Ruthless Rival

Fuck.

He takes a half-step toward me. "I know, I only asked for one night, but I can't stop thinking about you. Replaying the sound of your groan. Imagining you, in my apartment, coming on my hand."

That's a brilliant idea.

"If you say you aren't interested, I'll accept it. I won't like it, but I'll accept it."

"See me…"

"I want to fuck you again."

I swallow hard. "Why?"

"Because you're gorgeous. And smart. And principled. Because you're trying to save the world."

"It's not a whim."

"I don't think that." His hand curls around my waist. "I'm sorry if it sounds that way."

My stomach flutters.

"I admire you."

"Since when?"

"As long as I've wanted you." He leans closer. "Always."

His lips brush mine.

Softly at first.

Then harder.

My lips part.

His tongue slips into my mouth.

His fingers dig into my skin.

My body responds to his. My hips buck, my knees knock, my chest melts.

I want him.

I want him so fucking badly.

"Take the night. Think it over. Remind yourself I'm the King of Darkness. Realize you want me anyway."

Chapter Nine

VANESSA

Most days, work occupies every inch of my mind.

Today, my thoughts wander.

The columns of my spreadsheets blur together. I barely catch a word at a donor lunch. And the afternoon meeting with a sister organization—

I agree to a joint effort. A gala.

But I don't remember when or where.

I need focus for my job. I need to make every decision, and every dollar, count.

Nonprofits are businesses like any other. Only, instead of selling a product or service, we ask for donations.

Every penny I spend is a penny I need to raise.

I try to get my head back in the game. I push thoughts of Simon aside. I fix another cup of tea. Then a second.

But the tea sends my temperature to triple digits.

Even when I call the day early, change into leggings and a sports bra, run five miles at the gym in the building—

Even when I shower in the too-cold water, smell the lavender body wash I use after every workout here—

I think of my night with Simon. The Aviation on my lips. The taste of whiskey on his.

The sound of his groan in my ear.

The offer echoing through my mind.

I want to see you again.

I want to fuck you.

I slip into a cocktail dress. Dinner with a donor. Though I can't remember who or where at the moment?

The wool sheath is the exact right mix of professional and sexy. So I don't look like a slut or a stuck-up bitch.

Not my words.

Words that have been used against me too many times to count.

It's impossible, sometimes, but I know how to maneuver this world now. Know the appropriate hem, necklines, fabrics.

Different in the summer and winter.

Different at lunch and dinner.

Different at cocktail parties, galas, business meals.

I slip into my work pumps, fix my makeup, let down my hair.

But my thoughts don't go to my dinner companion.

They go to Simon.

I've never seen you in purple.

I want to see you again.

I want to fuck you.

My cheeks flush. My chest too. I'm dark enough no one can tell, but I add an extra coat of blush anyway. For cover.

Then I grab my stuff from the office. Take the elevator to the lobby.

Besides the gym, the building is low-frill, but we have plenty of space and amazing security.

That's what I need.

Xavier, the guard who works the evening shift most weekdays, is an ace. He's gentle with survivors and rough with people who issue threats.

He nods from his spot behind the desk. "Hot date tonight?" Xavier is a quiet, no-nonsense guy. But I've known him long enough we chat.

"Dinner with a donor," I say.

"Somewhere nice." He gives me a quick once-over. Not the ogle of a man who expects something. The observant gaze of a man trained to keep an eye on everyone and everything. "New dress?"

No. But I haven't worn it in years. And now, after Simon mentions my lack of purple attire, I'm wearing the color. "A few years old."

"Looks great."

"Thanks. What are your plans tonight?"

"Here until two a.m."

"Then a rave in Brooklyn?"

"How'd you know?" His smile lights up his dark eyes. It's a rare sight. Only appears as a response to teasing. "How's Lee?"

"Still married."

"Not my type."

"You don't like gorgeous blondes?"

"Prefer brunettes."

Is he flirting? No. He's teasing. That's all. I've got sex on the brain. I'm seeing things that aren't there.

"I'm happy she's happy."

"She's very happy."

"Still trying?"

"How do you know that?"

"It's my job to know everything."

I nod. "She was here, talking about it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"She can't stop talking about it."

"I'm sure her husband isn't complaining."

No. He's not.

"Most men wouldn't."

"You?"

"Maybe if I was married to a Moyer."

That's flirting. That's absolutely flirting.

Xavier is handsome. As handsome as Simon. They're both tall and broad with masculine features.

But Xavier has soulful brown eyes, short, dark hair, light brown skin.

He looks fantastic in a suit, but he doesn't look like a CEO. He looks like a detective or a bodyguard. Someone capable of neutralizing a threat.