He definitely wants me—of that, I have no doubt. Instead of fading, the fire between us burns hotter with each passing day, the sexual chemistry getting more intense with time. Now that we’re living together, it feels like all I have to do to turn Marcus on is breathe—and all he needs to do is look at me. And no matter how many times he takes me, or how hot and kinky our encounters get, it’s never enough. Anal, oral, or straight missionary; rough fucking or tender lovemaking—we do it all, and we still want more of each other.
Could that be what Marcus meant when he called me a prize? Was he referring to this off-the-charts chemistry between us?
By Sunday night, I’ve almost convinced myself to say the words regardless, but at the last moment, I chicken out. Instead, I show Marcus how I feel by worshipping every inch of his body the way he worships mine, and then giving him a massage to de-stress him before tomorrow morning’s presentation.
“How many people will be there?” I ask, spreading coconut oil over the broad, hard-muscled plane of his back. “In general, how big is this Alpha Zone organization?”
“It’s only a few hundred people,” he replies, stretching into my touch like a lazy cat—the big jungle kind, not my fluffy kitties. “But it’ll be broadcast live, and reporters from every major news outlet will be there.”
I knead the heavy muscles of his shoulders. “Is that where you did your famous tire company presentation? The one that destroyed the stock?”
“Yes, a couple of years back.” He yawns. “You know about that?”
“Of course, who doesn’t?” I’d read up on it more in recent days, and apparently, Marcus hadn’t just scoured his target’s public filings and interviewed hundreds of tire dealers; to learn about the manufacturing defects and the company’s use of slave labor, he’d had people undercover at the actual factories in China. His methods had been both brilliant and borderline illegal, his attack on the stock unprecedented in both its scope and ferocity.
The Netflix documentary called his presentation “a torpedo aimed at the very heart of a rotten citadel” and labeled Marcus “a modern-day buccaneer”—a description I found perversely hot, fitting as it does into my most non-PC pirate fantasies.
When I look down, though, I find the buccaneer himself out for the count, my massage having performed the rare feat of getting my inexhaustible sex robot to fall asleep before me.
Grinning, I climb off him, wipe the oil off my hands with a tissue, turn off the lights, and spread out next to him. I’m already drifting off to sleep when I feel his powerful arms wrap around me, tucking me against his hard body. Blowing out a contented breath, I burrow deeper into his warm embrace and vow that tomorrow is the day.
When Marcus returns from his presentation, no matter what happens or how scared I get, I’ll tell him how I feel.
43
Marcus
I’ve never been prone to fear of public speaking—it’s just as easy for me to give a presentation in front of hundreds as to speak to a few of my PMs—but I can’t deny that my adrenaline levels spike before every Alpha Zone, the knowledge of what’s at stake revving up my heart rate and sharpening my focus.
Since Emma’s massage knocked me out earlier than planned, I wake up at four and spend the next two hours going through every number in my presentation. My pitch today is about an undervalued biotech stock. If our analysts’ research is right, it’s going to go through the roof in six months’ time, when the FDA approves its revolutionary blood pressure drug. The approval is a long shot—or at least the Wall Street community thinks so—but the data we’ve gathered by interviewing the clinical trial participants and looking through their medical records suggests otherwise, and we’ve been building a substantial position in the stock over the past few weeks.
It’s a high-risk, high-reward investment—the kind that, if it plays out as expected, might earn the top prize at the Alpha Zone next year.
For today, though, my task is convincing several hundred Alpha Zone attendees and dozens of reporters that my idea has merit—which means I need to know the company inside out, and make sure every footnote in my hundred-slide presentation is correct.
Cottonball keeps me company as I work, and to my surprise, after an hour, Mr. Puffs joins him. Purring, the massive cat stretches out on my desk and watches me as if I were a particularly tasty mouse. It’s highly likely he’s planning some mischief, but I’m too busy to worry about it.
Half of my priceless art is broken at this point, anyway.
I’m almost done going through my presentation when I step away for a bathroom break. When I return, the half-full coffee cup that I left on the desk is lying on its side, its liquid contents all over the keyboard of my laptop.
“Fuck!” I don’t need to look for a culprit; he’s lying right there on my desk, eyeing me with a smug expression. The evil cat knows exactly what he’s done. I don’t even for a moment consider that it could be his brother; Cottonball is as well behaved as a cat can be.
No, it’s Puffs who did this—and on purpose.
He knows how important this is to me.
“Get out,” I tell him, stabbing my finger at the door. “Out. Now. Or I’ll drag you out by your puffy tail.”
The cat disdainfully flicks said tail at me and lazily rises to his feet. Jumping off my desk, he strolls away, his smug demeanor all but shouting, “Mission accomplished.”
Well, the joke is on him, because the hard drive on my laptop always backs up to an attached flash drive. I’d use the cloud, but I have too much confidential information on here—and low-tech solutions are always safer.
Taking a deep breath, I make sure that everything is fine with the flash drive—it is, to my relief—and then I take out
