The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. I’ll be back before the budget meeting at three.”

He didn’t look at me when he spoke, and I couldn’t help but think he was pretending to act distracted and purposefully being vague.

“You’re going out for it?”

“It’s coffee with a friend.”

I narrowed my eyes as he rounded his desk and sat down behind the computer. “I thought you said it was a meeting.”

He finally set his gaze on me with a hard, direct look. He wanted me to drop it. “It’s both.”

My suspicion increased ten-fold, but I did my best to hide the excitement from my voice. “Which friend? Tate Isaacs?”

Royce’s blue eyes widened with surprise and then emptied completely, like he’d forced any emotion out from them. He asked it like he didn’t really care, although I was sure he did. “Where’d that name come from?”

I strolled to his desk, and the air in his office thickened. He watched me cautiously, the same way I usually watched him. He was smart enough to know to be wary of my intentions right now.

“I had lunch with Sophia Alby today.”

He settled back in his chair, and even though I was standing, he still thought he was the one in control. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“We’re not.”

I sat on the side of his desk, crossed my legs, and didn’t miss how it caught his attention. Good. His gaze skated across my bare legs and disappeared up my skirt, and desire cracked into his expression. Warmth spread through my body, but I had to push it aside.

“I asked her to be a bridesmaid.”

He considered this information for a long moment, and then his tone was guarded and cool. “That was dangerous.”

Royce understood how Sophia worked. Macalister Hale was the wealthiest person in Cape Hill, but secrets and gossip were their own form of currency, and that made her the second richest person in town. She wielded a kind of power that was harder for the Hales to buy and control.

“She told me something interesting,” I said. “About you.”

Tension flooded through his chest and shoulders. He was trying very hard to look indifferent. “Yeah? What?”

“She said you weren’t with anyone at all last year. She thinks it’s because we were dating in secret.”

He made a show out of checking his watch. “I don’t really have time for this. Can we talk about it later?”

“Why? Is your coffee meeting important?” I batted my lashes at him, pretending to be hurt. “More important than your fiancée?”

He didn’t match my playful attitude. Instead, he was deadly serious. “I don’t lie when we’re alone, so no, it’s not more important than you. But, Marist? It’s a close second.”

It was so convincing that for a half-second I believed him, but then I wised up. He was avoiding confirming or denying what Sophia had told me, and instead he was trying to distract.

Two could play that game. I was eager to see how much he liked being manipulated.

I stood, leaned over him, and put my hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing our faces level with each other.

His mouth curled into a sexy smile, and his voice was sexier still. “What are you doing?”

I walked his chair back, rolling it away from the desk to make room. Since I was leaning over him, his focus zeroed in on my bra and cleavage that was exposed by the hanging neckline of my top. It kept him hypnotized enough, he didn’t say anything when I folded my legs under me and knelt in front of him.

A smile seared across my lips.

He’d probably think me on my knees meant I was submitting to him, but he was about to learn who was in control.

NINE

THIS TIME WHEN ROYCE ASKED IT, he wasn’t amused—he was angry. “What are you doing?”

I’d run my palms up his spread thighs until I found what I wanted. He made a half-hearted attempt to push my hands away, but I was persistent, and he began to grow hard under my touch.

He both did and didn’t want me to keep going. “I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

I stroked the bulge thickening down one leg of his suit pants. “Technically, I only agreed not to while we’re at the house.”

When I reached for his belt, his grip on my wrist was more serious. “My door’s not locked.”

“But it’s closed.” There was office etiquette—a closed door was treated as a locked one. Plus, Royce was a Hale and sat on the board of directors. “Only someone with career suicide would walk in here.”

I undid his belt buckle with one hand while cupping him with the other, and a nearly inaudible groan came from him. God, it was hot. He stared at me with his beautifully conflicted eyes, silently pleading for me to stop but also to hurry up already and get his zipper down. My unpracticed hands shook, but it was mostly with excitement.