Broken Headboards: Nights In New York Series Book 3 Read online

  I find myself staring at a picture of her smiling, shaking hands with some nobody, and I grab my dick, envisioning her hand wrapped around me.

  “Oh fuck,” the sudden grip of my hand jerks my hips up and the images of her kneeling over her furniture motivates my wrist.

  I stroke my length up and down, replaying the way she talked about furniture, about leather and my raw pieces.

  “Yes…” I squeeze harder, wanting it to be her pussy swallowing my dick.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, producing a highlight reel of her and that hemline, the tight blue dress, and that smooth, quick tongue.

  It travels down the side of my cock, licking up the droplets of pre-cum dripping down my shaft.

  “Fuck…” I stroke faster, my muscles starting to tense from the friction and my speed. I’m going to fucking explode. After everything I’ve put my cock through tonight, it is not going to take any prisoners. I’m almost thankful no one is here to take the load, who knows what I’m capable of after Tess. Almost. But, I’ve already blinded a woman with my cum already, I can’t imagine what it could do now.

  I open my eyes and they fall on the image of her in a tight white dress, kneeling down to highlight a small trinket molded onto a side table. She’s smiling and it’s her eyes that do me in.

  My body tenses and I start to quiver, feeling my orgasm rush through me.

  “Holy fuck,” I groan. “Ahhh!”

  Cum jets out of me, showering the square footage of my office floor. It creates a milky-white mess that I’m sure the housekeeper is going to have a field day with.

  I lean my head back on the chair and sigh heavily, feeling a wave of relief mixed with dread washing over me.

  This woman could be my undoing, but I have to do everything in my power to stop her.

  She might be gorgeous, and she might able to rile me up like no other woman has before, but she’s my competitor and that’s something I don’t take lightly.

  I slam my laptop shut and finish my whisky, the liquid burning my throat and numbing my nerves.

  I get an email just then from my assistant, Miranda. “Domina Designs” it’s titled. She's started doing opposition research.

  I open the attachment in curiosity.

  And, of course, the first thing I see is a picture of fucking Tess in that fucking gorgeous white dress.

  Shit.

  She is going down.

  But first, I need to take a fucking cold shower.

  Chapter Eight

  Tess

  War.

  That’s what this is.

  Mr. Charming might think he’s the best thing since sliced bread, but he’s in for a rude awakening. When it comes to business, I don’t have any rules, and I sure as hell don’t take prisoners.

  And that’s why I have this folder sitting on my desk, Austin’s name stamped right on the cover. I’ve read it cover to cover, and I gotta say—he’s actually an impressive man. And no, I’m not talking about the dozens of pictures my associates decided to include in the folder. Although he’s as handsome as anyone should be allowed to be, what really amazes me about him is his experience. He seems to know the way our little industry operates better than the rest of the assholes competing with us.

  He was right. Between me and him, the other companies won’t stand a chance. This is Oakmont v Domina all the way.

  Austin v Tess.

  Match of the century, no doubt about it.

  And we’re different in so many ways, that I just can’t predict a clear winner. We operate differently, and we see the market differently. The only thing we really have in common is our desire to win.

  Unlike Domina, which essentially is a company I bootstrapped together, Oakmont has been a family company for generations. That means, of course, that Austin landed in his position. But I need to be fair here: the only reason Oakmont is still a thing is because Austin is at the helm. He took the reins of a company that was almost insolvent and he turned it around. In just a few years, Oakmont has become a behemoth.

  Oakmont is like Starbucks. He’s everywhere. He panders to every segment of society with his in your face ‘I’m a man and this is my cave’ look.

  And people buy it up.

  I’m not jealous. He’s got his niche. I’ve got mine.

  I already knew that much, of course, but now that I have all the juicy details of the deals Austin made throughout the years...well, let’s just say that it’s a bit hard for me not to respect him.

  After all, power recognizes power.

  Not that it means anything. I’m still going to crush him, after all.

  Three days from now, all the projects bidders will gather at Clarendon Tower once more, and we’ll have to face our first challenge: the Clarendon Tower Sun Room. A massive area that acts as a sort of common living room to the residents, the space is almost completely enclosed with glass, the unobstructed New York City view it offers almost surreal.

  Our job is to present the board with our plans for the room furniture. I already have some ideas I’m working on, but there’s one question I need to answer before I commit to anything: What is Austin planning?

  But don’t worry. I’m not the kind of woman that can live with unanswered questions.

  Samantha, my assistant, knocks at the door.

  “Come in!” I call out to her. ”Is it ready?”

  “Yes, it is.” Strutting inside the room, she grins at me as she hands me a folded piece of paper. “All access information is in there.”

  “Was there any trouble?”

  “None at all,” she says. “It went as smooth as we expected. Their offices were empty at dawn. It took less than ten minutes for them to get in and out.”

  “Great. Tell them to invoice us.” I wave her away as I unfold the piece of paper, hungrily staring at the numbers and letters scribbled there. “Very well, Austin, let’s see what you’re up to,” I whisper to myself as I fire up my laptop. I access the software I bought for the occasion and type the string of numbers I’ve been given on the access panel. A bright screen pops up a second later and I almost squeal with joy.

