Junk Mail Read online

  “I said I could keep it professional. I didn’t say anything about him.” Josh nods toward his crotch and a giggle escapes me, louder than I intended. He presses a shh into my lips, but I can feel his mouth smiling against me as his lips meet mine again.

  “Please stop being so good at this,” I say in a half whisper, half whine.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, his lips moving to my throat, and I shudder against his hot breath.

  He wants me. Plain and simple. The man who was once just a dirty picture on my screen is now here, in the flesh, and has me swallowing my moans in a hotel coat closet.

  And I can’t block the embarrassing thought that if Gram knew, she would be so proud.

  Chapter Eleven

  Josh

  I could have sworn my days of making out in coat closets were far, far behind me. But I’m so fucking glad I was wrong.

  If it were anyone other than Peyton swirling her tongue around mine and sucking greedily on my bottom lip, this might feel like reverting to teenage behavior. But there’s nothing teenage about the body grinding up against mine. Peyton’s tits are full and perky and fill up my hands just right as I palm them, feeling every perfect curve and thumbing her nipples through her dress.

  God, this woman. She’s smart enough to have built a successful business, but she’s got more sex appeal than corporate America can handle. I want her. So damn bad. And the way she’s grinding her hips against the ridge in my pants seems like a pretty good sign that she wants me too.

  I’m so damn wound up—celibacy will do that to you—that I can’t think past this moment.

  I won’t let myself think about any possible repercussions right now, because I’m sure there are many. This moment feels so right, and I’m not about to stop. Not when she’s eagerly kissing me back and rocking her hips against my hard dick.

  Fuck. She’s testing all my limits.

  With my mouth still firmly pressed against hers, I let one hand slip from her breasts to the slit of her dress, testing her limits. She doesn’t stop my hand. Instead, she throws her head back, her dark waves spilling down her back as my mouth travels down to her neck.

  “Is this okay?” I push open the slit of her dress and brush my fingertips against her inner thigh.

  She shudders, a needy whimper tumbling from her lips. “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

  With her permission, I trail my fingers up her thigh and find a damp bit of silky fabric between her legs. A groan of approval escapes me at the realization she’s already wet for me. I run my middle finger along the silk, then twist it out of the way. Peyton’s punctuated gasps make my already hard cock go completely stiff.

  I can’t wait any longer. I need to know how she feels.

  Wasting no time, I gently press two fingers deep into her wetness, an entrance that is met with a gasp of surprise and plenty of bucking from Peyton.

  “Fuck,” I mutter when I feel how tight she is.

  “S-so good.” Her response is breathy as she clutches my shoulders. Her fingers dig into my muscles, getting a good, stable grip on me.

  I like that she’s counting on me to keep her upright. I could get used to this side of our business arrangement.

  Slowly, I ease my fingers out, giving her clit a few gentle strokes with my thumb. She moans in response, and I’m lucky enough to catch her gaze for a second. Even in this dark closet, her blue eyes absolutely sparkle.

  When I begin touching her again, she rocks against my hand and those eyes flutter closed. After a few thrusts, she finds my rhythm and starts tilting her hips against my fingers in time with me, letting my fingers hit a deeper, softer spot within her. It’s enough to make both of us moan. My thumb finds her clit again, and her whole body tightens around my fingers. She’s close, and suddenly, I’ve given up all hope of keeping things quiet. There’s nothing I want more than to hear her moan, to soak in the blissed-out look on her face as she climaxes.

  “Go ahead, angel,” I whisper, nipping at her ear. “Come for me, Peyton.”

  My words push her over the edge.

  I curl my fingers inside her and her jaw drops open, a breathy moan pouring out of her as she comes undone. She squeezes her eyes tight, trying to hold herself together, but her muscles clench and pulse until she finally lets out a soft sigh.

  It’s so damn hot.

  I’m not even worried about anyone hearing Peyton’s moans. Let them hear. I’d wear Peyton’s orgasm as a medal of honor, given the chance.

