Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance

C
amilla Stevens is
a New York transplant from Los Angeles. By day she is a humble librarian. At night you can find her typing away, usually with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page. You can usually find tulips, her favorite flower, making an appearance in most of her novels.

Next page for more!

• @CamillaStevens4
  
• authorcamillastevens
  

“
K
nock
, knock!”

Brooklyn Jefferson rapped her knuckles on the open door and stepped in.

He looked up in mild surprise. The look became slightly less mild as he took in her appearance.

“You work here?” he asked with uncertainty, his gaze wandering over the engineer boots, tight red jeans, and the black, lace, long-sleeved top with a black tank top underneath. Or perhaps it was the purple tips of her natural curls that her roommate, Annie, had dyed for her last night.

If she’d known today was going to be her date with destiny, she would have dressed a bit…sexier. At least she had taken the time to re-apply a nice, thick coat of her dark lipstick before knocking on his door.
Passionate Nights
was the name, which Brooklyn thought was more than appropriate as she gazed at him behind his desk.

Michael Wright. The most perfect man in the world.

Brooklyn had the momentary thought, yet again, that he could play Superman better than Christopher Reeve or Henry Cavill ever could. He was certainly more handsome. It was a fitting comparison considering he had come to her rescue the first time she’d ever met him face to face.

Brooklyn had been caught up by the finicky turnstiles in the Sullivan building. She had watched anxiously as the elevator rapidly filled up, while she was caught in perfect limbo, trying to time her ID swipe just right. The elevators in the building were notoriously slow and it would be an eon before she’d catch the next one. Finally, at the last moment, she was granted access and rushed to make the elevator before it closed. It was his hand—which she dutifully noted, lacked any wedding band—that had come to the rescue, stopping the doors at the very last moment.

Now here she was, in his office only one week later to pick up the Knicks’ ticket he had offered up to the first person who responded to his email. That was a lucky break on her part. Or maybe it was just destiny.

He was much different in person from what she thought he would be, considering his family—or rather, his father. Richard Wright, a.k.a. The (self-proclaimed) Real Estate Emperor of New York. Richard Wright, a.k.a. The (never said to his face) Divorce Attorney Rainmaker. The fact that Michael seemed so different from his father made him all the more appealing.

“Ah yes, Brooklyn Jefferson, isn’t it?” he said, getting up from his desk.

“Yes,” she blinked in surprise. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

“Of course I do,” he said smiling over at her with those perfectly kissable lips. His dark blue eyes twinkled teasingly as he approached her.

He strolled over until he was right next to her, his body so close to hers that the lapels of his coat brushed up against her breasts. He leaned past her to push the door shut.

“I think we should handle this transaction in private,” he said, moving in even closer to her. “Don’t you?” he whispered softly in her ear.

All she could do was nod in agreement.

It was actually happening! Everything she’d dreamed about since the first day she saw his handsome face in person. It was unfolding exactly as she’d fantasized.

She took in the slightly dented nose, which only added to his handsomeness. No one wanted anyone that was too perfect, after all. Her eyes trailed down to the cleft in his strong chin and she had a strong urge to kiss it, so she did.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that since the moment I first saw you,” he said, his chin vibrating under her lips as he chuckled. He grabbed her and pressed his firm, hard body into hers. She could feel his (huge!) erection swelling against her abdomen.

“But I want more Brooklyn, so much more. I’m going to fuck you right here on my desk, then I’m going to take you home and fuck you all weekend long. I don’t care if the entire law firm knows it…I want you, and only you.”

He bent down to kiss her hard on the lips. Brooklyn ran her hands through his thick, dark hair, moaning with pleasure. She felt his hands creep under her tank top, running over her back, sliding around to the front, cupping her breasts, making her, already rock-hard nipples tingle with—

“Hello?”

The voice snapped her out of the fantasy. The only part of it that was real was that she was indeed in his office—and her nipples were as hard as diamonds. She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping he couldn’t see them through her top.

“I’m sorry?” she croaked.

He had a slightly bemused smile on his face as he took her in. “I was asking what I could help you with?”

“37th floor,” she breathed.

The bemusement was now confusion. “I’m missing something here.”

“You asked if I work here,” she said, suddenly realizing that question had been asked several beats ago, before she had zoned out.

“Well, I suppose that explains a lot,” he chuckled, looking her up and down. She was relieved to see he was more amused than perturbed. The lax—as in nonexistent—dress code for the worker bees on the 37th floor was the one perk that had yet to be intruded upon by the higher ups at
Douglas & Foster.
This was due to the fact that the IT department housed there rarely made it up to the “client-facing” floors, and when they did they were usually kneeling down under a desk or standing on top of something, fiddling with cords and wires.

“I’m actually here for the ticket,” she pointed out. “I was the lucky winner!” She tried to make it sound plucky and flirtatious. To her ears it came out desperate and immature.

“I left it with my secretary. I would have thought she’d stop you before you had to come all the way back to my office.”

“Oh, she wasn’t at her desk when I came up,” Brooklyn informed him. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that she’d purposely waited until that dragon bitch, Bianca Carmello, had stepped away before she knocked on his door.

“Well, let’s go see about it,” he said, getting up from his desk.

