But I’m not twenty-two.
I’m forty-two. Sixteen years older than my new subordinate.
Which apparently means I’ve replaced animal instinct with restraint and all the self-sabotaging sense ofa gentleman.
Except I don't want to be a gentleman right now.
And as if I need the reminder, my phone chooses that exact moment to buzz.
I check it.
Logan. Of course.
LOGAN: How’d dinner go?
ME: Fine.
LOGAN: Did you close?
ME: Cho’s interested. We’ll finalize tomorrow.
LOGAN: And Sinclair? How are you handling being alone in the same hotel as your biggest weakness?
I glare at the screen.
ME: She’s fine. Brilliant. Professional.
LOGAN: And you?
ME: Drunk. Horny as a motherfucker. Losing my mind.
I don’t send that last one.
Instead, I toss the phone onto the couch and stalk to the minibar, pulse pounding. I don’t pour more scotch. I brace one palm against the edge of the marble counter and try to breathe as the other palm adjusts the hardness pressing against my zipper.
I shouldn’t care. I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company. I sign million-dollar contracts before lunch.
I don’t chase women. Especially ones half my age who work for me.
And yet—
A knock.
I freeze.
A slow, deliberate knock. Not housekeeping. Sure as shit not room service. Not at this hour.
No one would knock on my door at midnightunless—
I’m halfway across the room before I realize I’ve moved. I open the door, and just as I expected, there she is.
Emma.
Messy hair. Swollen lips. That burgundy dress hugging her like obsession stitched in silk. My goddamn key card in her hand.
“Hi,” she breathes. “You dropped this.”
My cock twitches, my gaze lowering to the card in her hand. "You came all the way up here to return my key card?" I blink. "I do have another one, you know."