  Well, I take that back. Not under these circumstances. But in a less professional setting? Definitely.

  Once I’ve eased my fingers out of her, Peyton’s grip on my shoulders loosens and she finds her own balance again. It may be dark, but I can still see the new stain of pink on her cheeks. It pairs well with the fresh off an orgasm glow.

  “Wow,” she whispers as one hand grips the back of her neck, then floats down so her fingers can intertwine with mine. “I, um . . . I think that was the best orgasm of my life.”

  There’s no stopping the proud smile that spreads across my face. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten that compliment, but somehow, it means more coming from her. And it’s been so long since I’ve shared pleasure like this with a woman. It’s good to hear that I haven’t lost my touch.

  In the momentary silence between us, I can just barely hear the band announce that this will be their last song of the evening. Shit. We’ve been gone way longer than I thought.

  “We should get back,” we both say in almost perfect unison, then laugh. We’ve known each other less than a week, and apparently, we can already read each other’s minds.

  After we’ve smoothed out our clothes and gathered ourselves, Peyton looks over at me, her gaze drifting to the front of my pants that still sport an obvious bulge.

  Her lips part. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  I pull in a long, slow breath and nod. The concern in her eyes as she takes me in is equal parts adorable and hilarious. She looks genuinely worried.

  “I’ll be fine.” I’ll probably have to jerk off twice later just to get to sleep, but I’ll live.

  After discreetly adjusting myself, I crack open the door. The coast is clear, and moments later, we’re walking down the hotel hallway, chatting as though nothing out of the ordinary just happened.

  But ordinary is the last word I’d use to describe what just went down between the two of us. Not unless you tack an extra in front of it. Because, goddamn, Peyton is extraordinary in every possible way.

  Back in the hotel lobby, it takes us all of a microsecond to spot Peyton’s grandmother. She’s one of the only people left on the dance floor. Well, her and the CEO of Byron County Whiskey. I still can’t believe she’s dancing with him.

  When the song ends, the band gestures to Gram, and the few remaining partiers left in the lobby all applaud. I guess her dancing has caught everyone’s attention. Even the caterers set down their trays and clap. The applause dies down, and after a polite curtsy, Gram shakes her dance partner’s hand before making her way back to us.

  “You missed some damn good songs!” Gram exclaims, laying a hand on her heart as she catches her breath. “What were you two up to?”

  “Just work stuff,” Peyton says quickly before I have a chance to get a word in.

  I nod in agreement, trying to suppress the chuckle building in my chest. Work stuff, eh? Is that what that was, because damn, I’ll become a workaholic effective immediately.

  Gram must know Peyton pretty well, because the mischievous smirk on her face says she can see right through that lie. “Work stuff? At a party like this?” She snickers. “Whatever you say, dearie.”

  Peyton is blushing again, but Gram doesn’t notice. She’s already directed her attention toward me.

  “So, Mr. Josh.” Gram plants her hands firmly on her hips, her voice suddenly stern. “My granddaughter here keeps hitting me with all this business mumbo jumbo. I need your professional opinion. Do you think she
works too hard?”

  Peyton groans, but I can’t help but laugh.

  “Well, I haven’t known your granddaughter nearly as long as you have, of course. But I can tell you that her hard work has gotten her pretty far. The partnership we’re building between our two companies is, for lack of a better phrase, a pretty big deal.”

  I pause to assess Gram’s skeptical reaction. I guess grandmothers aren’t easily won over with the corporate stuff. At least, this one isn’t.

  “How about I make you an even bigger deal?” I say, and Gram scrunches her eyebrows, urging me to go on. “If you’re willing to listen to the aforementioned business mumbo jumbo, I’m willing to make sure your granddaughter loosens up a little and has some fun while we’re working. Sound fair?”

  An enormous, toothy smile splits Gram’s face. She puts her soft, pale hand in my rough calloused one, and we shake on it. “We have a deal.” She laughs, then turns to Peyton and adds, “I knew I liked this one.”

