Every Part of You: Tempts Me (#1)

by Megan Hart

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Elliott Anderson was at it again.

  This time with the usual tall blonde, hair halfway to her hips and brushing the bare skin exposed by her open-backed dress. Simone couldn’t see the blonde’s face, but she didn’t really have to. The other woman would be beautiful in that cold, neutral way Elliott preferred. Perfect features. Blank expression. She’d be everything Simone wasn’t and would never be.

  Simone’s office, tucked into a corner wing on the twelfth floor of the L-shaped Montgomery Building, was angled perfectly so she could stare down into Elliott’s eleventh-floor office on the opposite wing. She’d noticed it first a few months ago when, working late, she’d stood to stretch and caught sight of him with a blonde on her knees between his legs. Simone had been hooked at once, going so far as to do a little building-directory research to figure out who he was. Elliott Anderson, partner at Ross, Anderson and Kirk, attorneys-at-law. Now she clicked off her light so he wouldn’t see her watching.

  Simone liked to watch.

  Elliott kissed the woman, backing her up toward the desk until her ass settled against it. His mouth never leaving hers, he moved between her legs to push her back. His hand cupped her neck beneath her hair. Simone’s nipples went tight and hard. Aching.

  She cupped her breasts briefly through the thin material of her plain white button-down blouse. It had been only a few weeks since the last time she and Aidan had gone to bed together, but it was long enough for her to wish it had been this morning instead of almost a month ago. She flicked her thumbs against her nipples, the sensation of her touch deadened by the fabric of her blouse and bra. It teased her without providing any real satisfaction … but she kind of liked it that way.

  Thorough the window, Simone watched Elliott’s hand slide beneath the blonde’s dress. Imagining what magic his fingers must be working, she settled into her chair with her feet on the desk. A bottle of chilled seltzer water in one hand, Simone let the chair rock back and forth, just a little. She’d been ready to pack up for the night, letting exhaustion claim her even though she wasn’t caught up on the project and wouldn’t be even if she stayed until dawn. There came a point when you had to give up, if only for a little while.

  At least she wasn’t tired any longer. The moment the shift of movement in Elliott’s office caught her eye, Simone had perked right up. It had been what—three weeks since the last time he’d come in late on a Friday night? She remembered because watching him had prompted her to call Aidan. That time Elliott had been with a short, plump blonde instead of a willowy, delicate-boned one. A little out of type, though with the same perfect, bored face as all the others. He’d fucked that one from behind, lifting her dress to reveal thong panties and pale, jiggly thighs. He’d sunk his fingers into her hair at the base of her skull and pulled, tipping her head back as he thrust, and that had been sexy. But when he’d leaned forward to whisper in her ear as he fucked her, never letting go of her hair, that had sent delicious shivers all through Simone.

  What sorts of things did a man like that say while he was fucking? Simone was dying to find out. Too bad she wasn’t a lithe, beautiful blonde, she thought as she leaned forward a little to get a better glimpse of what was going on. He was, as far as she was concerned, perfection. Just over six feet tall. Dark hair gone silver at the temples. Lean swimmer’s body he liked to clothe in tailored suits—nothing ostentatious. Always classic. Professional. Subdued. Appropriate.

  The man dressed like a master of industry and fucked like a jackhammer.

  Simone wanted him.

  Of course, there was next-to-no chance of that ever happening. Aside from the fact that Elliott liked a very distinct type that Simone most definitely did not and would never fit, they swam in completely different waters. Elliott was a deep-sea shark, forever circling, always grinning and never smiling. Simone, on the other hand, frolicked in sun-dappled shallows, and no matter how deep she dove, she never lost sight of the light. No, Elliott Anderson was never going to be for the likes of Simone Kahan, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge in a good old-fashioned steamy fantasy now and again.

  Especially when it was unfolding right in front of her like her very own NetPorn video. Simone let her thighs fall apart a little bit, feeling the silk of her panties press against her. Shifting in her chair, she tugged her skirt a little higher, feeling the whisper of cool air on her inner thighs. Tickle, tickle, a phantom touch, teasing. She let her fingers trace along the soft skin as she watched Elliott pull up the blonde’s skirt and do the same to her.

  He didn’t stop when the hem of the blonde’s dress hit her upper thighs. He kept going, exposing bare flesh. No panties. Simone grinned and shook her head. That woman had known what she was in for, all right, and Simone didn’t blame her one bit. If she was going on a date with Elliott, she probably wouldn’t have bothered with panties either.

  Simone let her touch drift over the silk, thinking about slipping her fingers inside. All the times she’d watched Elliott fucking some blonde in his office, yet she’d never yet indulged in touching herself while she did it. That she saved for her bed at home, or for a phone call to Aidan, who was always willing to come over and help a girl out with her sexual frustration. When her fingertips pressed gently on the bud of her clit, she couldn’t help but let out a long, low sigh. Still, something stopped her. Maybe the idea that someone in another office might be watching her get herself off while she watched someone else. Maybe just the fact that teasing herself always felt better than giving in right away.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. At this time on a Friday night, Aidan would already be out. She could try his cell phone, but there was no guarantee he’d hear it ring or even feel it buzz with a message. Maybe he’d call her at two in the morning, drunk and horny, and maybe she could wait for him, but what if he didn’t call? Slowly, Simone rubbed gentle fingers against herself as she mused, her gaze going back to the scene in Elliott’s office—and then she let the chair tilt forward with a thump.

