Janet always knows how to cheer me up.

  “Broken legs heal,” she says, and finally I’m laughing.

  “And I’m here to tell you that in my experience, legs have very little to do with the serving up of delicious orgasms.”

  Still, I don’t think that was his bookie. Jared King doesn’t strike me as a gambler. He always seems much too in control for that. I guess it could be a business thing. He’s had a few major accounts on his desk all at once lately. Any one of them could be in trouble. Like, for instance, the Rochester account, which I screwed up so royally today. Maybe the man on his stoop had something to do with it, and seeing him reminded Jared of my epic fuck up. Maybe that’s why he sent me home. Or maybe it didn’t have to do with work at all.

  Jared looked furious to see the man standing there. It wasn’t really so different than any of the other times I’d seem him do that silent simmer thing in the office. Jared King never yells. Instead he gets eerily still, his voice so low he forces you to strain to hear it, just another flexing of his power over you. His entire demeanor gives off that of a spring wound as tight as it can go, and any minute he could release the pressure and rain down fire and brimstone.

  It’s almost worse that he never does. That low boil that somehow also runs ice cold is like the calm before a hurricane, and all you can do is plan how you’re going to get the hell out of there and hope you make it. So it’s not a big stretch to imagine that man standing on his stoop there to deliver news that the company had lost a client or a massive sum of money.

  Still, th
ere was something about the image of them face-to-face, squared off, Jared with his lips in a firm line, his fists clenched, that tells me there’s something else there. Something more. But at least I can be fairly certain it wasn’t anything to do with me.

  Or at least I can hope.

  I thank Janet for talking me off the ledge, and she makes me swear up and down that as soon as I get a good look at his dick I’ll call her with all the details.

  “Help a single gal out, ok?” she says through a stifled yawn. “With a tongue like that, he’s gotta be packin’ heat.”

  I laugh. “Will do,” I tell her. I’m glad this a phone call and not a gab session over coffee, because I’m red as a tomato right now.

  I hang up, crawl back under the covers, and let my mind drift back to the moment in the car with Jared gazing up at me from between my legs. I feel a rush of heat through my body with the memory, and without thinking I close my eyes and let my fingers creep beneath the sheets. They find the edge of my panties and slip beneath them, where I’m as slick as I was back in the car, my skin still swollen with excitement. Just the memory of him turns me on as much as the reality. I let my fingers slip over my clit, gasping as I imagine his tongue pressing hard into me yet again.

  My free hand grips a fist full of the sheets, my muscles straining, as I feel an orgasm build right alongside the memory of the one from before. My fingers work furiously, slipping over and inside as I picture his brown eyes watching me stand perched on the cliff, the glint in his eye as he watched me fall over it. And then my body explodes with sensation as I watch the scene over and over again in my mind’s eye, like a skipping record, until I finally fall asleep.

  Chapter 2

  I walk into the office the following morning exhausted (turns out reliving the best orgasm of your life ad infinitum makes for a poor night’s sleep), but hopeful. My muscles are sore from multiple orgasms, and I have to stifle a yawn as I take my seat at my desk. I take a sip from my cup of coffee. I have four hours to get myself awake and ready to see him again. At lunch I’ll be covering the reception desk, and hopefully then I’ll get an explanation from Jared as to what happened last night at the end.

  And, if there is a god in heaven, a rain check on our plans.

  I dressed carefully this morning — no baby pink cardigan for me. Instead I selected the black pencil skirt that hugged my hips and ass like I was a comic book secretary. I paired it with a fitted button up, not quite buttoned all the way up, with my one and only pushup bra beneath it.

  I wound my hair up in a loose twist, and gave myself the perfect daytime smokey eye. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a twenty-two year old virgin. I saw a woman who wants a man to do unmentionable things to her.

  And dammit I really, really do.

  I’m midway through trying to reconcile receipts from a conference in Vegas with their designated budget codes and wondering just how I’m going to make a visit to the Cheetah Lounge work as a write-off when my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen, see “Mom” flash across it, and sigh. I know exactly what she’s going to say. She’s been trying to get me to make the hour and half commuter rail trip out to Worcester to have dinner with her and dad. I’ve been avoiding it, because I find meals at their house sort of depressing.

  My parents have been married for just over twenty-five years, but I don’t think they’ve stayed together because of their passion for one another. Their relationship began as a partnership between two good Catholic kids on the verge of graduating high school, and it’s seemed more like a business relationship every since.

  I’m partially convinced that my mom’s desire to have me out to the house is just so she’ll have someone to talk to. My dad’s a great guy, but he doesn’t have much to say. And because I’ve been avoiding making the trip, I’ve also been avoiding her calls. But I know I’ve gotta answer one soon, or I may find her on my doorstep.

  “Hello?” I say, picking up the phone.

  “Quinn! Oh I’m so glad I finally got you!” My mom’s Massachusetts accent comes through the line like an ice pick. It makes me think of winter nights huddled by the fireplace with bowls of her famous clam chowder, and I feel a surprising pang of homesickness. “How are you dear?”

