“Thanks, Peter.”
Unwilling to be alone with Dex, I fall in step to leave right behind the front desk manager. Just before I make my escape, Dex pulls me back against his chest while slamming the office door with a loud thud.
Fight or flight instincts take over. I flail my arms to extricate myself, but his grip only tightens until I find it hard to breathe normally.
“You did this to yourself, you know,” he gloats.
“Let go of me!” When his grip tightens, I struggle to fight back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The bastard has the gall to laugh against my ear just as I feel the outline of his hard cock pressing against my ass. True panic sets in, and I struggle harder to break free.
“You could have avoided that entire debacle by properly preparing for our arrival.”
“You didn’t give me time to prepare shit.” Again, I try to yank free of his hold, but he won’t budge so I add, “What’s the rush, anyway?”
“Believe it or not, Katja, until you stupidly broke the contract three years ago, The Whitney was the only home I’ve known. Like she is for you and Z, the hotel is more than my home. She’s my business—my family legacy.”
I’m glad I can’t see his face. Listening to him talk about my property as if she were his is hard enough.
“You didn’t have to move to that dilapidated motel. You have more than enough money to buy your own Whitney. Start your own legacy there.”
“Is that what you really want? Me to leave? Just remember that my money leaves with me.
“I’ve been patient. I can wait you out. It should only take a few missed payments and The Whitney will be up for sale. I’m sure one of your fashion designer friends will be happy to give you a job in retail. You might be able to make enough commission for a studio apartment in the Bronx.”
My brain revolts at the picture he’s painting of my possible future. I’m not even close to destitute, but I feel my looming financial ruin if I don’t turn things around fast. It’s a future I reject.
“Fine. You win. Things will go back the way they were. Now let me go.” I try to yank free, desperate to be away from him and he finally loosens his grip.
Relief at him releasing me is short-lived when he spins me around, pushing my back against the closed door before pressing his body into mine again.
I slam my eyes closed, unwilling to let him see the fear I know must show in my gaze. I will myself to remain calm. Dex Cohen is a dangerous man, but even he wouldn’t physically hurt me, at least not here—just a few feet away from the front desk and several employees.
“Open your eyes,” he demands. When I refuse, he tacks on a more urgent, “Now.”
I force myself to obey, if only to appease him long enough to escape this damn room. I expect to see his signature cool anger, but the heated lust glaring back at me makes my knees collapse under me. The only thing keeping me from sliding to the floor is his muscular body pinning me against the hard wood at my back—and his hard wood is poking my stomach.
My hands flail against his chest, useless. I turn my head just as he dives in for a kiss. Undeterred, he moves his lips to the tender spot where my neck and shoulder meet, drawing a full-body quiver from me.
“Stop! This has never been part of our deal!” I shout, desperately trying not to notice how good his touch feels against my skin.
“Correction,” he says, before licking a line up my neck and sucking my earlobe into his mouth. “This wasn’t part of our deal in the past… but it sure as hell is going to be in our future. My help comes at a price higher than just money.”
This isn’t happening. The kiss this morning was one thing, but his hands are on me, groping in places business partners don’t touch. The temperature in the small room is suddenly oppressive. His scent surrounds me, pulling me in. My brain screams for him to unhand me.
Funny how my voice doesn’t relay the message.
My breath is ragged, although I’m not sure if it’s from struggling to break free or because his damn lips are burning my skin.
“Dex! Let me leave!” I finally get out.
His release is so fast, I topple forward—off balance in more ways than one—away from the door and back into his waiting arms.
Before I can second guess myself, I try to take back control. My open palm makes a loud crack as it connects with his cheek. My strike is hard enough to snap his head to the side as pink lines blossom where my fingers landed.
Too late, I realize I should already be running. All breath leaves me as I’m slammed against the door once more, this time, his left hand is on my throat, squeezing as his lips crash into mine so hard it hurts. Unlike our kiss at the pub, this is a punishment. His tongue demands entrance just as his fingers tighten on my throat. I’m forced to open my mouth to gasp for air and he takes advantage, thrusting his tongue forward to duel with my own.
I have many reasons to hate this man, but in the moment, I can’t remember a single one of them. My traitorous body responds in ways it never did with my newly-departed husband. The irony is not lost on me.