The CEO's Wife is A Badass novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: Home Early
Scott lands early, believes her at once and offers to fire Blair; Siobhan says she will do it herself and he takes her against the kitchen counter. His grandmother wants Blair at Sunday dinner.
Scott was in the kitchen when I got home.
His suitcase stood in the hall with the tags still on.
His tie was pulled loose, and he was standing at the counter with both hands flat on it.
"You said tonight," I said.
"I said tonight. I got on the first plane I could."
He had flown all day and he still looked like someone had cut him out of the wall of a bank.
Six foot three, black hair, gray eyes that did not leave my face.
"Siobhan."
"You signed her in."
He did not look away.
"Yes."
"A month ago. You never told me."
"I approved a residency and a solo show. My grandmother asked me for it in a phone call that lasted four minutes."
"You didn't tell me."
"No."
He said it flat, with no excuse in it.
"I thought it was a small favor for Philippa."
He shook his head.
"I didn't think what it would be like for you to have a famous painter in your building. That's on me."
"Her name is Blair Kingsley."
"I know the name."
"She's the girl I went to school with. The one whose studio was next to mine."
His face changed.
"The one who was there the week you failed."
"Yes."
I had told him once, in the dark, with my back against his chest, that I failed my thesis and left school.
I had never said her name.
I had never said the rest either.
He took one step toward me and stopped.
"I didn't know. If I had known, I'd never have signed it."
"She told the staff she was the director. She took my office."
My voice shook.
"She dropped my sketchbook in the champagne fountain in front of two hundred people."
A muscle moved in his jaw.
"I'm firing her tonight," he said. "I'll call the board chair from the car. Her contract will be cancelled by midnight."
"No."
"Siobhan."
"No."
I dropped my bag on the floor.
"If you fire her, I'm the girl whose husband fixed it. She wins that one forever."
"I don't care what she wins."
"I do."
I was breathing hard, and I was so angry I could taste it.
"I want that door back, Scott. I want my name on it, and I want her to watch me take it. I'll do it myself."
He looked at me for a long second.
Something in his eyes went dark and slow.
"Then do it," he said. "And I'll stand behind you while you do."
"That's all I want."
"It's not all you're getting."
He crossed the kitchen in two steps and I was against the counter before I finished the thought.
His hand slid into my hair and tipped my head back.
"Do you know how it felt?" he said, low, against my mouth.
"Hearing at two in the morning that someone had hurt you, and I was nine thousand miles away?"
"I'm fine."
"You're mine," he said. "That's not the same thing."
He kissed me hard.
I kissed him back harder.
I had been holding my breath for twenty-four hours, and I let it out into his mouth.
His hands went to my waist and he lifted me onto the counter.
The marble was cold through my dress.
He pushed the skirt up my thighs and looked at what he had uncovered.
"No tights," he said.
"It was hot in the gallery."
"Good girl."
I laughed, and then his mouth was on my neck and I stopped laughing.
He undid the buttons down my front one by one, slowly, and every button was a small punishment.
He pulled the dress off my shoulders and my bra went with it.
He bent and took my breast in his mouth, and I made a sound that echoed off the cabinets.
"Scott."
"I know."
His hand went between my legs.
He pulled my underwear to the side and pushed two fingers inside me, and I was already so wet that he groaned.
"Look at you," he said. "You've been angry all day and you're soaked."
"Don't talk. Just do it."
"Say please."
"Please."
"Louder."
"Please, Scott."
He worked his fingers in deep and rubbed my clit with his thumb, slow circles that got harder when I gasped.
I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer, and his shirt tore in my hand.
"I'll buy you another," I said.
"I'll let you tear all of them."
He took his fingers out and I whimpered at the loss.
He undid his belt with one hand, shoving his trousers down, and his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking.
He pulled me to the edge of the counter, hooked my knees over his arms and pushed in.
All the way, in one long stroke.
I cried out.
He stopped, fully inside me, and put his forehead against mine.
"Nine days," he said, rough. "Nine days since I've had you."
"Then stop talking and fuck me."
He did.
He fucked me against the counter with the plates rattling in the cupboard.
One hand was braced beside my head and the other gripped my hip hard enough to leave marks.
Every thrust hit deep and my legs shook around him.
I held on to him and said his name over and over.
He bit my shoulder and I came, hard, clenching around his cock, my back arching off the marble.
"That's it," he said. "Again."
"I can't."
"You can."
He reached down between us and rubbed my clit while he pounded into me, and the second one built so fast it hurt.
I came again with my mouth against his neck, shuddering.
That broke him.
He thrust twice more, buried himself to the root and came with a low groan, spilling deep inside me while I held him through it.
We stayed there, breathing, his heart racing against my chest.
He kissed my temple.
"You're going to take everything back," he said.
"Yes."
"And I'm going to watch."
I smiled into his shoulder, loose and shaky.
He eased me down and fixed my dress with careful hands.
Then he went still.
"There's something else," he said.
"What?"
"Philippa called while I was on the plane. She wants us at her house a week from Sunday for dinner."
"That's nice."
"She's inviting Blair too."
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