  “I’m good,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. Half the office gossip comes from the assistants listening in on phone calls over the cubicle walls.

  “Really? You sound tired.”

  I stifle a yawn and then try to make my voice as bright as possible. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Are you sure they’re not working you too hard at that company?”

  Immediately my mind flashes back the car and Jared between my legs. Working me hard indeed.

  “I’m fine, Ma,” I say. “Really.”

  “Oh good. Well then it sounds like you’ll have time to come out for dinner? I was thinking of making lasagna on Sunday. Your favorite!”

  My stomach grumbles, because mom’s lasagna is my favorite, and other than my meal last night at Renew (which I barely tasted because I was so overcome with nerves), my meals have been mostly relegated to the two cheapest food groups: cereal and instant soup, with the occasional peanut butter and jelly thrown in for kicks.

  I sigh, too tired to come up with an excuse. Still, I can’t imagine making the trip out in just three days, nor do I want to fill up my weekend before I’ve had a chance to check in with Jared. After all, he still might want to see me again.

  So I meet her halfway.

  “Not this weekend, but next. Is that ok?”

  “You sure?” I hear her voice rise, so full of hope it damn near breaks my heart.

  “I promise. Next Sunday, I’ll be there.”

  She chatters on for a few more minutes about the gossip from the ladies auxiliary and the parents currently making her crazy on the PTA before I tell her I’ve got to get back to work.

  The rest of the morning moves torturously slowly. I sit at my cubicle in the bullpen, where all the entry-level employees sit to slog through the lowest-level tasks, and comb through expense reports. For being a junior copywriter, I’ve written exactly no copy.

  Even though the expense reports make my eyes cross, I make sure every time is correct. And when I’m done, I double check. By lunchtime, my vision is blurry from staring at line after line of Excel spreadsheets, but as soon as I see the clock approach noon, I feel shot through with a new burst of energy.

  Jared.

  I take the elevator to the top floor, trying to keep my heart rate from rising along with the elevator. I can feel a blush starting low in my chest, and I fan myself to keep it from climbing up into my neck. When the door slides open, Alec is already packing up his bag to head out for lunch.

  “How is he today?” It’s a common question as we trade off the desk to help us stay out of his way when Jared is in beast mode. But today I’m asking so much more.

  “Dunno,” Alec replies with a shrug. “He was in there when I arrived this morning and hasn’t come out since. I’ve only talked to him to transfer his calls or give him messages, and he’s not very talkative, as you know.”

  I nod and turn this information over in my mind as I watch Alec gather his things and prepare the desk for me.

  Under normal circumstances, Alec would be someone I’d be interested in. He might even give me a little warm flutter deep in my belly with his sandy, surfer-boy hair and wide smile.

  He graduated Stanford last year and is, like me, hoping to work his way up from the bottom at King Advertising. I’d danced with him once at a bar during my first week. I’d tagged along on a post-work happy hour to a bar near Fenway hoping to make some work friends. We’d traded office gossip over cheap beer.

  It was fun, but I didn’t feel much spark. He was more like a best guy friend, and when he never mentioned taking it any farther, I assumed he had the same idea.

  “Back in an hour,” he says, and then makes a beeline for the elevator and freedom.

  I take my seat at t
he desk and hold my breath, waiting for Jared to buzz me. He knows I’m here every day at lunch. Surely my phone will ring any moment so he can apologize for last night, maybe even explain. But as the seconds turn into minutes, the lunch hour ticking by with no call, I get more and more anxious.

  It’s the ding of the elevator that finally jerks me out of my shame spiral. The doors slide open, and Caitlyn from design is standing there. A petite waif with a raven pixie cut steps out.

  “Hey, Quinn,” she says.

  “Hi, Caitlyn.” I smile, but all I can think about is her in the copy room yesterday, talking about Jared bending her over, and I feel a flash of anger, quickly followed by a moment of victory. I’m sure none of them ever imagined that of everyone in the office, it would be me who finally got what they all wanted. Or half of it, anyway. My smile grows wider.

  “I’m here to relieve you,” Caitlyn says, all smiles like she’s doing me a favor.

  And then my smile drops. “Relieve me?” I blink at her, sure I heard her wrong, or trying to find a different meaning in what she’s saying.

  “Yeah, Barbara from HR called and said I’d be covering Mr. King’s desk during lunch. So you’re free!” She giggles, then stands over me expectantly. But I don’t want to go. I don’t want her covering Jared’s desk. I want to cover Jared’s desk.

  And then a realization comes crashing over me: Jared asked for this. He requested someone else cover his desk so he wouldn’t have to see me or talk to me. Sometime between his tongue on my clit and him getting out of the car, he decided that he’d made a mistake with me, and instead of telling me to my face, he is simply sending me away.

  I want to be angry, but instead I’m thoroughly crushed. And embarrassed. That I let myself think that he’d actually want me. That I let myself believe this would end in any other way.