Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Eleven

Sasha

Ilied to Grant. Again. But this time, at least, it was harmless.

There is an article. But it’s not one the world will ever read. Simon kept pushing and pushing, stopping off at my cubicle or calling me into his office, and though I caved and wrote a series of pieces about the city’s business scene to make Simon happy, I wrote something else too.

A piece about Grant.

Not for Simon’s eyes. Not for anyone’s eyes.

But in the end, I needed to write it down. For me. To make sense of the way my chest aches when I think of him; to acknowledge that I lost something real.

I stayed late one night at the Courier offices, tapping away at my keyboard with misty eyes. And then, when the night staff came in, I retreated back to my lonely apartment, with the string lights and shabby chic throws that Grant called me out for.

I wrote until the early hours of the morning, picking away at it and honing like I was gunning for a writing prize. Not just trying to make myself feel better. And when I typed the last few words… something loosened in my chest.

Retreating back into my apartment after seeing Grant, my nerves all jangled up from his visit, my eyes snag on the laptop half-closed on my coffee table. I’m working from home today, part way through an article about corruption in the private school system, but my piece about Grant is still open on there too.

I pause beside the sofa. Chew my bottom lip as I lever the laptop fully open.

And with a muttered curse and a few clicks, I send it to him.

Grant Keller: the Man Behind the Empire.My love letter to the billionaire whose heart I broke.

I don’t know why. It’s not like he will ever read it. He’ll probably take one look at the title and feel vindicated, so sure that I’m out to destroy his life. He’s probably pinned my photo to that dart board in his office.

The front of my body is still flushed, overheated and hopeful from the way he crowded me against the door frame. And when I tuck my hair behind my ear, my fingertips brush a patch of skin he touched.

Oh hell. I’m spiraling. Mooning around my apartment over a man who hates me; hoping and yearning for a call that will never come.

That’s not me. It’s never been me, and I won’t start now.

Sasha Jones is a fighter. An idiot sometimes, but a fighter nonetheless.

I stomp across my apartment and throw the curtains wide open, pale sunlight washing over the room. My sofa is a tangle of blankets and abandoned cardigans; there’s a stack of books on the side table that I started and then tossed aside with a sigh.

No more. With a few grunts, I shove the window up a few inches too, and a fresh spring breeze floods inside. It tickles the leaves of my houseplants, and clears my foggy head.

Enough of this pity party.

It’s time to move on.

* * *

The press pool is packed. It always is when the city’s bombastic mayor makes an announcement—he’s a loose cannon. He could say anything.

So I’m crammed shoulder to shoulder with two other junior reporters, a notebook balanced on my knee and a recorder clutched in one hand. The crowd hums with noise, the podium at the front of the room standing empty, and I kick my leather bag under my chair as a man squeezes through our row.

City Hall. So many nights in college, I dreamed of this career. Getting out into the city, yelling questions on pale stone steps. The flash of bulbs and the scent of roasted coffee. My words in paper and ink, and flying digitally around the world.

It feels good. Working like this again—tuned in and excited about life. There’s still a pinch in my stomach when I think about Grant, but I’m breathing better this morning. Sending that article to him helped..

“You think this is about the corruption scandal?” Francesca, a young reporter who started at The Courier the same month as me, leans close to mutter in my ear. Her dark hair brushes against my sleeve, and I shrug, tapping my pen on my notebook.

The mayor’s office was cagey in their announcement. This could be about anything.

“Could be. Or could be nothing. A PR attempt.”

She huffs a laugh. “What a waste of time. Simon would hate that.”

I glance at her sideways—Francesca’s cheeks are tinged pink. Another one bites the dust, falling for our stern, British boss. Maybe I’d have crushed on him too by now, if I hadn’t met Grant. If my body and heart didn’t sing out for another man.

“If there’s no real announcement, that means this is a distraction. Which means there is a story, we just have to find it.”

Francesca grins, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re good at this.”

My turn to blush.

The mayor enters ten minutes late—of course—striding to the podium like an Oscar winner collecting his award. He’s in a burgundy three piece suit, an old-fashioned pocket watch chain dangling over his sizable chest, and it’s easy to see how he climbed to power.

