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I finish the glass and pour yet another. The rain picks up outside. Thunder crackles somewhere over the East River. My office is dark except for the desk lamp and the glow of the city below.

I think about the car ride the other night. She plastered herself against the inside of the passenger door like she was afraid I’d touch her. But then, when I stood on the stoop with her, she looked at me liketouchingwas exactly what she wanted.

I could have.

I could’ve done a lot fucking more than that, too.

My dick was rock-hard and my intentions were black as sin. It would’ve been a simple matter to let myself succumb to my desires and carry her inside.

Instead, I unlocked her door like a fucking gentleman and walked away.

That’s strange. I am Lukas Lazarev; I don’t dogentle. I take what I want and deal with the consequences later, or never.

But with Rae, I find myself hesitating. Circling.Prowling.I watch from a distance like some pathetic old wolf too tired to make the kill.

What am I waiting for? Permission? She’s never going to give it. Not outright, at least. She’s too scared of me. As she should be.

But my God, shewantsto.

I see it in her eyes. I feel it in every catch of her breath. She pressed her thighs together when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, as if that pitiful little gesture would be enough to save her from me if I chose to take what I want so goddamn badly.

But the joke’s on her: Iwaspaying attention. I’m always paying attention.

I set down the empty glass. The rain keeps falling.

Elena would laugh if she could see me now. Obsessing over some girl I shouldn’t touch, throwing money at her problems like that’ll make up for what I’m soon going to do to her.

But Elena’s been dead for eighteen years.

And Rae Everett is very much alive.

One image is seared in my mind’s eye. Not the one of my son’s hands going where they don’t fucking belong—that one has been burned up in the fire of my rage, and I hope never to think of it again.

No, the image I can’t get over is Rae on her knees in my office.

Skirt creeping higher. Blouse sagging lower. She clutched at both garments like she could find a way to arrange them that would save her.

But there’s no such thing.

Nothing will.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. My hand moves to my belt before I can stop it.

Don’t do it, you fucking pig.

I undo the buckle anyway.

I free myself from my trousers. I’m hard. I’ve been hard since I started drinking. Since before that. Since the car ride. Since I stood in the darkness and watched her sleep at her desk, lips parted, completely vulnerable.

I wrap my fist around my cock and stroke. Slow at first. Testing.

She’d look good on her knees. Not picking up tattered paper, but looking up at me with those big, brown eyes. Mouth open, tongue lolling out. Waiting for my instructions.

I grip harder and start to pump faster.

Those soft lips would feel so good if I put them to work. She’d be shy about it at first, I can tell. But I’d tell her what to do and how to do it. I’d move her here and there, I’d praise her when she did well and punish her when she did badly.

Patience, training—that’s an old man’s game. That’s the game I’m playing now. Ms. Everett could be trained into such a good little thing.