  We say our good-byes, and Peyton thanks me profusely for the invite and the town car and “everything else.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to decipher what she’s referring to. When my phone buzzes with a text from the driver that their town car is ready outside, I walk them out, letting Gram grip my arm for balance as she navigates down the steep hotel steps and into the back seat.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Hanson.” Peyton squares up her shoulders and extends her hand toward me.

  We’re back to business mode, which is for the best, with all the people around. Still, every bone in my body wants to pull her against me and kiss her, to tangle my hands in that dark silky hair and taste her for the second time tonight. But that’s just my body talking. Right now, I need to listen to the parts of my body above my waistline. Wherever it is in my anatomy that I store my common sense, I know it’s not in my dick. So a handshake it is.

  “Text me when you make it home so I know you’re safe,” I call out as she slips into the car, hoping she knows what I really mean. Text me when you make it home, because you’re going to be on my mind all fucking night.

  The town car pulls away, and I head back into the hotel to make sure I’ve said all my necessary good-byes. I’m expecting a few investors or corporate partners to be lingering, but instead, I find Brody in the middle of the lobby, tipping the band as they load up. Other than a few caterers who are still cleaning up, the place is a ghost town.

  “Pretty successful evening, huh?” I call across the lobby, getting my best friend’s attention. I’m expecting a hell yeah or some similar agreement, but when he turns toward me, Brody has a look of complete surprise on his face.

  “Dude, where the hell have you been? I think I saw you for a grand total of ten seconds tonight.”

  Guilt churns in my stomach. It’s not like I didn’t chat with plenty of our partners early in the evening, but once Peyton arrived, all my attention was on her. But Brody would have smoke coming out of his ears if he knew that.

  “Oh, sorry.” I give him a grin. “Did I spend a bit too much time with our investors and not enough time with my best friend that I see every day?”

  Brody rolls his eyes and laughs, indicating that I’m off the hook for being MIA.

  “Do you know if Peyton from Wish Upon a Gift ever showed up?” he asks.

  It’s an innocent question, but that doesn’t stop my heart rate from climbing. I scrunch my brow, trying to look like I have to think about whether I saw her or not, then snap my fingers in realization.

  “Yeah, I saw her. We chatted for a few minutes. She seemed pretty impressed. Sorry, dude, I should have sent her your way since you two haven’t met yet.”

  “No big deal on the introductions. I’ll see her another time. I’m just glad that she enjoyed herself.”

  My memory flashes back to that look on her face, the way she trembled on my fingers as she rode out the wave of her orgasm. The best orgasm of her life, according to her. If only Brody knew exactly how much our potential business partner enjoyed herself.

  But he can’t know. Just like he can’t know that I was sloughing off my duties as the co-founder of our company tonight.

  It’s a little chilly out since the sun has set, and my apartment isn’t within walking distance from here, unlike the office. Something about wearing a tux on the subway seems wrong, so I call a car to take me home. When I slide into the back seat, I give the driver terse responses to his usual small-talk questions. He catches the hint pretty quickly that I’m in no mood to chat tonight. There’s too much on my mind that I need to sort through, and almost all of it has to do with Peyton.

  We both said we’d keep things professional, and we both went back on our word. So now what? I’m not about to let my work performance suffer because I can’t keep my word.

  But I’ve got another promise to uphold now too. I told Gram that I’d help Peyton loosen up and have a little fun while she works.

  Shit. I need to think things through before I open my damn mouth to make a promise. Especially when these two run the risk of directly contradicting each other. Keeping it professional while still keeping it fun? How do I factor in keeping it in my pants?

  My phone buzzes twice with back-to-back texts. I read the first one.

  Peyton: Made it home safe! Thanks for showing me the hotel. xo

  My dick jerks against my zipper in response. Dear God. Tonight has been torture. The second text is far more professional.

  Peyton: When would you like to meet next to discuss our budgeting and potential earnings for my product release?