His voice rings through the room; his arms spread wide. This man is a showman to his bones.

I scribble notes on his appearance and demeanor and the possible subjects he came to address—or avoid. And I’m so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I don’t notice the whispers rippling through the crowd. Not until a chair scrapes nearby, and Francesca mutters holy crap, and I raise my head to find Grant Keller at the front of the room.

He stands before the crowd, ignoring the outstretched recorders and yelled questions. The mayor gapes behind him, shocked into quiet for once, and Grant scowls as he scans the rows of fidgeting reporters.

Pale gray eyes land on me. My nerves crackle to life under my skin.

“Sasha?” Francesca whispers. “Is Grant Keller staring at you?”

I give a jerky shrug. I don’t know. What the hell is he doing here?

But those eyes stay on me, burning and intense, and a muscle tics in Grant’s jaw. He jerks his head to the doorway, urging me to follow, and then bodies are turning in their chairs, recorders thrust at me instead.

“Um.”

I sit there like an idiot for a moment, the air in front of me bristling with recorders. But who am I kidding? I can’t stay here now. Whatever nonsense the mayor wants to spin, I’ll have to hope Francesca catches it.

My hands are clumsy as I scoop up my bag, shoving my notebook and recorder away. And for once, when I squeeze along the row, the other reporters move their freaking legs and let me by. A few even stand up to follow, and when I trail Grant out of the press room into a City Hall corridor, I’m not alone. Four male reporters follow me outside too, their recorders held aloft and a hungry light in their eyes.

Grant turns to face us. He crosses his arms, muscles bulging beneath his dove gray suit, and stares at the tag-along reporters for a short eternity.

They turn and leave, muttering under their breath.

“They’ll still be listening.” I feel like I should warn him. “And watching. You’re far more interesting than the mayor.”

Grant pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fucking press.”

“Uh, Grant? You came here.”

Another jaw tic. This is not going well.

And though I know he has every right to be mad, I’m really done with my penance. I apologized; I told him how I felt. I scooped my bleeding heart out with that article and sent it to him—the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done.

If Grant Keller can’t forgive me, he needs to leave me alone.

So I tell him that.

“You think I haven’t tried?” His words come out in a burst, and with a grimace, he lowers his voice. “I didn’t want to come to your apartment. I didn’t want to read that email. I definitely didn’t want to come here.”

It’s not a declaration. It’s not an offer of peace. It’s nothing, and now Grant isn’t the only one with a headache. I wince, rubbing my temple, and ignore the flash of concern on his face.

“I suggest a new hobby.”

“What?”

“To help you resist temptation. Or maybe not a new one—maybe a suit-clad sprint on your treadmill will do it.”

“So you don’t want to see me,” he says, voice flat. And that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, even dumber than the mayor’s awful opening jokes. My breath gusts out of me, my grip squeezing the handle of my bag, and I pin Grant with a glare to match his own.

“Grant? I always want to see you. Not seeing you every day has been killing me. But do I want you coming to my work, dragging me out of the press pool to tell me how much you wish you weren’t here? No. I do not. If you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s fine, but this grudge—it’s got to end.”

As I talk, his face clears. He even stands taller, back straightening like a weight is lifting off his shoulders.

“Sasha. I’ve done this all wrong. I let my shitty mood take over.”

I roll my eyes. “No kidding.”

“Can I start over?”

“That depends. Will you be a jerk again?”

“No.”

“Fine.” I stare up at the ornate ceiling. City Hall is all pale marble and red carpets; shiny bronze sconces and oil paintings. It’s a lot like the gala. “Go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath. Then says it: “I love you.”

At first, I think I heard him wrong. I jerk my chin back down, head spinning. But Grant keeps talking, and I’m not going insane.

“I love you, and I should never have stayed away so long. I thought—I thought that none of it was real. That you played me to get headlines out of me. But then I read your article, and…”

I swallow hard, face numb. “And?”

Behind us, the mayor drones into the microphone. The press pool rustles in their chairs, the sound floating through the polished wood door. Shoes click over nearby marble floors, and my breaths sound too loud to my ears.

