Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

Aidan’s voice was laced with concern. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No.” I said it forcefully, because I did want him. I really, really did. But the CEO of Tower VC couldn’t miss a meeting with his partners because he was busy rubbing his assistant’s neck. The idea was ridiculous. “Go to the meeting, Aidan. I’ll be fine.”

He sat for a moment, still rubbing my neck, thinking it over. Was he actually considering skipping his meeting? Eventually he said, “All right. But I’ll get a copy of your key from the front desk and take it with me. I’ll check on you in a few hours, and I don’t want to knock. If you want me to bring anything, text me.”

On impulse I raised my hand and grasped his wrist, my grip weak. “Thank you,” I said.

The massage stopped. For a second we sat there, Aidan sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand cupped behind my neck, my hand on his wrist. I still had the cloth over my eyes—there were circles of exploding pain in the darkness—but I could hear him breathe. I could feel his pulse under my fingertips.

Then he gently pulled away and stood. I heard him walk to the door and leave without a word.

I lay there in the dark, thinking about Aidan asking the front desk for my key. They’d give it to him. He was Aidan Winters.

His scent was still in my nose, crisp and masculine. I didn’t need the cloth off of my eyes to know it. I’d know it anywhere. I wondered if his skin smelled like that.

Except to shake my hand the day he met me, he’d never touched me until today.

I lay there, thinking about Aidan, smelling Aidan, as I waited for the pain to subside.

Sixteen

Aidan

* * *

“You’re late,” Alex said.

The four of us were standing on Michigan Avenue. All around us, the warming sun of spring glinted off the skyscrapers. It was a quarter past nine, and the heading-to-work crowds were moving fast, a little panicked. Behind us was the building that housed the Chicago office of Tower VC—we rented a few offices on the sixteenth floor, where our staff worked and where Dane worked when he could be persuaded to come to the office.

“Samantha is ill,” I said.

Alex’s eyebrows went up. “Was it something we said?”

I shook my head. “Migraine. She says she’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“Migraines are bastards,” Alex said. He was wearing a suit today—dark blue, with a white shirt and a light blue tie. Next to him, Dane sipped a coffee, wearing jeans and a black hoodie, his hair in its customary man bun. On the other side of Dane, Noah—impeccably dressed in a gray suit he’d likely imported from Italy—checked his watch, then looked at the street.

“Here he comes,” he said.

We were waiting for the car and driver Noah had hired. Instead of meeting in the office, I’d had a text telling me to meet the others outside on Michigan Avenue, and we’d be taken to this amazing, once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity of Noah’s.

I hadn’t had time to think very much about what Noah wanted us here for. Noah did his part in L.A., but he rarely came up with new ideas for Tower VC. He knew how to navigate his own waters, but he was the least ambitious of us. And he almost never got excited about business projects—Noah worked to live, instead of living to work. I looked at him as the car pulled up and wondered what had him so excited now.

Normally I would have extracted every detail from him by now, because I hated surprises. But I’d been too distracted by Samantha to pay attention. And this morning—Jesus. Distracted was an understatement. It was fairer to say I was thrown completely off my game.

The Samantha I knew was competent, unshakeable, put together in every detail. The woman who opened her door this morning was a raw, exposed nerve, exhausted and—yes, I could fucking say it—helpless. She’d hated that helplessness, but there was nothing she could do about it. When I’d put my arm around her waist, she’d sunk into me, soft and pliant, leaning on me.

I didn’t have a thing for helpless women. Some men have a white knight fantasy, but that wasn’t me. The women who attracted me were confident and pretty clear on what they wanted from me. No, helpless women didn’t turn me on. Except for this particular helpless woman.

It was only a few days ago when we’d agreed there would be no crossing of professional lines. Yet this morning I’d put her into bed, watching every perfect curve slide under the sheets, carefully not staring at those high, soft breasts under her T-shirt. I’d wanted to take her pain away any way I could, even if it meant blowing off this meeting and getting into bed with her, holding her until she felt better again.

Except I knew that if I did that, as soon as the headache was gone I’d pull down her scrap of panties, go down on her, and pleasure her until she came. And then I’d sink into her, feeling her every quiver and breath, and I’d fuck her deep and slow until the pain was forgotten and she came again, squeezing me.

And that would ruin everything.

I still wanted to fucking do it.

Way to be an asshole, Winters, I thought as we filed into Noah’s hired car. She’s your assistant. You’re about to gleefully destroy the Egerton brothers for talking about her ass.