“You do that. And keep it clean. I don’t want Brennan and Hastings knowing that I’ve got you second-guessing their every move.”
She scoffed. “No chance of that. I’m a goddamned ninja.”
“And Brennan’s a ninja slayer,” he goaded, a release-valve on his frustration.
She frowned at the slight. “How many times do I have to tell you? The man knows his code, but now that he’s sold out and gone corporate, he’s lost his edge. Wes couldn’t catch me now if he tried.”
“Is that so?”
“My stealth knows no bounds,” she assured him.
“In that case, I heard Aidan Beckett is back in town...” It was a long shot that this had anything to do with him, but Max let the implication dangle anyway. Better safe than sorry. As always, AJ’s brilliant mind was already strategizing ten steps ahead.
“I’ll tug a couple of lines, see if I can find out what brought that on.”
“Get in touch if you find anything.”
“I always do. So what kind of bonus do I get if I beat the esteemed Wes Brennan and find you your mole first?”
“You get me the info I need before Brennan and before this product launches on Tuesday, I’ll see that the compensation matches my gratitude. And I would be very, very grateful.”
AJ grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Got my eye on a new leather jacket...one that matches the interior of the new ride I’m gonna buy with your money. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, boss, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a spy to catch.”
Max sat back in his chair, contemplating AJ’s information. The app was on schedule, so as long as this breach didn’t hit the press, they should be good to launch next week. Still, he’d feel better if he had more answers than questions.
He shuffled some papers. Glanced through Brennan’s report. Reviewed a couple of proofs the marketing department had sent over. By 5:30 p.m., he gave up and headed home.
Thanks to rush hour, it was just past six when Max arrived back at the hotel. He took the elevator to the penthouse, but instead of heading straight for his room, his gaze snagged on her door. He’d kept thoughts of her at bay for most of the day, but now he realized how close to the surface she’d been. She invaded his mind, his blood, his fantasies. Just like she’d done so often since Friday night.
Emma.
He wanted her with a disturbingly singular focus, and no matter how many times he reminded himself she might be the reason the future of SecurePay hung in the balance, it didn’t lessen his desire. Because while there was a possibility she was the instigator of his problems, she was undeniably the only cure.
When she was in his arms, he could breathe. Lose himself. Forget how much was riding on Tuesday’s launch and all the bullshit that accompanied it—the security breach, his father’s treachery, how much he wished that John Beckett could see SecurePay come to fruition, how much he hoped that Aidan Beckett would appreciate the result of his father’s work made manifest.
He approached her door, standing there like an addict, his fist raised to knock, desperate for a hit of her.
Christ, she was dangerous.
It wasn’t safe to need someone this much. It couldn’t be.
Max jerked his hand back from the door before he made a fool of himself. Instead, he loosened his tie and popped the button on his collar.
He didn’t need her. He wanted her.
It was completely different.
And with a deep breath, he was in control of himself again. Just like he needed to be. Max pulled his wallet out as he crossed the hallway to his own room, unlocking it with his key card.
He stepped inside.
Stopped.
The air whooshed from his lungs as the door swung shut behind him.
Emma stood in the sunken living room, her body silhouetted against the window as she stared out at the Los Angeles skyline, twinkling at dusk.
Max’s hands fisted. He swallowed, his throat suddenly parched.
Her hair was down, loose waves cascading over her shoulders and back. She was clad in a black bra and panties, the garter belt from Friday night holding up fishnet thigh-highs. She turned her head to the side, allowing him a glimpse of her profile as she lifted the wineglass in her left hand and took a sip.
Blood thundered in his ears when her tongue darted out to erase a drop of wine from her bottom lip. Or to fuck with him. She was too far away to tell.
When she finally turned on those black stilettos that made her legs look a mile long, his cock jerked at the sight of her—so beautiful it fucking hurt, everything about her promising sin or salvation, and in that moment, he didn’t give a damn which way it shook out, as long as he got to put his hands on her.
As though in response to his thoughts, a teasing smile tilted her crimson-painted lips.
“Honey, you’re home.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ONE DAY. IT HAD been one day since she’d had her hands on him, but it felt like forever. She’d done a little shopping on her lunch break, intending to grab a few more office-appropriate pieces to get her through her indentured work program. But when her thoughts turned to Max, as they so often did, there was a lot less resentment and a lot more sizzle than she’d intended.
How the hell had she managed to keep her hands off him for the last three years?
She’d snagged the fishnets from a rack near the register on a whim, and sweet-talked Gerald into letting her into Max’s room by claiming he’d sent her back to grab some important paperwork that he required.
And she’d cursed herself for doing it the entire time.
The plan had been one magical night with Max. She’d only given into the attraction because it was her last day, and she had a plane ticket to the other side of an ocean.
This part—the awkward intrusion of reality—wasn’t supposed to have happened.
But it had, and now things were all messed up.
She should be mad at him for the high-handed power move that had kept her trapped in Los Angeles when she should be discovering the charms of Dubrovnik.
She was mad at him. But she wanted him, too.
Emma wasn’t sure how it had happened, when exactly he’d become a necessity. She craved him, his body, what he made her feel.
He was power incarnate, always in control, and it turned her on and drove her wild, even as it anchored her.
Then last night had happened.
The tender way he’d touched her after asking about her mother—that was some next level shit. The kind that went beyond physical gratification. And that, she could not have.
What the hell had she been thinking?
Telling him those things. Telling him about her mother. And for what? Some deluded attempt to absolve herself for the bad choices she’d made? An effort to make Max understand how hurt and lost and scared she’d been when she’d realized her mother wasn’t going to get better, only worse?
