Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

His name was Max, and he was an airline pilot on leave. In fact, he had to be at JFK in a few hours for a trip to Seoul. He was hot and very, very aware of it. He was looking for a gorgeous woman to spend time with before he left again, and he said I fit the bill.

I told him my story—the breakup, the late-night working. “I don’t usually work so late,” I said, “but my boss wouldn’t let me leave.”

“Your boss sounds demanding,” Max said.

I looked at his familiar dark eyes, feeling myself smile. “He’s not an asshole, not really. He’s just moody.”

His eyebrows went up. He was definitely interested in this topic. “You think he’s moody?”

“Sure he is. He’s rich, but he hasn’t always been rich. He isn’t spoiled—part of him is still rough. When he’s in a good mood, he’s nice. But then he gets dark. For example, there was an entire week when he barely spoke to me.”

Max frowned, ready to argue. “He probably had a good reason.”

“No, he didn’t.” I was enjoying this. I took another sip of my spritzer. “Everyone in the office is terrified of him. No one wants to cross him. I’ve never seen it happen, but I know it’s bad.”

“Um.” Max cleared his throat. “Well, maybe the guy is under a lot of stress.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t make him any less intimidating, though.”

He looked at me in shock. “Your boss intimidates you?”

I laughed. “Of course he does. He’s intimidated me since the first minute I met him. I can’t believe I’ve worked for him all this time and he hasn’t caught on.”

There was a second of silence between us, louder than any of the laughter at the bar. Just him and me and the air practically shimmering. I could feel every part of my body, my blood pulsing, the breeze on my skin.

“You know what, Leigh?” he said at last.

I shivered. “What?”

“I feel bad for you, working for this guy. Dealing with his moods and his intimidation. Staying at the office until nine at night. I think you need to release some tension.”

I could feel his gaze on me like a touch, brushing along my neck, down past my collarbones. “I could do that,” I said slowly. “Release tension.”

“Good, because I have an idea.”

That was how we ended up in one of the bathrooms ten minutes later. The bathrooms at Shaker’s, it turned out, were beautifully decorated and incredibly clean. And private. Especially the one at the very back of the last corridor, where it seemed that no one else went.

Max—Aidan—pressed me against the counter, his strong arms boxing me in, his hips against mine, his lips moving expertly up my neck. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I could feel his rough jeans through my skirt. I had never done anything like this before, but I let my head fall back, let my eyes close. “How much time do we have?” I breathed.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe,” was the answer against my skin. “Twenty tops.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think. Relax. I’ll take care of it. Tension release, remember?”

His mouth took mine, tasting of warm man and whiskey. His teeth raked against my lip and I felt the sting through my body, down between my legs. His hands moved to my skirt, pulling it up gently and then pulling my panties down.

I felt my fingers dig into the hard muscles of his shoulders. Aidan, I thought crazily. This is Aidan, the man I went to look at real estate with the other day. The man I see at the office almost every day. The man who had given me the orgasm of my life just by sitting on his sofa with me naked in his lap. That had been so intense I’d been dazed. I barely remembered leaving, had no idea what I’d said. I had the feeling I’d done it wrong somehow, but it hadn’t occurred to me until I was sitting in Aidan’s hired car, his driver taking me home in the rain.

If I’d done something wrong that night, he’d obviously forgiven me.

This wasn’t me, this office girl who let herself get seduced by a cocky pilot, who was locked in a public bathroom with her panties on the floor and a man’s gorgeous hands lifting her skirt up. Except for in my fantasies, this had never, ever been me.

The still-functioning fragments of my brain managed to remember something practical. “Do you have a condom?” I asked.

“Don’t need one,” he said against my mouth.

“But—”