Twenty years ago, I was too smart and too poor to be cool.
Now I’m laughing my way to the bank—the bank I’m CEO of. Nothing can touch me.
Except maybe him.
We met at summer camp. We made out under the stars. Then he
stabbed me in the back.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. But I’m gonna
go with hot.
Alexander Evangelista is a millionaire with all the
trappings: houses all over the world and hot guys lined up whenever he’s in
need of some no-strings-attached company. He's on his way to world domination.
A CEO in his own right, Cary Bell is competing for a major
client with his boyhood crush. He’s never forgiven himself for betraying Alex.
But with his professional reputation on the line, he’s going to have to find
his inner cutthroat if he wants his new company to succeed.
Alex isn’t about to let his nemesis steal a client out from
under him. It’s time to break Cary’s company—and his heart.
Ready
to make his thoughts on the matter known, Alexander swung open the door.
And
was blindsided by Cary Bell, leaning against the wall in the small vestibule
between Alexander’s elevator and his front door in jeans and a black leather
jacket, looking like fucking James Dean paying a house call.
They
stared at each other for several seconds, before Cary pushed off the wall and
came to stand at his full height, which put him exactly eye to eye with
Alexander. After another few moments of silence, Alexander’s dick stirred,
which made him angry as hell.
They
both spoke at the same time, Alexander saying, “How did you get up here?” and
Cary saying, “I came to apologize.”
The simultaneous attempt at speaking sent them both back
into silence. But it wasn’t truly silence. Alexander could hear his blood
pounding and Cary’s rapid breathing. Apologize? That was the last thing in the
world Alexander had expected, and it had him reeling. A glance at the other
man’s chest confirmed that he was as unsettled as Alexander. He lifted his eyes
to Cary’s face, only to find that his midnight visitor was checking him out,
and not very subtly. Alexander, who was wearing only his underwear,
straightened his spine. He might have been scrawnier than Cary the athlete back
at camp, but he’d bet next quarter’s returns that with his disciplined jujitsu
and lifting routine of the past two decades, he’d caught up.
He watched Cary’s eyes slide over his boxers. There was no
mistaking what was going on there because the partial erection he’d been
battling since he’d left Cary at Liu’s house had escalated to the full meal
deal. He was tempted to say that Cary had woken him up, but he bit his tongue.
He didn’t need an excuse. He was a allowed to have a boner in his own house,
for fuck’s sake.
Slowly, so slowly, his gaze feeling so much like a physical
caress that the skin on Alexander’s chest started to prickle, Cary raised his
eyes to meet Alexander’s. Alexander had been expecting one of his nemesis’s
trademark smirks, raised eyebrows that suggested bemusement, since that seemed
to be Cary’s attitude toward everything. He expected him to somehow twist the
apology into a prank. But no. All he saw in those eyes was heat. Those
blue-gray irises were usually the epitome of cool. But not now. No, right now
they were nearly subsumed by dilated pupils the color of night.
Alexander tried to think what came next, but his brain was
full of tar, even as his limbs were on high alert and his senses heightened.
Cary shook his head, as if to clear it. It had the effect of
wiping that dazed expression off his face. Alexander could swear he saw the
heat leaving Cary’s expression. One corner of his visitor’s mouth turned up. No.
He didn’t want that fucking holier-than-thou, punk-ass smirk. Not here. Not
while he was standing in the doorway of his condo in his underwear, harder than
steel.
Cary unzipped his leather jacket, revealing a worn white
T-shirt. Alexander had forgotten how well Cary did casual. Then Cary shoved his
hands in his jean pockets, perfecting his Rebel Without a Cause look.
Alexander lifted his gaze back up to Cary’s face. The proto-smirk was a little
more advanced, as if it were emerging in slow motion. Again, the thought that
filled his head was, simply, no.
He grabbed the jacket, the slide of the old, soft leather
over his fingers torture for his over-tuned senses. He wasn’t sure if relief
lay in feeling less or feeling more. But he didn’t care, because his only
mission was to stop that fucking smirk in its tracks.
So
he yanked, hard, crashing his mouth down on Cary’s and swallowing his visitor’s
gasp of shock.
Jenny
Holiday started writing at age nine when her fourth grade teacher gave her a
notebook and told her to start writing stories. That first batch featured mass
murderers on the loose, alien invasions, and hauntings. From then on, she was
always writing, often in her diary, where she liked to decorate declarations of
existential angst with nail polish teardrops. Later, she channeled her penchant
for scribbling into a more useful format, picking up a PhD in geography and
then working in PR. Eventually, she figured out that happy endings were more
fun than alien invasions. You can follow her on twitter at @jennyholi or visit
her on the web at jennyholiday.com.
Thanks for hosting me, Jen! :)
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