He couldn’t even think of a single thing that would come close to serving as an apology. Short of flying her to somewhere like Vegas or LA or even New York, for a weekend of incredible shopping, dining, and maybe even a little fabulous sex- or a lot of it- hell he could hope- he came up with nothing.
So much for being ultra-rich. What good was money when it couldn’t do a damn thing for you?
Blaze rifled his hands through his hair again, mussing it all over the place. Normally, he liked to be put together. Immaculate. He liked to give his critics zero room for criticism. At the moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t care that his clothing was rumpled from where Colette grabbed onto it. All he saw when he looked down at his creased shirt was her hands, digging in, holding on, her huge, luminous eyes staring up at him. Her pouty lips parting in shock, her hair like a cascade around her shoulders. He’d wanted to bend his head and bruise her lips with a searing kiss. He wouldn’t have even minded if she’d bitten him back.
That could wait.
He’d make himself wait.
He’d waited years. What were a few more days. Torture. That’s what they were. Sheer torture. He was on the verge of desperation and he didn’t do desperate. Ever.
Thinking about Colette made him think about her sitting out there at her cubicle. How close she was, how easy it would be to go to her, throw her over his shoulder and cart her off to the privacy of some dark room. He’d rip her clothes off and take his time eating her.
God. He could still taste her from the shortest sample in the back of the limo. He’d thought about nothing else all weekend. Her taste. Her scent. How amazing her virgin cunt would feel wrapped around his dick.
Yeah. He never said he was a class act. People just thought he was, since he had ridiculous amounts of money. Like dollars in the bank equaled morals. Usually, in his experience at least, it was the opposite. He wasn’t an exception to the rule.
After a few more minutes of thinking, he flipped open his laptop and did a quick search for unusual date ideas. He was definitely going to clear his browser. Now that everyone thought he was breaking his own code and dating, they wouldn’t be surprised, but Jesus, he had standards. Even putting the word, date, into the search bar nearly killed him.
He touched on a few shitty ideas- god, he thought he was terrible at coming up with ways to help a woman have a good time, other than riding his dick. It turned out there was a hell of a lot worse out there. Which gave him an idea for an app. A date idea for every single day of the year. It would ping in the morning with the idea, and with two reminders throughout the day. He made a mental note to give the idea to the weakest links on the team. They’d either shit the bed or surprise him. Either way, it didn’t really matter. Dating wasn’t doing humanity any sort of favor. It was just a way to spend obscene amounts of money and waste time when all people truly needed ninety-nine percent of the time was a good screw.
Ten minutes later, he had his email open and was trying to think of something only halfway obnoxious to put in the body of it. The title itself was bad enough.
CANCEL THE DRESS
All caps. Because he had a point to make. He sent Colette the instructions on what he wanted to do for tomorrow, and yes, she was totally calling in sick to work and so was he. He was taking her out. And by out, he really meant out. None of the halfway shit she expected.
He was going to show her that he had a heart after all.
Or at least, he had a brain. And for at least a small fraction of the day, he didn’t do all his thinking with his dick.
She responded back. He hesitated a second before opening the email, since he didn’t want to appear desperate.
The first thing he saw was an angry face emoji. The one with the swear bar across its face. Then, right underneath, she’d typed two lines.
I don’t know what the hell quaffing is, but I’m not doing it. Come take your flowers back. They’re stinking up the department. I think Pam is allergic. She keeps sneezing.
Quaffing?
Blaze scrolled up and nearly punched himself in the face. What the hell was wrong with his auto-correct that it had changed quadding to quaffing?
Jesus. He didn’t know what it was, and for once, he probably didn’t want to do it either. Okay. Maybe he’d give it a try. Never rule out trying new things. You don’t know when you just might find a new kink that’s halfway enjoyable.