Kimmy Petes is finally happy with me.
Now that it’s posted on the app—in which Daniel deserves absolutely none of the credit for—Burned by the Billionaire is a runaway success. It’s earned Naiad several hundred thousand dollars in the first week alone. It’s a feat, a win for us and for Kimmy.
Kimmy and I, as well as members of a few of Naiad’s teams, including Daniel, are discussing the book’s success and future marketing plans via Zoom.
One purpose of this meeting is to come up with advertising hooks, so I came prepared with interest-piquing lines for Kimmy to approve. Once upon a time, I would have been mortified to utter passages like He runs the stack of hundred-dollar bills between my breasts and spreads my legs. His pulsing erection is hot against my thigh. I’m already dripping for him. “Still think I can’t afford you?” he growls in my ear. I know then that I’m not just in this for the money. I’m in it for the man. Now, it’s as easy as talking about app updates or scheduling upcoming meetings.
As we’re wrapping up—Kimmy dipped out five minutes ago, ever the busy author—Daniel says, “Selene, stay on for a second. I have a question about Kimmy’s other books.”
I nod. At this point, it makes sense for us to acquire her entire backlist or negotiate a new exclusive series with her. Now that she and I are on solid terms again, it would be a good time to broach the subject.
Once it’s just the two of us, I flash him a small smile. This is one of those situations where my hatred dims a little—when I feel like we’re working on the same team, the rare occasion he isn’t conspiring against me. We haven’t spoken since I was in New York nearly two weeks ago, so maybe that’s why he hasn’t annoyed me lately. He hasn’t had the chance to.
“Can you believe how successful this book is?” I ask, still a little astounded. Even though its release got pushed back, it’s been our most significant launch to date.
“The numbers don’t lie.”
Of course, that’s what he focuses on. The numbers. The views, the readers, the bottom line. It’s why he’s in acquisitions and I’m in production; I care more about the impact of the words on the page than about how profitable the work is. The two go hand in hand, though. Without good content, the money doesn’t flow.
I let him have that little comment and move on. “Kimmy really outdid herself on—”
“I don’t give a fuck about Kimmy,” he interrupts. “This was you.”
I’m stunned into silence for a moment. He asked me to stay on only to…say something nice to me? I must be imagining things.
“Are you actually paying me a compliment?” I ask, unsuccessfully suppressing a scoff.
He shakes his head. “Why are you surprised?” He says it like I’m the idiot for not understanding. “I’ve already said you’re brilliant.”
“And oblivious,” I remind him.
“You can be both,” he counters, leaning back so the full breadth of his shoulders is visible. I imagine the tattoo under his shirt, and my fingers itch to trace it. “But this success wasn’t Kimmy’s doing. You wrote those new chapters, not her.”
His compliments do something funny to my insides. Every word warms me another degree. With Daniel, I’ve come to expect thinly veiled insults and condescending rebuffs, not these outright commendations. It’s strange but also welcome; I’ve seen him behave like this with others, giving to-the-point praise, though he’s rarely done it for me.
“Maybe,” I concede, not sure I really want to accept his acclaim. Are there strings tied to it? Will it upset the careful balance of distaste we have for each other? “But it’s credited to her either way.”
“The people who matter know who’s really behind it.”
I give a fake offended gasp and clutch a hand to my chest. Still, I’m amazed he’s doubling down. “Wow, way to insult her readers, Daniel. So rude.”
He laughs, and I can’t believe how much I like the sound.
“When are you back up here?”
“Monday morning.” I do my best not to let myself read into his question.
The moment we had in the kitchen last time left the option for more open, but there’s a smidge of worry in the back of my head that he’ll shut this down as quickly as it started.
Which is fine. I wouldn’t have a problem with that; this is casual, after all. But I won’t really know what he wants until I’m standing in front of him and—
“Good,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Wear something just for me again.”
My jaw goes slack, but I recover quickly. I can’t believe he’s already proving me wrong.
I clear my throat and fight to keep my voice level. “I told you; I didn’t wear it for you. My lingerie is for me.”
He goes on like I haven’t spoken. “I want to see you in red.”
“I don’t take requests,” I shoot back, finding my footing again. “And who says anything is going to happen?”
Daniel arches an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me it won’t?”
Unsure of how to respond, I watch him silently. I’ve yet to admit even to myself that I want to sleep with him again, but it’s not every day that an insanely hot man I have off-the-charts sexual chemistry with offers to fuck me senseless more than once with no strings attached.
But the last thing I want to come off as is overeager or like I expect him to drop everything for the handful of nights I’m in the city.
He has a life. That’s clear from our Monday morning meetings when Jim makes us take turns telling the team what we did over the weekend. Last Saturday, Daniel went to a film festival with friends and tried a new restaurant in Soho that he claimed had the best ribeye in the state. He gets out and has fun in his free time—unlike me, who spends nearly every waking hour either working or online shopping from the comfort of my bed.
So where do I—a random girl he’s hate-fucking—fall on his list of priorities? I’d say above a movie but definitely lower than a good steak.
“You don’t already have plans?” I ask him instead of answering.
“I can change them.”
My heart races, but I don’t dare let him see how he’s gotten to me. So I drop my shoulders and sit back, twirling a pen between my fingers in an attempt to quell my nervous energy. “Pussy good enough to cancel plans. I’m honored.”
That comment is met with a grin that makes my belly flip. It’s the biggest display of emotion I’ve seen from him since we were naked last. “What can I say? It’s worth it.”
Somehow, we’ve slipped into an alternate universe. One where this is a normal conversation. Never, in the two years we’ve worked together, have I had even an inkling that we’d wind up here.
“Stop being nice,” I scold him, fighting a smile of my own. “I might start hating you less.”
I don’t know what to do with the feeling blooming in my chest. Despite my best efforts, the disdain I’ve held for him for so long is waning. While most of that can be attributed to the orgasms he’s provided me with recently, the compliments and his willingness to make time for me—okay, correction, make time to fuck me—are doing something to my heart.
“We can’t have that,” he murmurs, playing into my teasing. But then his expression sobers and his attention drifts, like he’s looking at another window on his screen. “Should I tell you that I’m in the middle of negotiations for another book you’ll have to work on?”
I freeze. He’s joking, right? But then my computer pings, notifying me of a new email. Stomach sinking, I click over to it. Sure enough, the email is from Daniel. The subject reads Manuscript – Bonded to the Baby Daddy.
This certainly isn’t the first email like this I’ve received from him. It looks like another erotic romance—probably involving BDSM and an accidental pregnancy if the title is anything to go by—that I’ll be required to read and subsequently continue.
Panic seeps into my chest, dousing any warmth for him that had begun to manifest. “Daniel, I can’t take on another project. I’m full up.”
He’s still looking at the other window on his screen, cooler than I’ll ever hope to be. “Take it up with Jim. That’s not my problem.”
I bristle at his brush-off, and a snarl threatens to pull on my upper lip. “Oh, you bas—”
But Daniel ends the call before I can finish the insult.
I let out a strangled scream and slam my laptop shut. This man may fuck me better than anyone ever has—and probably ever will—but Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to be the death of me.
