Chapter 8

It was the raging headache that woke me up the next morning, followed by the sensation of being sore between my thighs.

I rolled over, the events from last night already playing through my mind on repeat before I even got out of bed.

With a groggy groan, I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the partially open blinds that showcased the city right outside the panes of glass.

A flush already started to cover my face as the memories of last night kept rolling around in my head.

The sex had been incredible. And dare I say… the best sex of my life.

Anthony had been so big. So muscular. I felt like this dainty little thing compared to him.

Was I ashamed because I had a one-night stand with a man I didn't even know? A man I only knew by his first name?

No. No, I wasn't. It had been the most exhilarating, thrilling, and exciting thing I'd ever done in my life.

Sleeping with a stranger hadn't been something I'd seen myself ever actually doing. As an introvert, it wasn't as if I put myself out there to experience anything that even touched on what was happening right now.

I should've felt shame and a little bit of judgment toward myself that I slept with someone who worked where I did. What was that saying?

You don't shit where you eat?

That was just asking for trouble.

But we only exchanged first names, so it wasn't as if Anthony would ever really find me. Well, maybe… since Pyper wasn't the most common name in the world. But for all I knew, he was from a different branch in the company in a different town. Maybe even states away.

Besides, did I really think he'd come searching for me? No. I wasn't under any delusion that we both didn't know what last night was. And that was an incredible evening of rough, mindless, public fucking.

I placed my hand between my thighs and gently pressed in, the sensitivity and soreness enough to take my breath away.

I also felt the dried remnants of our combined fluids still coating my inner thighs.

Another wave of heat filled me.

When I'd gotten home last night, it had been late. I'd been exhausted, and I hadn't thought about anything but sleeping, so I went straight to bed.

Now, all that felt like a fever dream as I made my way to the bathroom and took the hottest shower imaginable. I smelled of lavender and vanilla, my skin a deep shade of pink when I got out.

It was after I toweled myself off and looked down at my body that I noticed the fingerprint bruises that marred my hips. Black-and-blue marks that reminded me of Anthony.

From when he held me tightly and fucked me.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink after wrapping the towel around my body, water dripping off the strands of my hair and sliding down my arms and chest. Another harsh groan was ripped from me as the blood rushed to my forehead, making my headache that was already pounding throb even more.

The sound of my phone ringing was like nails on a chalkboard, but I knew it was my mother. I had dinner with my parents every Sunday. She always called in the morning to verify things and ask what I wanted.

But I wasn't in the mood to talk, and it was in that moment, when the phone stopped ringing, that I remembered one piece of the night more vividly than any other.

Anthony had taken my phone out and took pictures. And I hadn't remembered it until right now.

My tongue was thick, my mouth dry, and my throat felt so tight I couldn't swallow. I was in my bedroom and taking my phone off the charger a second later. My heart was racing as I opened up the Photos app and froze, every muscle in my body tensing when I saw picture after picture.

Ones of my bare ass.

Shots of my waxed pussy.

And then there was the really explicit ones—which seemed wild, given the ones I'd just looked at.

They were images that showed Anthony's thick, masculine hand wrapped around the base of his dick. Another one where he lined his cockhead up with my pussy hole.

Another one was of him halfway inside me, my arousal glistening along his length.

My ass displayed his handprints, red imprints of how vicious his passion had been. It had those memories resurfacing and caused me to crave him all over again.

And then there was a video, and my knees felt shaky as I let myself sink to the edge of the bed to watch it.

I could hear my harsh breathing through the speaker, followed by his deep grunts. There was the distant sound of chatter just around the corner from the alcove we were in.

At first, all of it was like watching my very own porno. But then he rotated the camera, so it was facing him. His mask was still pushed above his lips. He stared right at the screen, a cocky smirk gracing his lips.

Then he lifted the leather, fully showing me his face, and winked.

God, he was even more gorgeous than I could've imagined.

