“What is it?” I ask.
“The stupid thing just died, I think. I’ll have to run down to the store and see if I can pick up a cheap one later. What a shame. She was really nice.”
“She’ll wait for you, Miss C,” Caitlin says, “if she knows what’s good for her.”
Caitlin’s forehead furrows as she stares at my mother. Over the years, Caitlin has tried to offer us money on more than one occasion, but Mom is always too proud to accept it.
If I had my way, I’d accept whatever Caitlin offered us.
I respect her pride, but I’d also like her to be able to replace her phone when some dickhead customer knocks it off the bar at the restaurant and cracks the screen.
“Hey-ho,” Mom says, shrugging. “At least we have these delicious pancakes. Nothing soothes the soul like a nice helping of syrup and pancakes, right?”
“Amen to that,” Caitlin says, cutting into hers.
I try to smile along with them. But every time my gaze flits to the clock on the wall – a kooky lemon-yellow piece Mom picked up from Goodwill – my stomach gives a shivering twist.
My nerves just bubble up when I think about my first day at Solomon Sky Digital.
Starting an internship at such a prestigious, successful company would be scary enough.
But it’s him, too.
It’s Solomon, the billionaire CEO, my best friend’s dad, the man I’ve had a crush on for as long as I can remember.
Just last night, I couldn’t stop my hand from straying between my legs at the thought of him, plucking at chords of pleasure that only he can ignite within me.
I stuff my mouth full of pancake, but suddenly the syrup doesn’t seem so sweet.
CHAPTER TWO
Solomon
I let out my breath slowly, in time with the pull-up.
I lengthen the movement so that every single muscle in my back strains and roars for mercy, but I don’t grant it.
I don’t even think about quitting.
I pull up and up, in slow motion, forcing myself to feel every quiver and ache in my arms, back, and shoulders. Then, once my chin is over the bar, I lower myself with even more deliberation, completing the final rep and dropping to the floor.
I let my breathing return to normal as I turn away from the corner gym in my office.
It’s a cavernous room, with a high ceiling that seems even taller for the windows that stretch from floor to ceiling of the room, making the city below seem close enough to touch. My desk is a huge statement piece in the center, and off to the right I have a conference table, and then beyond that, a sleek marble coffee table sits in the middle of white leather furniture.
I couldn’t have dreamed of so much grandeur when I was a kid.
But I don’t feel guilty about it.
I worked my ass off to get to where I am, and I give enough to charity so I can let myself enjoy the finer things in life.
I jab the air a few times, feeling the muscles in my arms loosen and relax. I’m wearing a light shirt and I can feel pricks of sweat touching the fabric, so I unbutton it quickly and spray myself with some deodorant.
Maybe I’m a caveman, but sometimes a man just needs to do some pull-ups to clear his head.
I’m nowhere near soaked enough to need a shower, not like with a proper workout.
After changing my shirt, I return to my desk and spend the next few hours working solidly. The spring sunlight starts to glare into my top floor office, so I mutter a voice command to dim the glass and filter the light.
At around one o’clock, my calendar pings an alert at me.
Meeting with the new intern: Caitlin’s friend, Sophia Clarkson.
I sigh and close the report I’m currently working on.
Even though opening the UK branch of the company went well, there are still a lot of details to be hashed out, and this disturbance to my flow is not exactly welcome.
But I’m not going to cancel the meeting.
I didn’t build my business by neglecting my responsibilities.
I consider meeting my employees a necessity.
I stand and stretch my arms above my head. I hate how tight my body can get sitting at a desk. Even in a giant, ergonomic chair like mine, my six foot seven body protests.
It’s like it’s trying to tell me I should be fighting, hunting, doing something primal instead of sitting in a chair making money.
My intercom system buzzes a few seconds later, right on time.
“Mr. Sky,” my assistant, Peter, says. “Miss Clarkson is here to see you.”
“Send her in,” I tell him.
I walk around the edge of the desk and wander over to the white leather seating, laying my foot across my knee and leaning back. I want my employees to feel at ease in here … as much as they can in a room that’s more like a banquet hall, anyway.
The sleek silver door handle turns and then the door opens.
Sophia Clarkson steps into the room.
I stare, and I keep staring, and for a second I think I’m never going to be able to stop.
She’s a short woman, maybe five foot three, with a body that looks as if it was built for pleasure and motherhood and everything in between. She wears a white shirt tucked into a black skirt, tights hugging her legs and leading down to flat black shoes. Her hair is a deep brown tied back in a ponytail, presenting the redness of her cheeks, the fullness of her features, the vivacious oak shade of her eyes.
Her breasts are large, round, causing my cock to swell and pulse as I gaze at her.
I imagine tearing open her shirt – the buttons popping and flying across the room – and then palming those ample breasts. My fantasy spirals and suddenly I see her bent over my desk, presenting that curvaceous ass to me.
Inch by inch, I’d pull that skirt up, revealing the full
