Billionaire's Contract Engagement / Money Man's Fiancée Negotiation: Billionaire's Contract Engagement / Money Man's Fiancée Negotiation. Michelle CelmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
into his mouth.
Oh, yes, he’d spent a lot of time wondering about her breasts. She never wore clothing that could be deemed too provocative. She was fashionable, yes, but he secretly wished she’d wear something a little more revealing. It was killing him not to get a hint of her full, ripe breasts.
Soon. Soon, he’d unwrap all of her. He’d possess her. She’d be his.
He needed air and he broke away only long enough to pull oxygen into his starving lungs. She gasped along with him, and then he started at the corner of her mouth and licked and kissed his way across to the other corner.
Her small hands slid up his chest. It was like a heating element sliding over his skin. She left a blazing trail of fierce need in her wake. His entire body came alive, and all she’d done was touch him. Innocently.
They wound up around his neck and then her fingertips just delved into the hair at his nape. He shuddered, and it was all he could do to retain his tight hold on his control.
His body screamed at him to haul her over his shoulder and drag her caveman-style to the bedroom. He’d rip off her clothes and spend the night taking her over and over until they both succumbed to exhaustion.
His mind yelled at him to be careful. To take it slow. Not to push her so far away that she never returned.
It was that fear of driving her away permanently that finally pulled him back from the brink of insanity.
With great reluctance, he pulled back. His hands were still tangled up in her hair, and he carefully extricated them from the heavy coil that lay over her shoulders.
Her eyes were cloudy, a gorgeous mix of confusion and desire that had him wanting to throw caution to the wind and continue his seduction.
“That,” he whispered, “is what I’ve been wanting to do ever since I saw you across a crowded room six months ago. Now you tell me this has anything to do with Maddox Communications and Reese Enterprises.”
Her hand fluttered to her mouth and she stared at him with shocked awareness.
“Oh, God, Evan. What are we going to do?”
He smiled gently and slowly pulled her hand away from her swollen lips.
“What we’re going to do is get your pitch out of the way tomorrow morning. Whatever happens afterward, we take it as it comes.”
Eight
There was no need for Celia to set her alarm. She never went to sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her senses completely shattered by something as simple as a kiss.
No. That kiss could never ever be called simple.
She’d thought to go over her pitch. Mentally replay everything she wanted to say until it flowed seamlessly through her mind. But all she’d been able to do was lay there and wonder how she was going to manage to keep things with Evan on a strictly professional level.
He kissed like a dream.
He’d make love like a dream.
And the sick thing was she’d never find out.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.
Celia, Celia.
The admonishment burned like acid on her tongue. She was walking a very tight, very dangerous line. It was bad enough that she was here with Evan. Sharing a suite with Evan. Her groan was swallowed up by the pillow.
The least she could have done was insisted on a separate room, but that wouldn’t have gone far in convincing his family that they were happily engaged.
Friendship. Okay, she could handle a friendship with Evan. She liked him. He asked her to consider this a personal favor. As a friend. And she’d forget the kiss. Forget that he had made his intention to make love to her abundantly clear.
All she had to do was get through her presentation, go to a rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception with Evan—as his fiancée—and then she could go home and put him firmly back in his neat, tidy little corner.
She struggled out of bed, knowing it would take her the better part of an hour to erase the look of someone who hadn’t slept. Evan had ordered room service to be brought up at eight, and she wanted plenty of time to go over her notes again.
She purposely toned down her looks, choosing subtle makeup. She did nothing to highlight her eyes, which were her best feature. And she pulled her hair back into a tight knot and used hairspray to keep the wispy tendrils from escaping. She wanted no distractions. No sizzling looks. No temptation to do something utterly stupid.
To her immense relief, when she walked out of her bedroom, Evan was in total business mode. He didn’t stare at her like he was set to devour her. He gave her a cursory glance and motioned for her to sit across from him at the dining table where breakfast had already been served.
“We can eat and talk, or we can eat and then talk. Strictly up to you,” he said when she took her seat.
“We can eat and talk,” she said. “I’m not using props or anything, and I planned it to be more conversational than a formal presentation.”
He nodded approvingly. “Great. Let’s dig in and get started then.”
There was a moment of transition where they ate in silence before Celia shut off everything but the task at hand. This was her career and she knew she was damn good at it. She hadn’t gotten to where she was and survived the pitfalls without the ability to put her game face on in the face of adversity.
“I studied your last ad campaign, and I believe you’re missing a huge segment of your target audience.”
He blinked, set his fork down and stared across at her. “Okay, you have my attention.”
“Perhaps I should put it another way. I think you’re not targeting the right audience. You’re missing a huge opportunity.”
She paused for effect and then segued into her spiel.
“Right now you appeal to the sports crowd. The guy who jogs. The woman who goes to the gym. The person who cares about staying in shape. You’re all about functionality. The kids who play sports. The guys who play racquetball at the club. The casual basketball game on the weekends.”
Evan nodded.
“Then there are the people, like me, who are allergic to physical activity.”
He snorted and sent an appraising look over her body.
She ignored him and continued on.
“These are the people who watch sports. They’re tuned in to every game. The players. The teams. They run the gambit from the fanatic to the casual observer. They’re the people who will buy your sportswear not because they’re going to worry over the functionality. They don’t care. They want to look cool. They want to immerse themselves in the aura of the sports world. You’re a brand, a label. It’s a status symbol.”
Her excitement mounted with every word. He was listening intently. She had him.
“So you do dual marketing. You go after the die-hard fitness enthusiast with the sweaty workout commercials. The driven athlete who’s going to be the best and wearing your brand the entire time.”
Again she paused to gauge his reaction, and he was leaning forward, his brow creased in concentration.
“Then you go after the men and the women and the kids who want your clothing and your shoes because they look good. Because they make them feel athletic without ever lifting a finger. You show them someone looking cool and sophisticated in your clothing. You show them it’s hip to have Reese Wear. They can be average, everyday Joes and still know what it feels like to be a star.”
Then she went for the kill shot. Her excitement mounted because she knew he was interested. This had nothing to do with personal attraction.