"Miss Creminelli."
His deep and unhurried voice is a bass note that vibrates somewhere behind my sternum.
I blink, and the fantasy dissolves.
I do my best to arrange my voice into that of a woman who definitely wasn't just mentally strangling her employer, and give a quick glance back towards where Vanessa is walking.
"That's going to be a problem."
He zips up his pants with the casual efficiency of someone straightening a cufflink. There's no shame. And there's definitely not embarrassment.
"No, it won't," he replies as he zips his pants up without a flicker of acknowledgment that anything unusual has occurred.
"Vanessa Ashford-Price has approximately forty thousand Instagram followers, three ex-stepmoms who hate her, and a well-known history of selling lurid stories to the Post when she wants to piss daddy off." I tap my iPad to life. "If she decides that 'I blew New York's most eligible billionaire in an art gallery' makes a good headline for her latest tantrum, then we're looking at a full-blown PR nightmare that will take us weeks to put down."
"You."
"Excuse me?"
"A full-blown PR nightmare that will takeyouweeks to put down, Ms. Creminelli."
Okay, fuck you too.
"Yes, me. But the point still stands. She's a liability and?—"
He interrupts me again. "No, she isn't."
Those winter-gray eyes drill into mine as he talks.
"Her father's threatened to cut her off now that his company is being investigated for securities fraud. She's running dangerously short on friends that she can count on."
"And do you think this makes you one of them?"
"She won't talk to the press, and you won't have to stay any later at the office than you have to, Ms. Creminelli." There's a finality to his tone, and I've worked for him long enough to not try and argue any further. "Unless you're looking for an excuse to spend some one-on-one time with me after hours."
And as soon as he says that, a familiar fantasy forces its way into my mind.
Suddenly, all I can think about ismeon my hands and knees. Me with my lips wrapped around him. Me looking up at him with my mascara smudged and my pupils wide while he wraps his fist around my hair.
His cock sliding past my lips, heavy and thick with the taste of masculine salt. The smell of his musk filling my lungs. My mouth opening further to take him down, down, down until my eyes water and the only thing I can do is swallow every drop of what he gives me as they roll back into my head.
I force myself to take a step backward. No.No.Absolutely not. I do not get to think about that. I do not get to think about what his hands would feel like in my hair, the taste of his cock on my tongue, or just how deep his voice might drop when he's pleased.
Not after what he’s done to my family.
"Your tie is ruined."
The words come out sharper than I intend.
Good.
Sharp is better than breathless.
He glances down at the Hermès, now decorated with a wet stain that will be visible in every photograph. "So it is."
"This is the third time this month, Mr. Romanov."
“Is it? I’ve lost count.”
