Dirty Desires

Or I can find it.

I will find it.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling. This need to take care of her. To make sure she’s clothed, fed, rested, safe.

I need to keep her safe. Whatever it takes.

The ding of the lift steals my thoughts.

Its silver doors slide open.

Eve steps into the lobby. No combat boots today. Wedge sandals. They’re soft against the carpet.

Ripped denim shorts. A tiny crop top. Sheer enough I can see her black bra.

I need to peel her out of those clothes. See if her knickers match her bra. Then do away with those.

Those gorgeous green eyes go wide as she takes in the view. Her defenses fall.

It’s hard to explain the way she softens. Her shoulders then her jaw. Her brow. Her gaze.

She takes easy steps toward the window, the one that looks out on Battery Park. She moves close enough to press her palms to the glass.

Then her nose.

Fuck, those dramatic hips. That lush arse.

The things I want to do to her—

I can’t let my head go there. Not yet.

I need to stay coherent. I need to stay patient. Not terrify her with my desire to tie her to my bed.

I take a step toward her. “Should I give you a minute?”

She jumps. Brings her hand to her heart. “You scared me.” Her eyes fix on me for a moment, then they’re on the other window. The one looking out on the Hudson. “It’s beautiful here.”

“When it’s empty.”

“It must be gorgeous at night. All lit up. Do you stay late enough to appreciate it? Or does it feel like work? God knows I’m sick of Times Square.”

“No? You don’t fill with excitement the second you see the Coca-Cola billboard? Think about your thrilling night at Devil’s Point?”

“All the time,” she deadpans. But the sarcasms is short-lived. Wonder spreads over her face as she moves toward the window. “Are you sick of it?”

“It’s beautiful at night. I can show you sometime.”

She looks back to me. You would say that. “Presumptuous.”

“Or generous.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is an office.”

“So you’ve never?” She turns to me. Scans the room—all glass and open hallways—trying to figure out which office is mine. “You’ve never had sex here?”

“Are you offering to christen my desk?”

She laughs yeah, okay. “You really haven’t?”

“I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

“All those women at work events?”

“Were they naked?”

Her laugh is soft. Easy. “What’s this then?”

I motion to the kitchen.

“That’s where you bend women over the counter?” Her voice is strong. Bold. With this hint of vulnerability.

She’s nervous. She’s hiding it well, but it’s there.

The perfect image fills my head. Eve’s palms on the counter. Her black nails against the plastic. Her shorts at her thighs. Her cunt stretching to take me.

Fuck.

I clear my throat. “Something to drink?”

“Oh.” Her gaze flits to the small space. “What are you offering?”

“I have Fever Tree.”

“It’s a little early.”

“For tonic water?”

“Uh-huh.”

I can’t help but smile. She’s adorable. And unbearably sexy.

It’s impossible to keep my head straight. I want her too much. Want her enough to throw away every ounce of reason.

Do I have any left?

I’m ready to offer her six figures for thirty days of her life.

Yes, I have the paperwork set up to make everything legitimate. An NDA. A contract that explains I’m paying for her time, not her body. But the implication is clear.

A line I told myself I’d never cross.

A line I have to cross.

The only way to protect her.

“Just water. We can toast if we come to an agreement.” She draws a circle in the air. Which way to your office?

“That one.” I motion to the room in the corner. One window facing the Hudson. The other facing Battery Park.

Still, she follows me into the kitchen. Accepts a glass of water with a thank you. Takes a greedy sip.

“Hot today?” The weather report claims the heat wave is nearly over. But I don’t believe it. Even with the air-conditioning on high, I’m on fire.

She nods. “Not as bad as yesterday.” She takes another sip. “Is this your first summer in New York?”

I raise a brow.

“You’re the one surprised it’s hot.”

“It’s June.”

“Okay, it’s hot early. But if you’ve spent at least one summer in New York, you know it’s going to be hot until late September.”

“It is.”

“Hot? Yeah.” She makes a show of fanning herself with her hand. Then fanning her tight black crop top. “I’m wearing this for a reason.”

“To drive me mad?”

“Besides that.” She takes another sip. Swallows hard. “Does it really?”

“Does what really?”

“Does my top really drive you mad?” Her grey-green eyes fix on me. “You’ve been with other women. Seen them in far less.”

“So?”

“So? Why does my crop top drive you mad?” She runs her finger over her bra strap. “Is this all it takes?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Will you drop to your knees and beg if I take off my top?”

“I don’t beg.” My eyes pass over her slowly. It’s instinct. Uncontrollable.