The Wildcard

Chapter Twelve

I barely saw him the next day – catching just a glimpse across the pale marble expanse in the foyer as he was surrounded by an entourage of suited and booted businessmen.

My feet stumbled – stopping of their own accord on the marble tiles just to appreciate that perfect beautiful specimen that I’d ran out on – three times now. I knew I was doing the right thing in pushing him away – knew that opening myself up to a man like Cayden would be dangerous – but everything inside me ached to go to him. Standing there within that throng of tired looking suits, he towered over every other man in the room – not in height, necessarily, but it was something more; there was a primitive, dangerous charisma about him – a commanding aura that just enthralled each and every person around him.

My heart did a fluttering twist in my chest as I considered really belonging to him – really opening up to that dark, possessive charm that he was wielding over me – my skin heating at the memory of his branding touches.

His pale gaze caught mine – spinning a web between us – my eyes tired and blurred from a night of sleeplessness and angry, frustrated tears, while his seemed just as alert and alive as ever. Pale blue shirt crisp and clean, with an off white tie set against it – he looked virile – pulsating masculinity and cosmopolitan breeding. He didn’t look like the kind of man who set down half a million for the sake of a filthy fuck.

But somehow, there in the centre of that luxurious open foyer, with the suits firing questions at him from all angles, with colleagues rushing past us in the hustle and bustle that comes from having only two days left of your working week – cappuccinos in hand from the deli across the street – memos and paperwork snatched from the front desk – he ensnared me – us – trapped like a fly in a spiders web – cloaked in the silky membrane of a lust bubble. And as a spark of triumph flared in his eyes, I knew he knew it.

God, I was so fucked.

I steeled myself to it – my eyes narrowing to a warning glare that had the corners of his lips twisting up into a sardonic grin that I could only just see from my spot across the open space in the foyer. Shaking my head at the sheer fucking cheek of the man, I span on my heel and stormed off in the direction of the lifts.

As I dragged my tired ass away from the foyer and up to my desk, I couldn’t get his words out of my head – the scene in his office playing over and over in my mind. He couldn’t really be asking anything long term from me, could he? He was a certified playboy – I was guaranteed to be left heartbroken in a matter of months – and somehow, he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy you forget easily, if ever. He struck me as a man that scored a brand into your skin, your heart, and your soul – a man that tore you open for a moment, and then cast you aside once he was done.

And let’s face it, I’m not a girl that can survive that kind of turbulent onslaught from a man like Cayden Gates, and then roll out of the opposite side of the bed with a thank you very much and goodnight.

Ryan had played the martyred victim once I got home – how could I use him like that? How could Cayden put him – me  - in that position? He was outraged, but there was that spark of wariness – that little edge of temptation that he couldn’t hide – and I saw us then, for what we were: Slaves to our own impulses. To Cayden, we were puppets, maybe everybody in his world was – just inanimate objects that he could play around with at will – living, breathing chess pieces. But I was basically primed and ready because of my own desires – a lust he was tugging and pulling into a frenzy.