Page 183 of On A Manhunt: Complete Series

EVE

There he was. Making coffee. Naked. Silas James.

Still no curtains and his back door was all glass.

Since my alarm went off and I started watching, he’d walked through the hallway several times.

Four, actually, since I was counting. Full frontal–and rear–action.

I didn’t see him in fine detail like I had in the conference room, but I wasn’t complaining.

I whimpered, wanting him again. I hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Yesterday, in the James Corp office? Oh my God. I wasn’t sure if I could look Bridget in the eye ever again.

It had been worth it. Sooooooo worth it.

Silas and I were good together. The chemistry was insane. There was no denying it. He felt the same way. He’d pretty much said so.

I wanted him. I wanted more of that huge package that hung thick and heavy between his sturdy thighs. His intensity. Dirty talk. The way he couldn’t seem to control himself with me.

I wondered if I made the right decision turning down the James Corp loan. It would be a binding contract. There would be terms. Interest. Silas wouldn’t be lording anything over me like I said because if I met the rules of the deal, there was nothing he could do.

No. NO!

He was a billionaire. They had lawyers. Their lawyers had lawyers. If they wanted to fuck with me, they could. They could find something about the contract, some tiny loophole and I might lose my business.

I didn’t think Silas was that kind of guy. Bridget liked him so I had to have faith in her nice-meter to trust that things were on the up-and-up. But last night, Cheney had called, and he made me question all men. It went like this:

“How’s the business going?”

“Fine.”

“Really? I’d think your bills are coming due.”

“Yes. And then they’re paid. That’s how credit works.”

“Mmm, well, when we’re married, you won’t have to work or worry about bills. Or making coffee for others. You won’t have to make coffee for yourself. We’ll have servants for that.”

“Servants that we’ll pay with money from my trust fund?”

“It’s a better use of it than paying for napkins and slutty pink t-shirts.”

His snark and passive aggressiveness was impressive, especially since my pink t-shirts were far from slutty. Actually, he wasn’t being passive at all. He outright said he was marrying me for my money. And my parents were all for it.

He was using money against me. Not just any money. My money.

I wasn’t doing that again with Silas and the small business loan.

I was learning the very hard way from Cheney, but I wasn’t falling for it twice.

No business with exes. What’s the saying? Don’t shit where you eat. How about, Don’t have sex where you want a business loan.

I kept blaming Cheney, but he wasn’t the only one I was angry with. My father was the one who made Cheney executor. He was pivotal… no, instrumental, in this whole mess.

They expected me to fall into line, to do with my life as they wanted.

Nothing else. I was to become Cheney’s wife and mother of his children.

Nothing else. I could spend my money any way I wished as long as I made my parents–and Cheney–happy.

They didn’t care about my happiness. How had I made it all these years okay with this mess?

I’d blindly gone along with what they’d wanted for me.

Maybe it had been the distance of boarding school and college that had me missing all the signs.

The cardigans and pearls shoved in the back of my closet were indication enough that I’d played along.

But I wasn’t any longer. Still, it hurt. Parents were supposed to be supportive of a child’s dreams, not make them take on theirs. They were forcing my hand and expected me to give in. The ultimatum was clear: My coffee shop or my family. I couldn’t have both.

I chose the shop. I could make a family of my choosing instead of a family by blood.

I’d find some other way to get the money. Any which way.

But sex with Silas was happening. I was still sore from the day before. He was a thorough, vigorous and a beautifully rough lover. I’d come and come hard. He’d ensured I did and first. Who knew chivalry was dead? My pussy didn’t.

I wasn’t taking his money, but I could have his dick all I wanted. At the bar, he’d given it to me. At his office, he’d given it to me again. Then he texted last night and offered it once more and I’d missed it! The text and his dick. I never heard the notification.

I went to bed by eight. Eight, like a toddler or a coffee shop owner, only finding the message when I woke up.

Next you’ll be on top. I can watch your tits bounce as you ride me.

O.M.G. I squirmed and pretty much had a mini-orgasm as I read it, knowing Silas was just as eager. Thinking about me too. Wanting me. Pictured us together.

I wanted to be on top. As I watched Silas through my window, I imagined just that.

Him propped up in bed, me straddling his solid thighs and taking all of him into me. I’d have to hold on to his shoulders, push off for leverage because that dick was BIG.

Would it fit in that position?

Through his window, Silas picked up his cell. He began to pace… yes! Into the hallway so I could take in every sturdy, muscly, hard inch of him. Of what I could now have, anytime. Even before dawn?

I grabbed my cell. Texted a response.

I’m game.

He paused—thank you baby Jesus–in the hallway and stared down at his phone. I watched as he typed on it. Not his fingers, but lower. Yeah, I stared at him there.

My phone pinged. He was texting me. Naked!

I’m leaving in an hour for San Francisco. Now I’m hard. Fuck.

Yes, he was. I could actually see his dick getting harder. Because of me. He gripped it, gave it a long stroke. Holy shit, he was so turned on he had to ease the ache. I completely understood. He stopped and typed another text.

When I come back next. You. Me. A bed. All night.