скачать книгу бесплатно
Reaching Lily
Vivacia K Ahwen
Dorian is Lily’s new boss and he wants to rule her, own her, control her, and awaken Lily to the sensuality she never knew she possessed.Let him in, or run away?Dorian Holder arrives at work to clean house and change everything, including his dealings with intern, Lily DeWitt. Soon, he’s demanding Lily be subservient both in the office and in his luxury suite.Lily once believed that sometimes giving in, and being someone’s Everything For Now, could be the ultimate power. But relinquishing total control is altogether more than she bargained for, and falling in love was not part of their agreement.
Reaching Lily
Vivacia K. Ahwen
Copyright (#uec02561e-5f97-5752-bfc6-f02938ac7300)
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.mischiefbooks.com (http://www.mischiefbooks.com)
Copyright © Vivacia K. Ahwen 2014
Vivacia K. Ahwen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008124007
Version: 2014-11-24
‘Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;
Growing straight out of man’s reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.’
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Contents
Cover (#u4e870639-a9fb-5cee-87c0-5bbecdae136f)
Title Page (#u70cd056b-ee8b-5afe-8a01-1a682a14a98d)
Copyright
Epigraph (#u1f1cb563-d6eb-554b-8388-ad294608c2f6)
Prologue: Fear of Flying
Chapter One: Strangers On A Train
Chapter Two: Holder Tight
Chapter Three: Intern Flat
Chapter Four: Blackberry Curve
Chapter Five: The Other Side
Chapter Six: Metamorphosis
Chapter Seven: Raising the Bar
Chapter Eight: Run, Baby Run
Chapter Nine: Do Not Disturb
Chapter Ten: Just Desserts
Chapter Eleven: The Legend of Jerry Fitz
Chapter Twelve: Time and Tide
Chapter Thirteen: Save A Prayer
Chapter Fourteen: Oh! Pretty Woman
Chapter Fifteen: Naughty and Nice
Chapter Sixteen: Sleeping Beauty
Chapter Seventeen: Ripples and Waves
Chapter Eighteen: A Close Shave
Chapter Nineteen: Revere
More from Mischief
About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
Prologue (#uec02561e-5f97-5752-bfc6-f02938ac7300)
Fear of Flying (#uec02561e-5f97-5752-bfc6-f02938ac7300)
I always carry too much baggage. Though I managed to cram a couple of weeks’ worth of sassy tropical vacation clothes into one gigantic carry-on, stuffing it into the small compartment over my seat proves well nigh impossible.
‘Dammit.’ I punch the pink canvas bulging out of the cubby.
‘Miss? Do you need help?’ asks a silky male voice.
Startled, I whip around to see who my concerned fellow passenger is, hoping his sonorous intonation is matched by an equally attractive face.
Alas, not a meet-cute. Just some retiree in golf duds, who looks like a plump version of Woody Allen and clearly has had some vocal training. His eyes drop to my chest.
‘Thanks.’ Though I try to keep my voice pleasant, three sleepless nightstend to affect one’s delivery. Sweet, complacent Lily Dewitt is still at a bitsy flat on Agassiz Street, curled up in an even bitsier ball on her futon, crying her eyes out about the man who never loved her back.
She can stay there.
‘I’m fine.’
Woody shoves horn-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to look up from my tits. ‘If you’re sure …’
Hands on hips, I ask, ‘Are you going to be sitting next to me this entire flight?’
‘No, though that would be delightful.’ He stops ogling long enough to meet my eyes. ‘Would you like me to join you?’
‘Wow, really?’
He looks away. ‘I could switch with someone.’
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
‘Seems you’re holding up the line.’ I give an encouraging, not so subtle shrug. ‘I got this.’
Several passengers waiting behind him nod and mumble their support to me. Thanks, team. He sighs, quite put out by my obvious lack of gratitude and snooty demeanour. I turn my back on him and go on shoving my bag into the reluctant overhead. But it’s like trying to squeeze my bum into skinny jeans halfway through winter. Ain’t gonna happen.
