All That He Desires

By: Olivia Thorne

1





I’d known him for two hours and change when I let myself be seduced by his crystal blue eyes and movie star looks. Then I’d had crazy sex with him on the floor of the boardroom of the corporation where I worked.

In retrospect, not some of the wisest decisions I’ve ever made.

Certainly not the most cautious.

But when a man looks and acts like Connor Brooks, caution gets thrown to the wind.

He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Certainly the most confident I’d ever met. He treated life like a game, and acted as though he held all the cards.

He was infuriating… and intoxicating.

And he’d swept me off my feet, both literally and figuratively.

I had, in a moment of weakness, confessed that my brief time with him had been the happiest night of my life.

Yes, he was that charming. And good-looking.

And yes, the sex was that good.

After I said it, he asked me to go with him: You said this was the best night of your life. So let’s keep it going. Maybe even make it the best weekend of your life.

Come with me.

When I protested that I had unfinished work that was due in my boss’s email inbox at 9AM the next morning (a Saturday morning, no less!), he whispered in my ear, Take a chance. Be that woman I made love to just now.

Come with me.

I so wanted to be that woman.

And I so wanted everything I’d had for half an hour up in that boardroom.

So I got in the Bentley limo as Connor held open the door.

My life was never the same again.





2





The first thing I noticed was the plush leather of the seats – decadent, sinful, sensual. And the space! It felt like the car was way wider than normal. I could have stretched out in here and… uh… done stuff with room to spare.

I scooted across the seat as Connor moved in beside me and closed the door.

He pressed a button on a console in the door and spoke.

“Hey, Johnny, take us up to the Strip, would you?”

The limo purred into action, gliding like oil on ice as it merged into traffic.

The Strip?!

“We’re going to a strip club?” I asked, my eyes wide. I hadn’t signed on for that.

Connor grinned. “We can if you want, but I was thinking of the Sunset Strip. West Hollywood? Clubs, bars, fine dining?”

“Oh.”

I felt both relieved and incredibly embarrassed at the same time.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“S-sure,” I stammered, totally thrown off my game – not only by the strip club thing, but by the environment. The only time I’d ever ridden in a limo was for prom, and that was a 20-year-old town car that smelled slightly fusty from all the spilled beer of a thousand bachelor parties.

This? This was pure luxury, from the black leather to the widescreen television set into the wall that divided the cabin from the driver’s area. In fact, I couldn’t even see the driver. There was a plate of black glass that separated our little world from his.

“Champagne okay? Or would you like something stronger?”

“Champagne would be great.”

He leaned over to the wall across from us and slid a small compartment to the side. There was a cold storage unit in there, from which he drew out a bottle of champagne.

Dom Perignon.

I think I’d gotten drunk on Dom Perignon once.

Oh, no, wait… that was Thunderbird in the twelfth grade.

Holy crap, I’m in a Bentley, about to drink Dom Perignon.

To say I was intimidated was an understatement.

Connor pressed another button, and a center portion in the wall across from us opened up to reveal a whole collection of glassware – champagne flutes, wine glasses, all those different fancy cocktail glasses you see in bridal gift sections.

He poured two flutes of champagne and handed me one. I knew nothing about crystal, but I could tell that the glass was expensive just by handling it – surprisingly heavy for its size, but delicate to the touch and incredibly thin.

He clinked his glass against mine. “To an excellent evening so far… and an even better night ahead.”

I widened my eyes and smiled like, Oh boy… WHAT have I gotten myself into?

I took a sip.

Damn, that was good.

I’m not a connoisseur by any means, but it was a lot better than any other champagne I’d ever tasted before.

Of course, maybe it was entirely psychological. I’m sure anything drunk in a fancy glass in the back of a Bentley tastes better than average. Champagne… tap water… Kool-Aid…

“I have to make a phone call,” he said, and tapped the door console again.

I just nodded. I was too shell-shocked for anything beyond simple movements and even simpler sentences.

You Tarzan, me Jane.

Actually, it was more like You Mr. Bentley, me Jungle Jane.

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