SHARING EMMA [18+]

5. Man of the Hour

|RYKER|

"Oh, my God—no, no, no, no—wait, no—wait, shit!"

The woman in front of me is wide-eyed and on the verge of yanking her hair out. I hope she doesn't. Her hair is long and pretty. Just the way I like it.

But that should be the last thought on my mind, especially when she just ruined my shirt by spilling her damn scalding coffee on me.

Fuck!

I grab some paper towels from the counter and try to clean up the mess. But the worst has already happened, and no matter how much I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, the stain wouldn't go away until I tossed it in the washer. Well, that's sh*t. In less than twenty minutes, I have to see this man at the tech firm a few blocks down the road to demo this new software that I have been working on, and if I showed up in a stained shirt, I have a very good feeling, it wouldn't take long before this damn stain turned into a blot on my first impression.

I can't let that happen, can I?

After six months of back-and-forth exchange of emails, I have finally landed this face-to-face meeting with this very man. Victor Raymond is the man of the hour, a computer genius, and one of the few persons in the world who truly gives young minds like mine a chance.

I know what my family and friends would say to that—why try your luck outside when you have your dad to support whatever damn dream you have? And they won't be exactly wrong. My father, billionaire Carlos Kingston, as the media loves to call him, has the power and fortune to give my proposal the kind of launch that most people can only dream about. It's just that I don't want anything to do with his money or business empire. I don't want to work with him. Not after the way he treated my mom. Not after he admitted to banging someone with no feeling of regret.

It's not that I don't understand his reasoning—that I want him to dedicate himself to mom and abstain from having sex for the rest of his life—but after his confession, all I can think about is him doing the same thing behind mom's back. Bringing ladies home and fucking them to oblivion while mum remained in hospital beds, struggling for every breath she could get.

I can't take those images out of my head. And that's why I can't forgive him, ever.

"I'm so sorry," the woman says, clamping her brows and biting her lip like a four-year-old boy who did something stupid—like spilling the water from the bottle, losing the dog leash, or tearing the paper he wasn't meant to touch—and was now waiting for his punishment.

For some reason, the thought of punishing this woman sends a zing of excitement through my bones, and I feel a strange knot of sweet pleasure easing in the pit of my stomach. I should be angry at her for ruining my shirt and leading me to be late for my meeting, but the temperature that should have simmered my blood and made me snappier than normal has transformed into something else, launching directly into my cock.

I have a bizarre itch to rub the crotch of my pants, if only to ease the tension that is growing down there. But it's not completely my fault. This woman is stunning. Her eyes are big and green, and her lips are full and red. Her hair is long and straight, and her body is curved at places that make me harder than a fucking walnut.

I squeeze the paper towels in my fist and try to anchor back into the present situation. Before she can open her beautiful mouth to apologize again, I use my hand to shut her up, as in showing her my palm.

Putting aside all the horny thoughts, I should really do something to fix this problem.

I turn around, hoping to see if I have any spare shirts in my car.

But I hardly make it to the door when that woman once again hops in front of me, gasping and heaving that beautiful, perky chest.

"What?" To mask what's actually going on in my brain, I snap with double annoyance. I hate it, but it's the only way I can think of to keep my mind and body in line.

She winces at my tone, and instantly guilt pools in my stomach. "Hey, I said I'm sorry. I just want to make sure you're okay. You didn't answer that part of my question."

Maybe because I didn't hear you right. A voice in my head is quick to hum.

Because I was busy staring at your lovely mouth, the mouth that I can fuck so right.

Shit. Stop it. Another voice jumps in.

"I'm fine," I say rudely, averting my eyes and trying to stay placid until my meeting.

"Are you sure?" She asks again, once again biting that fucking lip. "The coffee was pretty darn scalding."

Yeah, tell me about it. I can still feel the heat in my stomach and maybe a slight burn that probably left my skin with a blazing rash.

Not that I have time to whine. I need to find a clean shirt or buy one if required, but considering she is not willing to move out of my way, I don't see it happening any time soon.

"Look, Miss—"

"Emma. Emma Wilson."

I give her a strange look.

"Oops. Sorry. It's a habit. And I'm kind of nervous, too—" She catches the way I'm glowering at her and immediately corrects herself. "Not that it's important. Please, yes, continue."

I shake my head, unable to believe this is happening right now. I could have appreciated this encounter if it had happened on any other day. I would have even tried to charm her if that was what it took for her to bring me to her bed. But not right now. Not when I need to stay focused and prepared.

"Miss, I don't have time for this," I respond, barely keeping my frustration away. "I'm running late right now, and your concern, which I sincerely appreciate, isn't helping me whatsoever. So, please. I accept your apology; now get out of my way."

When I storm past her and get into my car, I have a flashback of the embarrassed look on her face.

I shake my head and try not to care.

However, the more I push it away, the stronger it holds my chest, the tighter my ribcage becomes around my heart, and the more awful I end up feeling.

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