  A little work, a little play. This woman is wild. But it’s a balance I may be able to maintain, as long as I keep it way more focused on the work part. Which means not replying to that first text.

  I respond with an offer to meet tomorrow, and since I’m suggesting working on a weekend, I tell her to meet me at Scoops downtown.

  Because what says fun and professional more than discussing finances over ice cream?

  Chapter Twelve

  Peyton

  When was the last time I was asked out for ice cream?

  I’m not entirely sure, but if I were to guess, I’d probably say freshman year of high school. Somewhere around turning eighteen, we transitioned from ice cream to coffee dates and never went back. So when I get a text from Josh asking if I want to hammer out details of the deal over chocolate-dipped cones, I double- and triple-read the text to make sure I’m not imagining things.

  After my fourth and final read, my thumbs fly across my phone screen to respond with an enthusiastic yes!

  A business meeting over ice cream—what a concept. It’s refreshing, both literally and figuratively. I guess CEO Josh Hanson has a playful side after all. He did mention he eats loads of ice cream on the weekend, though, so that explains the choice of locale.

  After grabbing my keys, I shoot Gram a quick text letting her know I’m off to a meeting with Josh and won’t be by the senior center until later. She responds almost instantly with an onslaught of heart and tongue emojis. Sheesh. Way to be discreet, Gram.

  On my way out the door, the foyer mirror reminds me that my slouchy pink sweater and jeans don’t exactly scream “professional.” Should I throw on a pencil skirt and a button-down, or something else instead? I decide against it, slipping into my brown booties and then locking the door behind me. I’m guessing this ice cream shop won’t have much of a dress code.

  When I arrive at Scoops, Josh is already waiting outside, leaning against the building. He looks like a popular kid leaning against the lockers. This really is high school all over again. He’s got on a black T-shirt underneath an Army-green jacket and dark-wash jeans, proving that he’s just as drop-dead gorgeous in casual clothes as he is in a suit. I’m glad I nixed the pencil-skirt idea.

  “Welcome to Scoops,” Josh says with a warm smile. “I’m so excited for you to try this place.”

  I can hardly get out a hello before he’s leading me up the steps and through the do
or. Excited might be a bit of an understatement.

  A bell rings as the door swings open, welcoming us into the warm, sugary air. The storefront is filled with the sweet scent of fresh-baked waffle cones. The space is small and lit with warm, yellow light, with bright blue tables scattered throughout, and black-and-white photos framed on the walls. It’s old school and charming . . . no wonder Josh loves it.

  The moderate line to the counter consists mostly of parents and kids. A few high school couples are scattered here and there, confirming my theory on the switch to coffee that comes with maturity. Josh peels off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair, claiming a table for us before we hop in line.

  As I size up the menu, Josh leans in, offering his recommendation. “No pressure, but they do have the best chocolate-dipped cone I’ve ever had,” he whispers, as though excellent ice cream is somehow a secret. His lips graze my ear, spreading a buzz of pleasure across my skin.

  “High praise from a professional ice-cream taster like yourself,” I say, chuckling.

  “Hey, what can I say? Everyone has their vices. And I’m not much of a coffee drinker, so ice cream it is.”

  How fitting that someone as sweet as Josh would have such a sweet tooth.

  When we reach the front of the line, the woman at the register beams in recognition. “Chocolate-dipped cone, Josh?” she asks in a bubbly voice, already reaching for her scoop.

  “Just like always, Connie.” Josh laughs, then adds, “And whatever this lovely lady is getting as well.”

  “Make it two dipped cones, please,” I say proudly, which gets a smile out of both Connie and Josh.

  “Great taste, this one,” Connie says, waggling her eyebrows at Josh as she reaches for a second cone.

  When she rings us up, I mean to check if Josh uses his personal or corporate card—is he paying for me as a date or as a business partner? But he moves too quickly for me to get a good look. Either way, I thank him for paying as we make our way to our table. The second we settle into our seats, Josh goes into full business mode.