Well … perhaps my annual garment squish isn’t the greatest comparison, since my build has changed. My drawstring linen pants are hanging off my hips, and spring has only just sprung. This is the smallest I’ve been since high school, and it doesn’t suit me one bit. I’m supposed to be a curvy girl, no two ways about it. But a few weeks of stress, Olympic-athlete sex, a few ballet lessons, a lot of falling in love, topped with a dollop of utter devastation? Winning combo. Makes for a quick and simple crash diet.
Simple, but not easy.
I’ve got Dorian Holder to thank for my Doctor Oz non-approved weight-loss plan.
Thanks, Dorian.
He’s probably already got a patent on it already. The man owns fucking everything, and breaking hearts is his trademark, after all.
Just thinking of Dorian sends such a surge of angry adrenalin through my veins that one solid punch is enough to propel my bag into the small gap. Good luck pulling it out, Lily. I glance over my shoulder, and am pleased to find the nosy little man behind me has moved on.
Think I scared him.
Good.
Ow. That seriously hurt my knuckles. Punching isn’t my forte.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Lily. God, please let me have these three seats to myself so I can stretch out and sleep.
As though on cue, a glowing – they are so obviously newlywed – young couple, not much older than I, bustle from the line and wedge themselves into my row. She stumbles, because she can’t take her eyes off of her husband, but he steadies her. ‘Careful, Mrs Greene.’
‘Thank you, Mr Greene,’ she says, and giggles. ‘Sweet husband of mine.’
So much for that nap.
See, God and I haven’t been on speaking terms for awhile, and apparently he doesn’t do reservations.
The passengers are not only disgustingly twitterpated with each other, but they’re frequent-flyer smart; clearly seasoned travellers. They knew enough to check in luggage and don’t fight for space, but just claim it. ‘Mr and Mrs Greene’ are lost in each other, smiling, giggling, kissing and half-falling into the two seats beside me, as though I were invisible. They get into some inane discussion about why there was that wacky mix-up in which they were supposed to be flying first class but got stuck in coach. And how they would somehow make it through, because they are ‘together and that’s all that matters’.
I hate them.
But to be fair, at least they’ve the decency to not say hello to me, because faking a smile and stuttering pleasantries at happy strangers is not something I’ve got energy for at the moment. They do see me, sense my solitude, and don’t want to catch any of it.
Loneliness is like cooties.
They are stepping it up now, to the inevitable lip-lock and hands groping all over each other, as though there weren’t another soul in the cabin. Ain’t love grand. Feeling like I’m crashing a party in someone else’s living room, I sit down, turn my back to them and try to look interested in all the nothing going on outside the tiny window.
Wow. My hands are shaking.
Much as I’d like to blame Dorian Holder for the shivers, not to mention the butterflies in my stomach and pounding of my heart, I’m afraid what could turn into a full-fledged anxiety attack is all down to me and my lack of worldliness.
This is my first flight.
Yes, I’m 24 years old, and the only time I’ve ever been on a plane was a field trip in the third grade when they just drove us back and forth on a landing strip in a passenger plane. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to fly anywhere, just that the opportunity never presented itself until yesterday.
There is a static crackle, and a froggy voice says, ‘Welcome aboard Virgin America Airlines flight A300 to the Cyril E. King Airport. Flying time from Boston to St Thomas is four hours and forty minutes.’
Five hours? That’s going to feel like for ever. Why can’t we fast-forward time? I want to get off this plane.
‘Meals and refreshments will be served during the flight …’ The pilot-in-command’s voice fades away as I rest my head against the cool Plexiglas of the tiny window, out of which I will try not to look again for the next several hours. My mind is too cluttered to absorb all the stimuli around me. I busy myself buckling up, as Captain Peterson is now saying something about keeping our seatbelts fastened at all times when some light is on, following with a bunch of stuff about cellphones, safety procedures, upright positions and so forth, while flight attendants are doing some kind of interpretive dance. Holy shit, this is real.
I am leaving.
The bride beside me is unaware that she’s jabbing her elbow into my back while cooing in her new husband’s ear, but I don’t feel the urge to shove her away. Any human contact is to be cherished, right now, and perhaps even a touch of someone who loves someone who loves her back close by will rub off, and I will be safe and loved by proxy. Reverse social cooties!
Nobody knows I am taking off.
Not Gwen, though she hopes and suspects. Not my mom, who would be even more terrified for me than I am. Not even Dorian Holder knows I’m flying away.