The video ended at that moment, his mask up, his face on full display and frozen in time. But I knew he must've pulled it back into place quickly and dropped my phone onto my purse, since our fucking went on long after that point, and that's where I found my cell when I collected myself when we were finished. Although his identity was no longer hidden, I didn't know who he was, but he… looked familiar.

I didn't know what possessed me to bring up the company website or click on the staff directory, but it was when I got to the webpage that listed the names, titles, positions, and photos of all who worked at the company that I sucked in a breath.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I had to bite my tongue to stifle the sound that was about to leave me.

Right there, dead center, at the very top of the list, staring back at me with a stoic expression that roared authority and power, was Anthony Blackwell.

CEO.

Owner of the company.

Multimillionaire.

And the man I slept with the previous night.

As if my body wanted to remind me of what I'd done, my pussy started to throb, and I found myself placing my fingers right over the sensitive area, still remembering how it felt when he was deep inside me.

The phone slipped from my fingers and fell to the mattress beside me. Good God. I fucked the boss.

I was staring at the wall, when my phone started ringing again. With my eyes closed and a groan spilling from my lips, I grabbed the cell and answered, knowing it was my mother.

"Hi, Mom."

"What's wrong?" she asked, the sound of pots and pans banging coming through the line so loudly I winced and rubbed my eyes.

I held in the groan this time and fell back on the bed, the water already dried on my body, the towel loose as I flopped back like a dead fish. "I'm fine. I just drank too much at the company party last night and have a headache now."

She tsked but didn't comment on it. "Listen, your father asked for lasagna for dinner. You okay with that? I'm making tiramisu for dessert, and he grabbed some of that homemade garlic bread from the bakery in town."

"It all sounds great, Mom."

"Dammit," she cursed.

"You okay?"

"The steam off the noodles is hot as hell."

I chuckled, picturing her pouring out the pasta water and a cloud of steam rolling up. She never learned. I remembered her in this same situation plenty of times growing up.

"Don't say it," she said, and I heard her smile.

"I wasn't going to."

She started laughing, and I heard my dad in the background shouting, most likely about something on the television.

"Tell her, Darlene." My dad's muffled voice sounded closer, as if he were walking toward her.

My mom exhaled. "Pyper, to start, I want to tell you I didn't have any part of this."

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. "Sounds promising," I replied sarcastically.

There was a shuffle, and I knew my father was grabbing the phone. "Hey, darling."

"Hi, Dad."

"Would it be okay if we had a guest tonight?"

I shook my head, even if he couldn't see me. "Please tell me you aren't trying to set me up." I rubbed my eyes, the headache even worse now. My parents always meant well, but the last thing I ever wanted was for one of them to try to set me up.

No thanks.

"Um—"

Dad interrupted my mom, "Just have dinner with him. He's the son of Mr. Borowski. You remember him from when we had the deck built?"

"No, Dad."

"Anyway," he plowed right through, "his son is your age. Got a good head on his shoulders. Works with his father in the family business." At my silence, he said, "It's just dinner, Pyper. One night. See how you like him. Maybe you'll hit it off."

The last thing I needed right now was a blind date, but my dad sounded so sincere, and I could picture him standing there, looking all hopeful.

"Okay, Dad," I finally murmured after a lengthy pause. "But please, let's not make it weird."

"I don't make shit weird, darling."

I snorted and pushed myself up on the bed. "No telling stories about when I was younger and got gum stuck in my hair, and I ended up giving myself a mullet trying to get it out."

He barked out a laugh. "But they are such cute stories."

"I'll be there at six … with bells on," I said with thick sarcasm laced in my words.

"Love ya," Mom shouted.

"Love you, honey. See you then."

I disconnected the call and sat there a moment, my mind not on what a disaster this blind date would be. All my thoughts were still on Anthony Blackwell and how exactly I was going to deal with the fact that I slept with the most powerful man I knew.