Project Director Zane Caldwell has a major problem -- a charming, go-getter hotshot from Chicago named Ford Trionni, recently hired at Widdley Finch Inc., a Connecticut-based marketing research company. The man, whom the secretarial pool nicknamed "The Italian Stallion" based on his stunning good looks and sexual aura, has also gained the reputation of a superstar in the industry due to his innovative analytical techniques. The trouble is, the man wears his accolades like a badge on his lapel, strutting around the office like a peacock.<br><br>Ford's self-centered, lofty attitude drives Zane to utter distraction. Even worse, the man seems to know it, intentionally using his sizzling sex appeal to tie Zane's patience and libido into knots while giving off mixed messages of mutual attraction. But from what Zane can tell, Ford's already involved in an intense relationship with someone else, and the last thing Zane wants is to fall for a guy who not only treats him like a peon instead of an equal, but intends to make him a side dish to his current love affair.<br><br>Yet as he works with Ford on an important account, Zane begins to realize there's more to Ford than the man lets on, and all may not be what it seems. As the heat between them builds into an inferno despite their contrary work relationship, Zane vows to get to the bottom of Ford's confusing behavior once and for all. Is the man playing games with Zane's job and his heart, or is there a chance they might actually discover they're the perfect partners?

And the Survey Says

“If you mean actual food”—he pulled the waistband of my shorts several inches from my body, peered down to my exposed pubic bush and the thick root of my fattening dick, then playfully let the elastic snap back into place—“nope.”


I needed no further signs to proceed as I’d planned. I grabbed the garment bag and led him down the hallway. In my bedroom, I opened my closet and slid aside some of my own suits and shirts, making a space for his things. From behind, he clutched my shoulders, then worked his way down my bare back, sensually kneading the muscles while tonguing my spine.


“Is this enough?” I asked over my shoulder.


Ford wrapped an arm around me, his fingers gripping one of my pecs. His free hand slid inside my shorts, where he petted a buttock. “This,” he whispered, the single word creating a torrid puff against the nape of my neck, “is definitely not enough.”


“Not that, nimrod. I mean enough space for your clothes?”


Chapter 47