Page 13 of Resist

I don’t have to be the woman who needs to get married in the next three months or she loses her entire family’s empire that has been handed down through generations. My great, great grandfather Blackwell is probably spinning in his grave in England right now.

He was apparently a miserly old prick that everyone hated, but he built Blackwell Publishing from the ground up.

And the lack of wedding band around my finger could be what tears it all apart.

I have no fucking clue what Dad’s reasoning for doing this was. I really don’t. I’ve racked my brain every single day since he passed. The only thing I can come up with is that he thought I was the only person who could replace him to run his company and would stop at nothing to make sure I did.

I might not be the only person who can run the company, but I’m the only one Dad taught how to do itright,how he and my grandfather envisioned Blackwell Publishing to be run. I’m also the only person who knows what changes need to be made to make it a more inclusive and diverse space in the fast changing landscape of publishing.

The world is moving so quickly, restricting our mind set to a strictly traditional publishing house is a mistake,something Dad and I debated for years. Family history is important, of course it is, it’s all I heard about time and again while Dad was alive, but changing, growing, moving with the times is important too. And I won’t see Blackwell Publishing run into the ground by a board of antiquated white dudes who, like Dad, don’t have their fingers on the pulse of the publishing world.

I snort, and Sterling’s shoulder grazes mine. I’m the same height as him in these heels, and I kind of like it.

When he bumps me with his hips, he leans close to me, his nose brushing my cheek as he positions himself to speak directly in my ear. “Something funny you’d like to share with the class?”

I roll my lips and shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the side of my face for a long moment but then turns back to the wax display on the other side of the glass. “That’s Austin, and his wife Mackenzie. You know they met here too.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Maybe it’s a good omen. Though from what I hear she slipped down the bottom couple of stairs, so maybe we need a do over on the staircase.”

I don’t remind him I already almost went on my ass tonight, too. We aren’t supposed to be flirting, or at least my red armband tells us both I’m not open for seducing. But his words and how he says them... definitely sounds like flirting. And I’m really not mad about it.

He’s teasing, but I’m absorbed by the way his words fall over me, the way his tone soothes my rubbed-raw nerves. Another sigh slips out from between my lips, and I reach around to knead at a growing knot in my shoulder.

“May I?” His hand hovers right above mine but doesn’t connect.

It’s one thing I love abouttruekink circles. Consent is everything.

Having the authority to say yes or no when someone requests permission to touch you is everything.

There’s power in permission.

And it’s fucking bewitching.

I nod, and his mouth skims the shell of my ear, making me shiver. “Use your words, Cecelia.”

“Yes.” I hate being told what to do, but knowing I won’t get his thumb in the knot on my shoulder pushes me to relent.

There isn’t much he can do through the catsuit, but I’m not going to strip naked for everyone to see just so he can give me a shoulder rub. I consider it for a passing second, though. The pressure on the taut muscle is nice, though not nearly enough.

“It’s so hard.”

I’m not sure whether he’s talking about my shoulders, or the bulge in his pants that’s pressing against the curve of my ass. Maybe both.

Again, we’re straying into beyond-friendly territory, but I can’t seem to fight the urge to lean into it, curving my back so I can press my butt against his crotch. We both groan, and I smile in the semi-dark room.

“I’m a good listener you know. If you feel like unburdening yourself.” He watches Austin and Mackenzie over my shoulder as his fingers fruitlessly press at the fabric of my outfit.

“What makes you think I am burdened?” I keep my face forward as well in case something on my face gave him more than I intended.

He plants his hands on my hips. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“Call it a hunch.” He pulls my hair to one side and presses harder. “Is that okay?”

“Yes. And I don’t want to unburden myself.” Though it’sreally fucking tempting to confess all my troubles to a stranger and leave him in the darkness with my woes.

His hands move and fabric rustles as though he’s taking off his suit jacket, but his hands return as quickly as they left. Then he presses his chest to my back as he drags his nose along the curve of my exposed neck.