James kills the meeting at 8:37, and everyone scatters to their corners. I keep my seat, needing the composure, but as the room empties, Marnie hangs back to collect her notes, and as she passes, I catch a trace of her perfume—lilac, citrus, something clean and raw at the bottom, maybe sweat, maybe just female musk. I want to grab her by the wrist and pin her against the glass, but I settle for the next best thing: I lean in as she walks past and whisper, “Nice stilettos, Miss Williams.”
She doesn’t look at me, but she smiles, and the smile is nothing but trouble.
Later that afternoon, I enter James’s office for a meeting. The fucker’s office is a massive glass cube because he insisted on the window that wraps around two sides. When I step in, he’s got his feet up on the desk, hands laced behind his head, every inch of him radiating smug bastard. There’s a printout on the desk, some contract or other, but I don’t bother reading it.
“Yo,” I say. “What up?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Not a lot. Should I call her in? I sure could use a taste of pussy.”
“Fuck you,” I say, but there’s no heat to it. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
With that, he taps something out on his phone, and within minutes, there’s a light tap on the door. Oh shit. It’s her.
Sure enough, Marnie steps inside, all professionalism and clean lines, but her eyes flick to mine and then to my law partner, and she knows exactly what’s coming. Her cheeks flush as those bigbreasts rise, and I swear, I can smell female arousal in the air already.
“You needed something, Mr. Grant?” she asks, voice smooth, but I hear the tremor underneath.
James gestures to the chair, but she stays standing.
“I wanted to go over the Jamison contract,” he says, like that’s why she’s here.
She cocks her head, skeptical but playing along. “You could have emailed your comments.”
He shrugs. “Thought it’d be more efficient this way.”
They stare each other down, and I realize she’s going to make us work for it. That’s good. That’s what makes her interesting.
I set the bourbon down and move behind her, not touching yet, but close enough that she feels it.
The blonde goddess tenses, just a fraction.
James says, “Ms. Williams, have you ever been in a real boardroom negotiation?”
She blinks. “Yes.”
“Not like this one,” I respond in a low tone.
She glances over her shoulder at me, then back to James. “What are the terms?”
James is up in a flash, moving around the desk to stand directly in front of her. He towers over her, but she holds her ground. He lifts a finger, runs it along her jaw, then tilts her face up.
“We make you feel good,” he murmurs. “You make us feel better.”
She doesn’t move, but I see her jaw set.
“Here?” she whispers, and for the first time I hear fear. Not the scared kind. The excited kind.
“Here,” I say, voice pitched low. “Right now.”
James’s hand slides from her jaw to her shoulder, squeezing once, then moving down her arm, past the sleeve, and he hooks two fingers in the waistband of her skirt.
She stands perfectly still as he tugs, just enough to suggest, not enough to scandalize if someone walked in. But the room is soundproof and the glass is tinted, and she knows it.
I move in behind, close enough that her hair brushes my chin. I reach up and slowly undo the first button on her blouse. James does the next. There’s a rhythm to it, a weird, perfect choreography. She never flinches. By the time we reach the third button, her chest is rising and falling fast.
James slips the blouse off her shoulders and it falls to the floor, leaving her in a lacy blue bra that matches the silk of her skirt.
“Oh fuck,” he grunts, blue eyes flaring. “What size are you, sweetheart? D? Double D?”