Grant looks at me, so serious. He really does look like Clark Kent. Square-jawed and noble, his dark hair raked up like he’s been tugging at it.

“And I believe you. I forgive you. I want you, Sasha Jones. I’m sorry it took me this long to say it.”

It’s okay.

It’s all okay, because Grant is prowling forward, never mind the pairs of eyes watching us. He crowds me against the ornate wall, his big hands gripping my hips, his thumbs rubbing back and forth over the fabric of my suit pants.

I loop my arms around his neck, urging him against me, needing his warmth, and when his clean, masculine scent fills my nose, I finally relax.

“I’m supposed to be working,” I mumble as Grant’s lips sear a trail up my neck. His shoulders are so broad, they block out the weak electric lights.

“You are working.” The words are hot in my ear. “Come with me and I’ll give you the interview of your career. Even Simon won’t complain.”

I scoff at his harsh tone, a grin stretching my cheeks.

“Simon’s a good guy, you know.”

His low growl makes my toes curl.

“Come with me, sweetheart. I’ll prove to you I’m better.”

And, okay—the mayor’s announcement is a bust. By now, everyone back at the offices will know that Grant Keller dragged me out of the press pool. I already have plenty of explaining to do, and if I’m screwed anyway…

Might as well go all the way, right?

I tangle my hand with Grant’s. Rock up onto my toes and nip his bottom lip, tugging it gently with my teeth.

“Let’s get out of here, Mr Keller.”

He smiles at me, eyes crinkling.

“I thought you’d never ask that again.”

* * *

He promises me silk sheets and rose petals. Champagne and a bubble bath. But I’ve waited far too long for Grant Keller already, and the second we pile into the back seat of his car, I’m on him, crawling into his lap. The car pulls away, the driver’s partition rising quickly to the ceiling, and I choke back a laugh at the scowl aimed over my shoulder.

“Sasha.” He grips my hips, stilling me. “I told you, I’m going to do it right this time. Where would you like to go? We can go anywhere you like. The Four Seasons, Paris, Rome, my apartment—”

“Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“I want it right here.”

He blinks, bemused, but there’s hunger growing in his eyes, and his hands aren’t still on my hips anymore. He’s kneading me, rubbing my waist with his thumbs.

“… Right here,” he repeats.

“Uh-huh.” I roll my hips to demonstrate. And judging by the rock hard length beneath me, he’s not as cool right now as he’d like to pretend. Just that hint of it, so big beneath my ass… I shiver, flashing hot under my clothes.

“We’re in a moving car…”

“Never stopped us before.”

“But it’s your first time.”

“Grant. It’s with you. It’s already perfect.”

That softens him right up, the big idiot, emotion bleeding through his pale eyes, even as his movements get rougher. He rolls my hips for me, thrusting up to meet my core.

“Are you sure? Because once I get my hands on this pussy…”

I bite my lip, rocking harder. “Yep. Yes. Give it to me. I want it all.”

Because that’s what I want: Grant Keller out of control. The last threads of his restraint severed, and all that intensity aimed at me. And he doesn’t disappoint—at my words, a shadow crosses his face, and he thrusts up rougher against me. Kneads my breast through my blouse, tweaking my aching nipple.

Then we’re moving, the world shifting around us, and I’m tossed onto my back on the seat.

“The one time you don’t wear a skirt,” Grant growls, and then my pants are tugged open and yanked down my legs, tangling at my calves.

Grant buries his face between my thighs like a starving man. Mouthing at the lace of my panties; licking me through the fabric. And it’s so much but not enough, and I’m writhing underneath him, begging but I’m not sure what for—

“This pussy is mine.” He spanks it lightly, and I yelp. That quick sting spreads hot through my clit, my core, everything suddenly heightened. “You are mine.”

“Likewise,” I gasp, because I need to say something, need to stake my own claim, but my brain is frazzled. That little spank sent me offline.

“Obviously,” he mutters, and then he’s tugging my underwear down too, spreading me with his thumbs. Bearing down on me with his tongue, like he’s determined to taste every last inch of me. Like he wants to swallow me whole.