  In the few seconds she hadn’t been paying attention, Elliott had turned the blonde so that her hands were flat on the desk, her dress pulled up to expose her tanned, yoga-tight ass. But that wasn’t what had caught Simone’s attention. Oh, no. What had pulled her breath out of her like a magician yanking scarves from his sleeve was the sight of the red handprint on the blonde’s taut butt.

  It was Elliott’s handprint, and as Simone watched, he slapped the other buttock and left another rapidly pinkening print. At this one, however, the blonde turned, anger painted all over her face. Her dress fell down her thighs, and she shoved him, finger waving in his face. Elliott, held up his hands, looking not angry or perplexed, but sort of amused. This humor seemed to set the blonde into a further fury, and she shoved him.

  At this, Simone let out a gasp and Elliott’s expression turned dark. He caught the blonde’s wrist before she could slap him across the face. Simone’s breath caught, her heart pounding, the ache between her thighs growing solid and thick. His fingers easily encircled the blonde’s wrist. A grip like that could hurt worse than a silly little spank.

  A grip like that could bruise.

  Elliott let go of the blonde’s wrist and stepped away, out of reach, and
put his hands up again. His mouth worked, and he shook his head, then made a gesture toward the door. He still wasn’t angry until the woman went after him again, this time with the pinwheeling, out-of-control fists of someone who clearly had no idea how to punch.

  He held her off the way you might an angry toddler, but storm clouds had built up in his expression. Simone shivered at the sight of his tightly controlled fury, her mouth dry. She touched the tip of her tongue to the center of her upper lip.

  Elliott turned the woman, holding her tight against him so he could speak directly in her ear. It was clear she struggled, but whatever he said calmed her. Simone held her breath, wishing desperately she could hear what was going on. But just when she thought Elliott was going to bend the blonde over the desk again, he let her go and pushed her gently toward the door. She went a few reluctant steps, her pout clear even at this distance, but when she stopped and looked like she might try to say something, Elliott very clearly dismissed her.

  He even turned his back, and at this angle the blonde couldn’t see his face. Simone could, and she had an instant’s sympathy for the other woman, who obviously didn’t know how to handle a man like Elliott. Simone’s sympathy lasted only a few seconds though, because in the next moment the woman tossed her hair, red lips mouthing a very clear “Fuck you” that Elliott shrugged off in a way that must’ve stung her pride. Hard.

  The blonde flounced out, her attempt at slamming the door behind her diminished by the fact the doors in the offices downstairs all operated on a quiet pneumatic system that didn’t allow for banging. Elliott leaned against the desk, arms crossed, to watch her go, his expression solid and bland. Simone had seen the spark in his eyes though, even from this distance.

  What would it be like, Simone wondered, to have him focus that look on her? To feel his hand on her wrist? Gripping hard, maybe grinding the bones together, just a little?

  It would be delicious.

  * * *

  He should’ve known better than to date a woman who thought pouting was a good way to get what she wanted, but Barry Healey had introduced them at a dinner party a few weeks back and … well, Elliott had always had a hard spot in his pants for blondes. Her name was Sherie. She was twenty-seven but had told him she was twenty-five. She worked in retail.

  He wouldn’t be seeing her again.

  She’d been the one to suggest they stop off in his office between dinner and the party, after. She’d wanted to see his desk, she’d said with a smile that had stirred his cock just enough to make the idea seem appealing, even though earlier she had nibbled on a dry salad and declined dessert and hadn’t been able to keep up her end of the conversation. She’d slipped a hand up his thigh beneath the table, letting her knuckles brush his groin, so he hadn’t misread that intention, at least.

  About the other … well, he’d made a mistake.

  “Oooh, I’m a naughty girl,” Sheri had cooed with a flutter of her lashes he was sure she thought was sexy. With his hand up her dress, fingers finding her heat, Elliott was sure she also thought this coy game was appealing, as though pretending she hadn’t orchestrated this entire seduction would somehow make him want her more. “Maybe I need a spanking.”

  He’d only been half turned on before that, idly interested in fucking her because she was beautiful and willing, but at those words his cock had gone iron hard. His heart pounded. She’d been flipped over, hands on the desk and dress up above her ass before she’d had time to blink. He’d barely tickled her with his palm, leaving a handprint that would’ve faded before she even walked out the door. Then another to the other ass cheek, and that’s when she’d turned on him.

  “What the fuck?” Sherie’s snarl was sexier than her pout could ever have been, but Elliott had backed off at once with his hands up.

  “You said you wanted a spanking.”

  “I didn’t mean … that hurt, you asshole!” She’d swung at him, and he’d stopped her.

