Fuck, that’s funny. It’s a nickname that would often be deserved, as I don’t spare my thoughts and actions to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.

As she enters my office, she schools her face into one of pleasant helpfulness. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood.”

But despite the air of submissiveness she attempts to cloak herself in as my employee, I can still see, simmering just in the near depths of her eyes, a bit of hostility. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me for firing her, but that’s okay. I’ve not forgiven her for forcing her way back into my world and making my life a bit more miserable for it.

I decide to test her, just now, to see if she’s really indifferent as she likes to pretend. As I describe a current dilemma with a linen supplier for the resort’s restaurants, I undo my cuff buttons and make a show of rolling up my sleeves.

My goal is to see precisely how affected Bailey still is.

Because she’s shown signs.

Sometimes, I catch her staring. When I’m working in my office with the door open, I’ll glance toward my door. Almost pensively, she’ll be covertly studying me. It’s obvious she’s not thinking about business because her cheeks redden, then she’ll hastily jerk her gaze back to her computer screen.

Just two days ago, when I had her attend a business lunch with me, I caught her staring at my mouth. And not in a way that implied she found capital investments interesting, but rather in remembrance of what those lips did to her.

Christ, her dreamy expression had thrown me off my game. For the remainder of the meeting, I fantasized about dragging her to a bathroom stall and fucking her.

And the staring obviously went both ways, except I was more subtle.

She even invaded my dreams at night. On more than one occasion, I woke from a sound sleep with clear recollections of erotic dreams, starring Bailey. They’d be so realistic my cock would be achingly hard and ready to erupt. Within moments of jerking myself, I’d explode all over my stomach, yet be left with a horrid empty feeling after release.

Bottom line—because I can’t have her, it only makes me obsess over wanting her more. I could head off to The Wicked Horse, then fuck her memory out of my system. Hell, I could do it with a different woman every night.

But I haven’t.

And I don’t know why.

It just… it doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

Goddamn it… Bailey Robbins fucking broke me.

About the only thing that would make me feel better about it would be if I broke her, too, which is why I’m playing this little game. To see how she reacts to me.

“I have a new spreadsheet to start organizing data in,” I say, continuing to roll up my sleeves.

Now, I’m not saying my forearms are the sexiest part of my body. If someone asks Bailey Robbins, I hope her answer would be my cock. But I work out seven days a week, so I know my arms are great. Revealing them little by little, I watch closely for a reaction.

And there it is… her eyes drift down as I do the right sleeve, then the left, which I fold over my Bvlgari watch. Typically, the watch alone would catch a woman’s eye as it cost six grand. It’s definitely not the most expensive in my collection, though. I have a Patek Philippe worth over eleven million, which I only bring out on special occasions.

Not that it would impress Bailey. I realized early on that she’s decidedly unmoved by name brands.

No, I’m hoping it’s the muscles in my forearms and the way they were braced on either side of her body last week while we fucked that will make an impression.

She observes me as I finish, seeming to have no clue she’s even fixated. It’s only after I put my arms down and her attention snaps back to my face that she realizes I’ve caught her watching me.

It gives me satisfaction to know she’s still affected. Pathetic, maybe, but oh well.

At this point, I realize I’m torturing myself since I won’t do anything with this knowledge. Not like I’m going to make a move on her or suggest we return to The Wicked Horse. I refuse to cross that line again.

“The spreadsheet?” Bailey prompts. I wince, feeling like a dolt for having drifted off into my own internal quandary.

What in the hell am I doing? Torturing myself and probably Bailey at the same time. Feeling a sense of accomplishment and validation by proving she still wants me, but to no useful purpose since nothing can be done about it. It’s the most exceptional exercise in futility possible, and I’m an idiot for engaging in it.

Moving on from her is my only course of action. The best way to do that is by replacing memories of her with someone else.

Tags: Sawyer Bennett The Wicked Horse Vegas Billionaire Romance
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