  On my laptop screen I can see Austin sitting in his office. His desk is covered with sketches and documents—his laptop smack in the middle of all that mess—and he seems busy jotting something down.

  Yeah, I’m spying on Austin.

  Not exactly something an Ethics Board would reward, but what the hell—Austin isn’t exactly an upstanding guy, and I’m not taking any chances with him. If I have to play dirty in order to win, guess what? I’m going to play as dirty as I can.

  I have three cameras set up inside his office, pretty much allowing me to see everything he does, and the team I hired even managed to mess with his laptop. One press of a button and I can see everything on his screen.

  Leaning in, I focus on my laptop screen and try to figure out Austin’s plans. I can see some of the sketches he has for the fixtures, all of them ornate and expensive looking, and to the side I see some drawings his interns probably came up with for the main couches.

  Austin isn’t working on any of those things, though. He’s bent over his desk, staring intently at a large piece of paper, but I can’t quite figure out what it is. With the press of a button, I change the camera angle.

  “Wow,” I whisper.

  A chaise lounge.

  So that’s what he’s planning on using as the central piece.

  Borrowing from the aristocratic style of 19th century France, the upholstered sofa he’s working on seems like the perfect blend of traditional class and modern lines. Seems like he has an eye for design.

  “Come on,” I whisper, trying to zoom in on his plans. Austin is busy adding some final touches to the design, but I’m no longer interested in that. Judging from what I can see, his chaise lounge is going to be perfect looking. But looks aren’t everything, are they? Sometimes, it’s what’s underneath that counts.

  See? Men and furniture—not that different.

  On t
he corner of the sheet he’s working, I finally manage to see a few notations. I have to squint my eyes to decode the letters, but I finally manage to read them. He’s planning to use a kind of leather colored with dye, instead of a surface coating of polymer and pigment. His idea isn’t a bad one. The leather he’s going with is usually the best looking one you can use, but it has one slight problem: it’s not that durable.

  To add to his durability, he’s planning to use a kind of chemical coating that will add some resistance against tears and stains. I don’t recognize the name of the compound he’s planning on using, but it definitely rings some bells. Didn’t I work with something like that a couple years ago?

  Pushing my chair back, I head toward the cabinet I have on the back of my office and start rummaging through my folders. Takes me a while, but when I finally find the one I’m looking for, I remember it immediately.

  A few years ago I had a leather German supply that promised a good looking, cheap, and durable product. And yes, they used the same kind of chemical coating Austin is planning on using. For a few months everything seemed to go well...but then the complaints started rolling in fast.

  Against direct sunlight, the chemical offered little to no protection. In fact, it sped up the leather’s decay. Eventually, I had to recall all the sofas I built with that leather, since every single one of them (at least the ones under direct sunlight) were starting to look like antiques from two centuries ago.

  “Gotcha,” I smile to myself, already imagining Austin crashing and burning spectacularly at the first competition. Since Oakmont always had more buying power than my company, Austin probably doesn’t have direct experience with this kind of leather coating. He’s used to buying the best raw material money can buy, and never really had to look for a good deal. Now that he’s trying to innovate, this slip up he has is gonna cost him dearly.

  Because I’m definitely going to capitalize on his mistake.

  You just watch.

  Chapter Nine

  Austin

  “Arrange the pieces according to our blueprint and in our designated area, right in the middle,” I instruct my team of interns and assistants, pointing over to our spot in the Clarendon conference room.

  I trail behind my team but stay a few steps back, wanting to assess the other contestants…well, if you can call them that.

  I try to stifle the grin spreading across my face as I watch them struggle. They’re all scrambling to do last minute touches on their pieces. Some are hemming fabric together while others are wiping down the material, scrubbing too hard in my opinion.

  There’s one motherfucker who is painting a table. I shit you not.

  Talk about waiting to the last minute, right?

  A loud hammering appears out of nowhere, and I jolt my attention towards the sound.

  Fuck, that’s Wally…or Wallis? Whatever the fuck his name is.

  Is he just now assembling his chair?

  What the fuck, dude?

  I cringe watching him jack-rabbit the shit out of his make-shift rocking chair. I can see the sweat beading down his forehead and back, moistening the neckline of his shirt. It’s like watching a trainwreck—you don’t want to watch it, but you can’t fucking look away.

  And, why did he think gray would be an appropriate color to wear today? Especially if you know you’re going to be a fucking nervous wreck. I mean, I’m not considering I know I’ll win. And to be honest I’m never nervous. It’s one of the many upsides in knowing you’re a fucking boss at what you do.

  But, now that I’ve seen the competition I’m up against, I’m more than confident that those ten points are mine.

  I look over at my team, who’s adjusting the two leather couches and my chaise lounge into an award-winning formation. I approach them, assessing the shape of it and directing them to move the chaise lounge closer to the center so that it’ll be more on display than the rest.