Brooklyn’s breath caught in her throat. He was coming toward her. He was so tall. Her heart stopped as he came closer. She blinked in surprise as he walked right past her and out towards Bianca’s desk.

She let her breath out and rolled her eyes. Of course he wasn’t going to grab her and fuck her right on his desk! At least not tonight. This was just the first step.

She watched the back of him as she followed him out. It was just as enjoyable as the front.

Any wicked thoughts she had running through her head were halted by the ever-present scowl on Bianca Carmello’s face as she saw the infiltrator following her boss out of his office.

“Hey, Bianca,” Michael said, approaching her desk. “Do you have that Knicks’ ticket up here?”

“I most certainly do,” she said curtly, looking straight at Brooklyn, the accusation written all over her face.

Brooklyn maintained a look of wide-eyed innocence. Let the evil cow go ahead and shoot death rays her way. She’d accomplished what she wanted out of this—and it certainly wasn’t a seat at the Knicks’ game.

Bianca handed Michael the ticket, never once taking her beady eyes off Brooklyn.

“Here we are,” he said pleasantly, turning to give it to her. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be having more fun than I will tonight.” He gave a small laugh as he handed her the ticket and made his way back to his office.

She frowned as she remembered something. “Brooklyn!” she shouted.

He turned around in confusion.

“My name is Brooklyn,” she announced.

The look of confusion didn’t falter, but he nodded all the same. “Well…again, congratulations, Brooklyn. I hope you enjoy the game.”

With that, he disappeared back into his office.

Brooklyn could feel Bianca’s eyes boring a hole into her back but she was too filled with elation to care. She looked down at the ticket—
his
ticket. She might as well honor it by going to the game in his place. It was a season ticket. She could be sitting in the very seat that fine ass of his had sat in during prior games. She practically skipped back to the elevators.

Something like this was too fortuitous. It was obviously meant to be!

* * *

M
ichael made
his way back to his desk, returning to the proposal he had to finish up tonight for the firm’s new client. The girl had been a nice little distraction—if you were into that sort of look.

His brother Alex, much younger than him, would probably enjoy it. He’d no doubt enjoy the female wearing it as well. Certainly more than the, at best awkward, acquaintance he had with his older brother. Half-brother.

It was surprising to find him back in town. Last Michael had heard, Alex was in Rio, or Ibiza, or some other international playground. Sometimes Michael thought maybe he had gone the wrong direction in distancing himself from their father. He’d certainly rather be on a beach somewhere right now. At least people tended to forget about Alex, what with him being gone so often. Michael was stuck in the same city as their infamous father.

At any rate, Alex definitely owed him one. Michael picked up his phone to text him:

No doubt Alex
would
enjoy himself. He was probably far more suited to her tastes. Besides, she was young, too young for Michael; probably fresh out of college. At thirty-six Michael was certainly not too old to appreciate youth, aesthetically speaking. He was, however, at the point where actual interaction—beyond the obvious—was more wearisome than fun. The outfit and purple hair told him as much.

As if to underline the point, James Reaves, one of the senior partners, popped his—absurdly jet-black, dyed—head into his office. “Did I just see a girl with purple hair go by?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure about that, James,” he shrugged. Michael wasn’t going to be the one to rat her out. James was certainly one to talk about proper hair and dress codes. Right now he was wearing a lavender French cuff shirt with light green, paisley suspenders attached to pinstripe pants.

“Hmm,” James grunted. “I’ve always thought we were too lax with those people on the 37th floor. I think a little talk with HR is in order.” With that he nodded his head and continued on.

Michael thought about the girl for a second longer, a bit guilty that his ticket would probably prompt some changes in how she was allowed to show up to work from now on. Then he forgot about her, delving back into his work.

* * *

B
rooklyn loved living
in a city where she could just hop on a subway and get from point A to point B. She just wished it didn’t pick the most inopportune times to go off schedule.

A fire on the tracks ahead, the garbled announcement told the packed car. Delays on top of delays. Typical New York.

In retrospect it was dumb of her to think 6:30 would be plenty of time to make it to Madison Square Garden, with time enough to maybe grab a soda and get settled in. Now it looked as though she would barely make it to her seat—
his
seat—in time for the jump ball.

When the doors opened at 34th St., she squeezed through the crowd of passengers and exited with a sigh of relief. It was nearly 7:30 so she rushed through the streets to Madison Square Garden. By the time she made it to the top stairs of her section she was breathing heavily. She paused to take another look at the ticket in her hand, making note of her row and seat.

Her eyes followed the rows down to where her seat would be. They stopped with a start as, for a quick second, she thought she saw Michael Wright sitting there. It was that same head of full, thick, black hair. Then the head turned to look to the side and she saw the face in profile. Completely different…sort of.

The cleft chin was there, but cleft chins and dark hair were both common enough in a city the size of New York. Brooklyn didn’t stop to think about what the man looked like. She was far too focused on one thing: he was sitting in her seat.

It was an easy enough problem to solve. She quickly made her way down to deal with it. As she approached him, she slowed to take in the man from behind. He was slouched back in the seat, one jeans-clad leg stuck carelessly into the aisle. She could see the lean, muscular shoulders underneath the t-shirt he was wearing, a tattoo peeking through on the right arm resting on the armrest.