4. Ashton

four

Ashton

Selma Volkov.

I'd heard about her once or twice in the past few years. She'd apparently been an iconic fashion designer with an outstanding brand, Volkov, until disaster struck. It's a typical fall-from-grace story.

Boyfriend left her and started dating her cousin because she was vile, according to the tabloids, and had created a working environment that was so toxic that if her employees were to choose between poverty and working for her, they would happily starve.

There'd also been some damage control blog posts. While some had been skeptical of her cousin's immediate, successful debut into the fashion industry, and said Selma's career had gone downhill quickly, others had been extremely critical of her cousin's designs and even said they seemed very similar to Selma's style.

None of that concerned me at the time. Although she had been successful at her peak, and it would have been nice to work with her, shit happens. Instead, when the opportunity to work with Zed Chenko presented itself, I grabbed it with both hands and held on for dear life.

Nevertheless, I hadn't expected Selma Volkov to be the same woman from that night. That fucking night that had left me damaged for days. I'd even returned to the hotel several times after searching for her. That was how badly I'd wanted her again. I couldn't stop thinking about how amazing she felt in my arms, or how loud she'd been. How willing.

After two weeks of no-shows, I decided to give up.

Searching for her would have been futile. I had no name, no address, not even a fucking phone number.

And now that she was here in front of me, it wasn't hard to figure out why.

I watched from behind her desk as she spoke to Maria in hushed tones. Without all that color on her face, she looked every bit of the refined, chic woman the media described her as. Extremely beautiful. It was ridiculous, actually. No woman should carry that much composure and poise.

Instead of the brown wig she'd worn that night—I had no idea how I hadn't noticed that it was a fucking fake—her blonde hair shone brightly. Coupled with emerald eyes, she was breathtaking.

Today, Selma's makeup was nude and subtle. Her lips shone a bright pink, her cheekbones propped high, accentuating the oval of her face and the smooth line of her jaw.

The white chiffon shirt she wore puffed out at the sleeves. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, and my cock stirred at the memory of how fucking great they'd looked in her black lace bra. I'd chosen not to take it off for some reason, but now I would give my left nut sack just for a peek at her nipples.

The only thing I could think of as I took in her pink skirt was how very shapely her legs were. She had hips for days. Fucking hell . She wasn't just a fine face; her body was to die for.

What had her ex-boyfriend been thinking? Surely, she couldn't be that bad, right?

Selma Volkov. I smiled. What had gone through her head when she saw me? She must have been fucking surprised. Maybe even more than me. However, unlike me, she had much more to lose if people discovered she had a one-night stand with a random man. Society was cruel to women like that.

I certainly wouldn't have told anyone, but it didn't matter.

When Maria said she wanted to cash in the favor owed for what she did for me a few months back, I never expected it would lead me back to that night.

Ordinarily, I would never work without payment. My life had been too difficult for me to do anything for free. I'd learned at a young age never to do for free what other people did for money. It didn't matter how small. Life was transactional. The people living in it made it so. Who was I to go against the norm?

But in this line of work, if people couldn't trust you to keep to your word, then they couldn't trust you at all.

I owed Maria, and I couldn't say no.

That would mean saying goodbye to future connections. Her influence stretched far and wide. With over a million Instagram followers, Maria knew everybody.

Maria wiggled her brows and laughed, leaning in to whisper something to Selma suggestively as if I could hear them from here. From the tinge of pink that appeared on Selma's cheeks, I didn't need a soothsayer to tell me I was the topic of conversation. I relaxed against the chair, letting a lazy smirk stretch my lips. If Selma had regaled her friend with tales of how loudly I'd made her scream with my cock inside of her, I didn't mind the gossip.

Not one bit.

I was willing to work with her if she would be more agreeable. Obviously, she needed me more than I did her, but Maria seemed to think we would work well together.

Then they both approached me, Maria with humor in her eyes and Selma with a permanent scowl that I'd noticed was reserved just for me.

"Are you done talking about me?" I asked, intertwining my fingers, and throwing them behind my head. I created a picture of laziness, and it pleased me greatly when the scowl on Selma's face deepened. "I've been told I'm quite difficult to forget."

"Get out of my chair," she snapped. "And take your fucking feet off my desk."

She pushed my legs off roughly, causing me to lose my balance momentarily and my feet to hit the vinyl-tiled floors with a thud. I clenched my jaw to keep from lashing out. Maria asked me to behave. Maria could go to hell, but it was enough of a reason for me to control myself.

I kept my gaze squarely on Selma's face, refusing to bite. She didn't blink, as if letting me know she never backed down from a fight. Well, I didn't either.

Guess we'll find out, won't we?

"Let's all just calm down," Maria intervened, sensing the battle brewing in the distance. "Ash, Selma has agreed to give you a chance."

I raised a brow. "The fuck she has. A chance? I'm pretty sure you need me more than I need you."