  The chaise lounge is my winning piece after all. It’s my bread and butter, a chair that radiates strength and poise while also being a bit understated. Yes, it’s a leather chair, I’m aware of that…but the way I weaved the leather together, highlighting the pigment and delicate etched designs brings a subtlety to it.

  If you could see it, baby, I know you’d be impressed.

  Then, what sounds like a stampede strolls into the room and I do a double-take when I see Tess leading it—it’s her team lugging in all her pieces.

  Damn, she knows how to make an entrance.

  She nods to acknowledge me as she passes, and I do the same, hoping to remain as cordial as I can during the first round.

  I can’t say that I’ll be as gentlemanly in the next few.

  I try to gather a sneak peek from under the white sheets covering her furniture but the only thing I can gather is her color scheme, cream and gold—typical Domina.

  Oh, and her ass looks fucking delectable in that tight black pencil skirt. Her sky-high stilettos click against the floor and my eyes follow her long, lean legs, trailing down the black line on the back of her stockings.

  Jesus Christ, this woman is a fucking temptress. She’s going to give everyone a heart attack, and no, it won’t be from those delicate, soft pieces of hers.

  I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth and re-direct my attention to my team just in time for Taylor to enter the room.

  “Hello, all!” Taylor shouts and everybody twists their body towards him. The board members follow with clipboards in hand, and I see Ashley emerge from the small crowd and run over to greet Tess.

  My gaze follows her, but it lands on the furniture surrounding them.

  In Tess fashion, her couches are bathed in soft colors. There’s also a touch of gold embroidering the cushions. They’re pretty, and they do exude a refined elegance that I’m sure Clarendon Tower residents would appreciate.

  But it’s her chaise lounge that makes me fume. She would have the exact same idea as me, wouldn’t she? Although hers mimics mine only subtly in shape and size, the rest is pure Domina.

  How did she fucking know?

  “Thank you all for joining us today for Round 1,” Taylor says, positioning himself between the vice president and the treasurer of the Condo Board. “We’re very excited to get started with the competition. Please have your pieces ready for us to evaluate. Today the criteria you will be judged by are style, quality and durability. Good luck! May the best design win.” He claps his hands and locks eyes with the first contestant to he’s left—Wally.

  He looks petrified, fidgeting with his hands and occasionally wiping his brow with his handkerchief. The judges take only a few minutes to look over he’s pieces before they move onto the next contestant.

  Better luck next time, Wally.

  I stand there, leaning against a random fake plant I brought for decoration. And, that’s when I feel someone’s eyes on me.

  I turn to see Tess staring.

  She must like what she sees. I mean, I know that look from a mile away.

  She smiles, tightly and mouths, “good luck.”

  I mouth back, “no luck needed,” and finish it off with a wink.

  She giggles and shakes her head.

  The judges finish walking around after a good twenty minutes or so, leaving us reeling in silence to deliberate.

  I know I have nothing to be worried about, but I hate having to wait. I am a very impatient man, who has more important things to do than to sit around and wait for them to award me my ten points.

  “Before we make our final decision,” The vice president announces, calling everyone’s attention to the back corner. “We have a question to ask our finalists.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. There’s a fucking question and answer portion? That’s ridiculous.

  “Tess Armstrong,” he announces, and I see her straighten her posture when they call her name.

  “Yes,” she responds obediently.

  “Can you tell me the difference between your chaise lounge and the one Mr. Ra
ndall is presenting today?” The vice president purses his lips together in a vague self-satisfied way.

  “I’d love to,” she perks up and swivels on her heels, staring at me.

  She walks over to my chair and sits on it, leisurely propping her heels up on the leather.

  The judges approach her, looking back and forth at each other wonder what the hell she’s doing. I’m thinking the same. This is quite a show to put on just to answer the question.

  “This chaise lounge is of high quality, like my own. Though mine is a fine velvet fabric, soft and elegant to the touch while his is more raw and rugged. However, if you notice, there is an apparent glare on the leather material. Here you have a chemical coating that is supposedly used to add to the durability of the leather, yet from my understanding—as I am familiar with this product—this coating actually speeds up the decay of the material, especially if it’s in direct sunlight. And that would be unfortunate in something like the Sun Room. This is in contrast to my chaise lounge, where the material remains the same regardless of any external conflicts.”

  What the fuck?

  I cross my arms, hiding my clenched fist behind my forearm. I am fucking livid. How does she know what coating I used? This is the first time I’ve ever used it. And, not to mention, she knows it too well. She’s not only familiar with the product, but it sounds like she’s cross-referenced or researched it before she got here.

  Who is this woman?

  “Is this true?” One of the boards members turns to me in horror.

  Oh, calm down.

  “I’m not aware of this, no. These accusations are unfounded, and I don’t see how Ms. Armstrong could conceive of this.” I grit my teeth, glaring daggers at her smug expression.

  A mischievous smile spreads across her face and she leaves briefly to retrieve her purse. When she returns, she pulls out a stack of papers and hands them to the vice president.

  “You can read the reviews for yourself,” she smiles and crosses her arms, cocking her hip to the side.