Home > Tycoon(9)

Author: Katy Evans

“Oooooh. God yes. Did you lock the door?” the woman asks on a hushed moan.

“Of course, baby.” A gruff male response, buried in her neck.

I shut my eyes with a little bit of longing because I don’t even know how long it’s been since I had sex, then I lean my forehead on the back of the door and suppress the urge to bang myself against it. Ugh. Really?

I suffer through their entire fuck and their joint orgasm.

Minutes and minutes of sighs and groans.

After they’re done, I peer under the stall and watch a pair of women’s heels and men’s shiny gray designer shoes leave.

I step outside, fix my hair, and exhale before I leave and hurry up the stairs onto the second floor—straight to the biggest doors I can find—and direct myself to the busy PA sitting behind a Mac computer.

“I’m here to see Mr. Christos. I’m Bryn Kelly.”

“Your appointment was at six.”

We stare at one another.

“Yes.” I widen my eyes when I realize that it’s 6:21 p.m.

“Mr. Christos hates when an appointment is late,” his assistant snaps.

“I’m here now. Do you suppose you could fit me in? I’m…an old acquaintance.”

“He’s heading out of the office. Sorry.” The phone rings. The woman looks close to a panic attack as she picks up. “Yes, Mr. Christos? Aha. Yes, I’ll bring it over. I’ll do that as well.” She hangs up and hurries to do his bidding.

“I’ll bring him that.” I take the folders she has gathered.

“You’ll get me fired.”

“Or promoted.”

I head toward the doors.

“Miss Kelly, truly—” she objects as she chases me.

I ignore her pleas and head inside to find Christos bent over his desk, signing documents.

“Thanks,” he says without looking up as he hears me come in. “And if Miss Kelly deigns herself to—”

“She’s deigned to appear, sir, and she’s truly sorry she’s late.”

His eyebrows lift for a fraction of a second. His lips part. He quickly rises to his full composure.

Our eyes hold, and his eyebrows lift a fraction more as I gape at him. Like a fool. An utter and complete fool. He’s in a black suit, no tie, his hair slicked back to reveal his hot-as-sin features.

He seems to recover quickly. But I take longer. Forcing myself to move and step deeper into his office.

There’s silence. He looks as intimidating as he looked at his place. He also looks vexed, his irritation evident as he takes me in without the barest hint of a smile.

His brows slant low over his eyes in a frown. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, lips pursed, irritated and just a hint amused. “And you are?”

“I’m your next appointment. The wicked Miss Kelly.”

His lips curve, but he shakes it off. He glances past my shoulders, a stern look on his features. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He hands the papers to his assistant, who crept up behind me while I ogled him, then he shoots me a glance. “Lips, I leave in…ten minutes. I’m wrapping up.”

Why am I licking my lips because he called me lips?

“Oh. Well then, I’ll walk you to the train,” I say, licking my lips yet again.

“Gym, you mean.”

“Exactly. I was heading there myself.”

He rakes his eyes down my body as if determining whether I work out or not. “Right.” He smiles.

I purse my lips. “I’m sorry I’m late, I was detained.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Can we do this again?” I propose. I go to the door and inhale and then walk back in.

“Hi,” I say with fake cheer, my heart pounding nervously.

He exhales in exasperation. “We might as well get this over with.” He motions for me to close the door.

“I’ve got ten minutes,” he says.

“I ask for twenty.” I shut the door.

“Ten,” he growls.

“Fifteen then.”

“Ten, little bit.” A smile tugs his mouth, and he shakes his head in bemusement.

“Okay, eleven it is,” I concede.

No longer playful, he glances nonchalantly at his watch. Taking his seat. “Nine minutes thirty now. Want to waste any more time negotiating?” His expression is unrelenting.

“Okay then! Let’s start.”

I pull out my notes, and I can’t help but take a peek at him only to find him staring at me in silence.

He appears thoughtful, and by the crease in his forehead, terribly unhappy about something.

He looks at me, pointing at the folders. “Are you going to hold those for the remaining minutes, or do you want me to look at them?”

It’s killing me, the way he smirks at me. What is he trying to do? I don’t understand.

“I’m sure I want you to have a look.” I extend my hand, but instead of taking them, he kicks out of his chair and approaches.

He nudges the folder open before me and leans over my shoulder. He points with his index finger to the first page. “House of Sass. That’s your name for it?”

Close to my ear, his voice is rich and deep, smooth as velvet. A rasp of intrigue laces the words.

“Yes,” I breathe.

I turn my head—catching his eyes. Or rather, his eyes catching mine.

“Hmm,” he says.

He takes the folder now and brings it to his desk. He reads for a second, then he lifts his gaze to me.

I’m so nervous I could vomit.

“It makes me feel good to make people feel good, I’m selfish,” I explain.

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