Physical satisfaction warred with emotional turmoil. My body hummed with contentment, with remembered pleasure, with the lingering effects of multiple orgasms. But my mind… my mind was chaos.
Guilt, shame, fear, excitement, confusion—all swirling together in a toxic cocktail.
I'd slept with Lucas Turner.
Miles's father.
My potential client.
A man twenty years my senior with the power to destroy my career, my reputation, my carefully rebuilt life with a single indiscretion.
And I'd agreed to more than one night.
The shower helped clear my head, the hot water washing away the physical evidence of our encounter if not the emotional aftermath.
I wrapped myself in the robe he'd provided—black silk, obviously expensive, smelling faintly of cedar and bergamot. His scent. I brought the collar to my nose, inhaling deeply, hating myself for the comfort it provided.
My phone buzzed again as I emerged from the bathroom. Zoe, this time calling rather than texting.
I couldn't ignore her forever.
"Hey," I answered, trying to sound normal. "Sorry about breakfast. Something came up."
"Something or someone?" Her tone was light, but with an undercurrent of concern. "You never miss our weekday early breakfast. It's our thing."
"I know. I'm sorry." I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the robe tighter. "I'll make it up to you."
"Are you okay? You sound weird."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter. "Just tired. Long night working on the Westlake proposal."
"Uh-huh." Skepticism radiated through the phone. "And does this 'proposal' have silver hair and a corner office?"
My silence was damning.
"Oh, Sav." She sighed, the sound crackling through the connection. "Tell me you didn't."
"I can't." My voice dropped to a whisper, suddenly afraid Lucas might overhear. "I can't tell you that."
"Where are you now? Do you need me to come get you?"
The concern in her voice made my eyes sting. "No. I'm... I'm okay. He's called a car."
"Jesus." She was silent for a moment.
"This is bad, Savannah. Really bad."
"You think I don't know that?" The words came out sharper than intended. "You think I don't understand exactly what I've done? What lines I've crossed?"
"I think," she said carefully, "that you're in over your head. That this isn't just about sex anymore, if it ever was."
Her perception struck too close to the truth. "It doesn't matter what it is or isn't. It was a mistake. One I won't repeat."
Another lie.
We both knew it.
"What about the Westlake account? Are you still taking it on?"