And from the groans rumbling through his chest, from the way he settles further against the seat, he could happily just do this forever. Make me come over and over, wringing endless orgasms out of me until I melt into the leather seats—or die and go to heaven.

Well, that’s no good. I want what I felt against his thigh—hot and hard and intimidatingly large. At least once before he kills me with his tongue, damn it.

“Grant.” I pluck at his shirt, vision blurry as I stare at the car ceiling. “Fuck me. Please, I want you to fuck me.”

He grunts and keeps licking. Slides a finger past my entrance, pumping slowly in and out. Outside, cars drift past on the street, and the shadows of pedestrians walk along the sidewalk, made fuzzy by the tinted glass.

“Grant.”

He doesn’t make me beg, thank god. He sits up, the movement sudden, his chin shining and his chest heaving under his shirt. I reach to pluck open a few buttons—god, I want my hands on that chest—but there’s no time. He yanks my clothes off one ankle, undoes his belt with a clink, and then his cock is notched at my entrance.

“Fuck.” He pauses, a shudder rolling through him. And his next words are bleak. “I don’t have a condom.”

“In there.” I tug at the handle of my leather bag, dropped somewhere on the floor next to the seats. “After the first time we—well, I bought some. Just in case.”

Grant pulls up my cavernous satchel, hope and despair mingling on his face.

“This ridiculous bag.” He plunges in it up to one elbow. His muscles tremble where they meet my thighs—like he’s vibrating from the effort of holding back. He’s still notched against me, so freaking close.

“I know. It’s too big.”

“There’s something fluffy in here.”

“Hey! Eyes on the prize.”

I know the exact moment he finds the condoms. He stills again, the humor draining from his face, and it’s not funny anymore. Not when he tears open a packet, rolling one quickly down his length. Not when he presses against me once more and meets my eyes.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

So sure I might scream. My hips twitch, rolling a tiny fraction, trying to urge him inside, and just the teasing brush of him—it makes my breath catch.

“Yes. So sure. Please, I want you—”

He eases in slowly. Inch by burning inch, the stretch emptying my lungs. I go stiff beneath him, and Grant pauses, dropping a kiss on my lips, rubbing soothing palms up and down my limbs.

“Relax. Let me in, Sasha.”

“It’s—you’re big.”

Grant huffs a short laugh. “I’m trying really hard not to be an ass about that declaration right now.” He rolls his hips—not pushing deeper, just letting me feel him.

And god. Okay.

I see what the fuss is about now.

“Move.” I tug at his shirt, too far gone for complete sentences. “Like that. Move.”

He grunts and pushes forward another inch. The friction makes my body sing. The car rumbles beneath us, the engine purring as we coast along the road, and the sounds of the street outside are faint. Someone nearby leans on their horn.

It should ruin things. Should be unromantic, but when Grant pushes all the way inside, sealing us tight, it’s so perfect my vision blurs. He’s over me, around me, inside me, moving and gripping, and our breaths mingle in the tiny space between us.

He kisses me. Nips my lip like I did to him, then slides his tongue inside my mouth. And I’ve never been so owned, so taken over, so completely conquered, carried away by the sensations he’s wringing out of my body.

“Sasha.” He says my name like he’s telling me a secret. Buries himself deep inside me—as deep as he can go.

He slides out. Pushes back in again.

Pumps in and out of me, over and over, washing over me and retreating like the tide. With every thrust, electricity crackles under my skin, his thumb dancing over my clit, and I never knew anything could feel this good.

The orgasm rushes over me. Slow at first, then unstoppable, urged along by his touch on my clit and his teeth on my neck. I still. I bite my lip. I whine.

And I clamp down hard on him, my legs shaking on either side of his hips.

Grant rides it out, staring at me like he wants to remember this more than anything. Every sensation and sound. And when I fall back, boneless, he thrusts once, twice more and swells inside me, coming with a shout.

It’s messy. It’s cramped. It’s nothing like I’d imagined for my first time.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Grant cleans me up, then pulls my clothes into place. Deals with the condom then gathers me into his arms.

“So, that interview I promised…” He traces a line through my hair with his nose. I can feel his heart pounding under my palm.

I shrug. “We’ll get to it. One day.”