"I don't need you at all." Selma threw her chin in the air, and I decided then that I didn't like her. Beauty be damned. Beauty was useless if the soul was blackened. She looked at me like she was better than me, which didn't sit well with me at all. Especially since she was the one with the dead career, and I was here to help revive the fucking thing.

I stood on my feet and closed the short distance between us. From here, I could see the emerald of her eyes glowing, just like they had that night. Only this time, it was in anger.

"So, you wouldn't mind if I walked out right now?" I dared.

Her throat worked, but she didn't answer. I smiled victoriously. "I didn't think so. Listen, you don't want to be a bitch to me. I've had years of practice, and I promise you, I can be much worse."

"Fuck you," she snarled.

"Been there, done that. Nothing special, really. I've had better."

In a quick move, she raised her hand to slap me, presumably, but I was faster—and stronger.

"Be careful," I warned, lowering my voice to a hoarse tone. I let the anger seep through the pores of my skin to where I was gripping her hand. "I'm not a gentleman. I might do something stupid, like say, retaliate."

"Let me go." I could see she was struggling not to wince in pain, so I added just a bit of pressure. "You're hurting me, Aston."

Her intentional mispronunciation of my name brought a wry smile to my lips. I released her hand, and she snagged it back, gently massaging her wrist. Her glare remained fixed on me even as I turned and walked away.

I scoffed. For a second, the prospect of being the one to bring Selma Volkov's new designs to life appealed to me. My market value would skyrocket if fashion designers thought my pictures could work an impossible miracle, like reviving a dead career.

I'd tried to be reasonable, but that obviously gave her the impression that I was a fool. Never again. I didn't come this far by letting whiny, stuck-up women talk me down. It didn't matter how attractive or shapely their bodies were. To me, women were categorized into two boxes: an avenue for release or a steppingstone to the top.

Selma had been one of the two, but I would be damned if I let her make me feel less than adequate. I'd made a vow to never be at anyone's mercy ever again, and I would keep that vow even if it meant losing my life.

"Ash, where are you going?" Maria asked behind me.

"Anywhere she's not."

"Ash, please."

I stopped, mostly because I'd known Maria for two years and never heard her beg for anything. What was I doing here? From the first day I met her, I knew Selma was trouble.

If the fact that I didn't sleep with random women, but somehow was so fascinated by her that I'd broken my rule hadn't been enough, then running into her again in a city with eight million people should have been crystal clear.

Despite my inner turmoil, I swung on my heel. It was apparent Maria cared for her friend. She was cashing in her favor, but it didn't benefit her. That spoke volumes.

And I guess I owed it to her not to be too much of an asshole. After all, compared to what she'd done for me, this was a piece of cake.

I dragged my gaze to Selma. Her plump lips were pursed in a thin line as she stared back at me. Underneath the defiance, an urgency defied self-will, almost like she was…desperate. I bit back a chuckle. Desperation and stubbornness were a terrible combination.

I've always been good at reading people. Growing up in the system will do that to you. Moving from home to home was quite an inconvenience, and being able to tell when people didn't want you around saved you from making a fool of yourself.

"Say 'Please help me, Ashton. I can't do this without you.'"

She scoffed. "What?"

"You heard me." I shrugged. The ball was in her court now. "Beg me to help you, or I will walk out that door, and you'll never have to deal with me again."

I chose my words carefully, hoping she could read the meaning behind them.

She seemed to because her jaw clenched, and her mouth set in a hard line. "Screw you."

I grinned. I guess stubbornness won. "Alright then. See you later, Maria."

I heard Maria heave in a deep sigh, as if she would rather be anywhere else doing anything else than dealing with us. How relatable, seeing as I felt the same way.

Just as I was about to turn around and leave, Selma stopped me.

"Wait."

I paused, raising a questioning brow. Hmm. Maybe someone does need me after all.

Selma gritted her teeth before hissing. I could see how hard this was for her. It made me realize how greatly it would please me to see her kneeling in front of me, demure, begging for a touch. I would not acquiesce, at least for the first few minutes. I would relish in her pleading eyes and pouty lips as she looked up at me from under her lashes, and then I would—

Fucking hell.

"Please help me, Ashton. I can't do this without you." The words were rushed, but she forced them out anyway. This confirmed my suspicion; if she had to choose between working with me and bringing her career back from the dead, working with me would be worth it.

I allowed a grin to stretch my lips, basking in the scowl on her face. It was a petty thing to do, backing her into a corner like that, but something told me this was a cow I needed to milk as much as possible.

I walked closer to her, my grin still plastered on my face. Okay, so maybe I'm enjoying this a little too much.

I stretched out my hand when I neared her. "I look forward to working with you for the next few months, Miss Volkov."

She stared at my hand for a few seconds, probably contemplating if she'd made the right choice. Then she reached forward to grip my palm curtly, giving it a brief shake before letting go. One second was enough. I'd already felt her touch, and it was invigorating.

I wondered, what are the chances of having her legs spread out before me again?

Selma cleared her throat. "As do I, Mr. McCall."