Wicked Billionaire - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,29

doesn’t say a word.

I make it to the door, open it, and finally let out a sigh of relief as I cross the threshold.

My job is intact.

For now.

CHAPTER 11

Declan

“Miss Robbins,” I call out, my voice not overly loud but with enough force to carry out my office door and across to Bailey’s cubicle where she’s been diligently working all day without even taking time out for lunch.

Her body immediately pops up out of her chair, and she grabs her iPad with its Bluetooth pen. As she hustles into my office, I take a moment to admire her.

Physically, of course. That’s all I have at this moment… an appreciation of the way she rocks the mustard-yellow pantsuit. The crisscross swath of silk that wraps around her upper body does lovely things to her tits, and I realize I’m quite the pig to be thinking about her this way.

But fuck… can’t seem to stop thinking about her in that way. It’s why I knew us crossing the line would be a bad idea; because, deep down, I knew she would never fade into the background of my memories.

I knew it would never be a one and done like we agreed on.

Since she reclaimed her job—and let’s face it, I didn’t really have the heart to let her go—this past week has been tense. We are both being overly professional, our words crisp and efficient. Miss Robbins or Mr. Blackwood are the only names to leave our lips, although I do wonder if she still calls me Dicklan in her head.

Fuck, that’s funny. It’s a nickname that would often be deserved, as I don’t spare my thoughts and actions to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.

As she enters my office, she schools her face into one of pleasant helpfulness. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood.”

But despite the air of submissiveness she attempts to cloak herself in as my employee, I can still see, simmering just in the near depths of her eyes, a bit of hostility. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me for firing her, but that’s okay. I’ve not forgiven her for forcing her way back into my world and making my life a bit more miserable for it.

I decide to test her, just now, to see if she’s really indifferent as she likes to pretend. As I describe a current dilemma with a linen supplier for the resort’s restaurants, I undo my cuff buttons and make a show of rolling up my sleeves.

My goal is to see precisely how affected Bailey still is.

Because she’s shown signs.

Sometimes, I catch her staring. When I’m working in my office with the door open, I’ll glance toward my door. Almost pensively, she’ll be covertly studying me. It’s obvious she’s not thinking about business because her cheeks redden, then she’ll hastily jerk her gaze back to her computer screen.

Just two days ago, when I had her attend a business lunch with me, I caught her staring at my mouth. And not in a way that implied she found capital investments interesting, but rather in remembrance of what those lips did to her.

Christ, her dreamy expression had thrown me off my game. For the remainder of the meeting, I fantasized about dragging her to a bathroom stall and fucking her.

And the staring obviously went both ways, except I was more subtle.

She even invaded my dreams at night. On more than one occasion, I woke from a sound sleep with clear recollections of erotic dreams, starring Bailey. They’d be so realistic my cock would be achingly hard and ready to erupt. Within moments of jerking myself, I’d explode all over my stomach, yet be left with a horrid empty feeling after release.

Bottom line—because I can’t have her, it only makes me obsess over wanting her more. I could head off to The Wicked Horse, then fuck her memory out of my system. Hell, I could do it with a different woman every night.

But I haven’t.

And I don’t know why.

It just… it doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

Goddamn it… Bailey Robbins fucking broke me.

About the only thing that would make me feel better about it would be if I broke her, too, which is why I’m playing this little game. To see how she reacts to me.

“I have a new spreadsheet to start organizing data in,” I say, continuing to roll up my sleeves.

Now, I’m not saying my forearms are the sexiest part of my body. If someone asks Bailey Robbins, I hope her answer would be my cock. But I work out seven days