Page 41 of Wicked Fortune

“Orange juice, then? Or coffee?”

“Now you’re speaking my language. Coffee would be great.”

“Follow me.”

I have an excellent view of his excellent ass as we move into the kitchen. The man rocks a suit like nobody’s business, but a man with a nice ass in jeans is one of God’s gifts to women.

The kitchen is well-lit and shiny, without any of the stereotypical bachelor clutter. I wonder if he’s neat—in which case he’s a better person than I—or if he has help.

I’m betting on the latter.

As I watch, he pushes some buttons on a fancy machine that either makes coffee or mines Bitcoin. Until the moment he puts the cup of caffeinated goodness in my hand, I figure it could have gone either way.

As for my host, he pours himself a scotch, then hits me with an expression so deadpan I almost have to laugh. “I have a feeling I’ll need it,” he says.

Considering it’s the middle of the night and I barged in without an explanation, he’s playing it pretty damn suave. James Bond, indeed.

“So, legal advice,” he prompts, leading me back to the open area. He gestures for me to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs while he stands, his back against glass, so that he appears to float over the San Fernando Valley’s grid of lights.

“It’s about the gifts,” I say, intentionally crossing my legs. I’m wearing a sundress that buttons up the front, from hem to collar. I haven’t, however, fastened all the buttons, and the skirt falls open to mid-thigh.

I’ve slipped out of the red pumps I’d worn into the house, and I see his eyes drift from my silk-covered toes all the way up to my crossed thighs and the hint of black garter peeking out from the floral print dress.

“Black today,” I say. “White yesterday.”

He lifts a brow. “Makes you wonder what color tomorrow will be. Or is that the trouble? You don’t like the color? Hardly seems grounds for legal action.”

I sip my coffee, more to hide my amusement than for the hit of caffeine. “I guess men like you don’t have time for a broad view of the world. I bet you only watch the entertainment news and financial channels.”

“You’re suggesting I’m not well-rounded?”

I uncross my legs and lean forward, my elbows on my knees. It’s a position that I know offers a nice little peek at the girls, high and plump in the lacy bra he sent, and pushed so close together he could probably fuck my cleavage and get off.

Then again, maybe that was the idea.

“I’m suggesting you may not be familiar with some concerns that are front and center at most companies.”

“Oh?” He shifts, as if getting more comfortable against the window.

“Sexual harassment. It’s been in the news. You may have heard of it.”

I’m already having a hard time fighting my smile, so when he shakes his head slowly and murmurs, “Not ringing a bell,” I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh. And, okay, I know it’s not funny. If the bastard were actually harassing me—in a way other than making me wait far too long—I’d report him so fast it would make his head spin.

But this? What we’re playing at? It’s far more dangerous than a federal crime.

“Harassment,” he repeats, then pushes away from the glass. He moves across the room, a man with as much control over his body as he has over his empire. When he’s right in front of me, he stops, and it’s only when the room seems to dim that I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.

He extends his hand, and I take it, letting him help me to my feet. He’s only a head taller than me, but he overshadows me, making me feel small and vulnerable in a way that I like. I want to be overpowered. Claimed. And as he slowly unbuttons my dress, I squeeze my legs together, already wet. Already desperate for him.

When all the buttons are open, he pushes the dress off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He steps closer, then strokes his fingers down my arm before he leans in and whispers, “Sweetheart, the only way I’m harassing you is by not fucking you.”

He’s so damn right about that.

He eases back and looks me up and down, the inspection making me more aware of my body than I’ve ever been. “Beautiful,” he whispers, and my breath hitches as he traces a fingertip over the swell of my breast, then along the edge of the bra before continuing down my side—over my ribs, along the curve of my waist, and then along the band of these barely-there panties.

His eyes meet mine as he hooks a finger in the band, then tugs me forward before removing the finger and extending that hand to me. I take it, then let him lead me to a bedroom. It isn’t his. It has too much of a designer feel to it. The master bedroom, I’m certain, has an elegant masculinity. And not even the hint of a designer touch.

All thoughts of art and paint colors are shoved out of my head when he pushes me onto the bed. My body is on fire, and in that moment, I know that I will do anything he asks of me, a point I prove when he tells me to, “Lie back. Spread your legs. Close your eyes.”