  Sherie had thrown a few more choice insults at him, but when he didn’t fight back, had merely backed away another few steps, she’d seemed to rethink her strategy. Too late, though. He’d held her off, no longer interested. In fact, the idea of it—of his hand on her flesh, the cracking sound of it, the heat of his palm left behind, all of it had repulsed him so that he’d had to swallow hard against the tightening of his throat.

  “I can call you a cab,” he’d offered, forcing his voice to remain calm. Not giving her the benefit of seeing him shaken.

  “Fuck you and your cab. You’re an asshole! I should … I should press charges!”

  That had done it. Any concern he’d had about misjudging her fled. Eyes narrowed, he’d given her the grin guaranteed to turn her blood to ice, and she’d fled without another word.

  Press charges. He thought of it now with a shudder, closing his eyes briefly as he punched the elevator button, leaning with one hand on the wall as he waited for the doors to open. Never mind that she had nothing to press charges about, not really. It was enough for him to know that he’d misjudged the situation, a mistake he’d sworn never to make.

  His phone buzzed from his pocket. He thought about ignoring it, except that it might be Molly. It wasn’t, thank God, because at this time of night it could only be a call from the night staff with some sort of problem. It was Barry, and for a moment Elliott almost pressed the button on his phone that would send the call straight to voice mail.

  At the last moment, he thumbed the screen. “What?”

  “You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

  Elliott glanced at his watch. “No. I’m going home.”

  “C’mon, buddy. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that thing about all work and no play?” Barry sounded hoarse already. Too much whiskey, too many cigars. Too many blustery jokes told to men with a lot of money and no common sense about spending it. “C’mon. Bring Sherie and get over here. Unless you two are snuggled up somewhere, canoodling.”

  Elliott pressed a finger between his eyes. “That’s hardly what I’d have called it.”

  A beat of silence. “What happened? I thought you and her would’ve definitely hit it off.”

  “She and I,” Elliott said with a wince at Barry’s grammar, “did not.”

  “Well. Shit. If you can’t get it on with Sherie, buddy, I’m not sure who you can get it on with. That girl likes to party.”

  “I don’t have any trouble finding women, Barry.”

  Barry snorted laughter. “Nah. I guess that’s right. Still. Tell her to get her panties back on and both of you get over here.”

  “She walked out.”

  “What the hell?” Barry sounded speechless, which was unusual for him. The man could talk through anything.

  “I’m going home.” Elliott punched the elevator button again, irritated. He stepped back to look at the numbers lit above it, frowning at the holdup. Someone a few floors up must be holding the door for some reason. “I don’t have a date anymore.”

  “I’ve got some spares here.” Barry laughed again. “You can have more than one.”

  Elliott pushed the button again just as the door opened. Phone still pressed to his ear, he got on, nearly running into a petite girl with dark hair in a short, pixie cut. She stepped out of the way just in time with a startled noise.

  “Sorry,” Elliott said. To Barry, he added, “No. Not you. Bumped into someone on the elevator.”

  “A female someone? Bring her along.” With that, Barry hung up before Elliott could offer any further protests.

  With a snarling sigh, he tucked his phone into his pocket and gave the woman a glance. He’d seen her around, maybe in the lobby or elevator before. A tiny thing, she barely came up to his shoulder, and that hair. Black and glossy as a raven’s wing, brushing over her cheeks like feathers. Her black skirt hit her just below the knee, basically unspectacular but form fitting enough to show she had a nice ass. Cheap fabric, too. Her white blouse could’ve used an iron, and her shoes made him want to cringe. Black and gray pla
id flats with a pointed toe.

  And damn, she’d caught him looking.

  Elliott didn’t often blush. Shame might occasionally come for a visit, but embarrassment never rang the bell. Yet now, trapped in this woman’s equally frank assessment of him, Elliott felt heat rising up from his throat and across his cheeks. She looked as though she’d seen right into the heart of him, and he didn’t like it.

  Hated it, as a matter of fact, feeling as though anyone could possibly try to know him, especially a semi-stranger on the elevator. His cold glare should’ve stung her into looking away, but the woman only smiled, lips quirking. She raised a brow, too.

  “Working late, too, huh?” She reached past him to push the door close button because it had remained open. “This thing’s acting up tonight. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get stuck.”

  “Lucky—” He stopped himself to study her.

  She tilted her head to look him over again before she turned, giving him another view of that tight rear. She pushed the lobby button once more, though it was already lit, then gave him another slow, lingering glance over her shoulder.

  That smile. Fuck, it slew him. She was so far from his type she might as well have been another species, and yet something about her stirred heat low in his belly. It echoed the blush he’d felt earlier, and Elliott frowned.

  “It’s Friday night. You should be out to dinner or at a party. Not in the office.” She leaned against the railing with one foot propped on the wall behind her. Her bag, an enormous tote made of patched fabric squares, shifted, and she slung it higher on her shoulder.

  “I was going to a party, but my date … left.” The words slipped out of him unbidden, for no other reason than it would’ve felt rude not to answer her at all. That’s what he told himself, anyway, watching the curve of her hip and the quirk of her smile.

  The woman didn’t look surprised or even sympathetic. “Women can be crazy bitches.”

  “And men can be arrogant assholes,” Elliott countered, surprising himself.