To what end?
So he’d forgive her for betraying him? So he’d understand, even a little, why she’d leaked information to Charles?
He wouldn’t forgive her. He wouldn’t understand.
They were just fucking, she reminded herself crudely.
That’s all it was, all it could be.
Telling him about her mom, wanting more, that was just a lapse brought on by a night of great sex and great pizza. It didn’t mean anything. She was still in control.
And she was going to prove it right now. Prove to herself that she was in charge. Prove it to him. He could have her body. And she could have his. Nothing more.
She crossed the room, abandoning her wine on the coffee table on her way past.
“Put your hands in your pockets.”
“What?”
She stopped directly in front of him.
“I said, �
�Put your hands in your pockets.’”
He obeyed, and as a reward, she grabbed him by his black and grey tie, tugging him close and claiming his lips.
God, it felt good to have her mouth on him again, to breathe in his scent—the perfect combination of clean, warm man and dark, spicy cologne.
When he angled his head to take over the kiss, she pulled back.
“Uhn-uh,” she chided. “In case I didn’t make it clear, I’m in charge here. I’ll tell you when you can kiss me. When and where you can touch. And that’s strike one.”
He quirked a brow at that, but he kept his mouth shut as she started walking backwards to the bedroom, pulling him along by his tie.
Max kept his eyes on hers for the entire journey, stoking the heat licking at her belly. There was something incredibly sensual about ordering a big, beautiful man around while wearing fishnet stockings.
And she was just getting started.
She tugged Max to the side of the bed before dropping his tie.
“Stay,” she instructed, and his sexy mouth kicked up at the corner as he watched her take a seat on the edge of the mattress, his hands still in his pockets.
The slow, sensual beat of the song playing on her iPhone made the massive master bedroom feel more intimate. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the candles she’d placed on every flat surface, then the box of condoms on the bedside table, before landing back on her. “I take it this means I’ll be playing the role of Labrador Retriever tonight?”
The reference to her admonition in the car yesterday brought an answering smile to her lips as she crossed her legs. “I wouldn’t have to resort to this if you weren’t so domineering all the time,” she teased. “And you know what they say: turnaround is fair play.”
He nodded, slow and predatory. “Why don’t you turn around and get on your knees and we’ll test that theory?”
The rough challenge made everything inside her clench and throb with need. “See? I haven’t even gotten you out of your clothes yet, and you’re already getting bossy. That’s strike two. Now, take off your jacket.”
He shrugged out of the immaculately tailored garment, tossing it into her outstretched hand. She closed her fingers around the soft, fine material, warm from his body, carrying with it the scent of his expensive cologne.
He reached for his tie.
“So impatient to get naked for me?”
“You don’t want me to?”
Oh, she did. She set his jacket on the bed behind her, pausing as though she was considering the question.
“I’ll allow it,” she deigned, with her most regal nod, even as her toes curled in her stilettos as those beautiful, capable hands of his made deft work of unknotting the diagonally striped silk.
“Shirt, too,” she added, as though it were an afterthought.
Watching Max strip down was a singular pleasure. He undressed like he did everything else—perfectly and precisely. No hesitation, but he didn’t rush, either. He worked his way down the front of his shirt before flicking the material off his beautiful shoulders, undoing each of the buttons on his cuffs in turn, so he could pull the shirt off completely. And then he was hers to admire, muscles gleaming in the candlelight.
Lean. Powerful.
“That’s enough for now.”
She stood up, tugged his shirt and tie from his hand. “Take off your shoes and get on the bed.”
Max toed off the gleaming black oxfords and moved the pillow out of the way before he took a seat, with his back against the headboard and his long legs stretched out in front of him.
Emma tossed his clothes on the far side of the bed as she joined him on the mattress. His eyes darkened, dropped to her cleavage while she crawled toward him until her knees were on either side of his thighs.
She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.
His hands came up immediately, palms spanning the sides of her rib cage, his thumbs skating along the underwire of her bra. It took everything she had to sit back, grab his wrists, halt his lazy exploration of her body. “I told you no touching.”
She pushed his hands down to the bed. “You can’t help it, can you? Can’t stand the loss of control. But that’s strike three. And now I have to punish you.”
His hands fisted against the mattress, and the bob of his Adam’s apple made her want to lick his neck.
She reached for his belt, making quick work of the buckle. The slither of leather on fabric filled the room as she tugged it off him.
Her smile was wicked as she dragged the soft black leather contemplatively across her fingers.
His breathing changed—a series of shallow pants.
“I think maybe I’ll tie you up,” she mused, as though the idea had only just occurred to her. Emma scraped her fingernail lightly along his skin, from shoulder to biceps to forearm, then lifted his arm until his wrist was in line with his shoulder. “Teach you a lesson.”
Emma licked her lips as she pressed the back of his hand against the slatted wood of the headboard, holding it there with her right hand so she could grab the belt from her lap.
His muscles drew tight as she pressed the leather against his wrist. It took her a second to realize the jerk of his body wasn’t need, it was retreat.
“Not the belt.”
The harshness of his voice took her aback, and she dropped his wrist and the belt as her gaze snapped to his ashen face. There was a desperation there that scared her.
“Max?” She searched the amber depths of his eyes, trying to understand the sudden shift, but he was looking through her, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”
She cupped his cheek with her palm, angled his head up, looking for connection, trying to get him to see her. “Come back to me, baby.”
He closed his eyes and his breath sawed from his lungs.
“Not the fucking belt,” he repeated. But when he opened them, his eyes had lost that glassy look. Anger had replaced the fear in his voice.
She shook her head to reassure him, even as she watched him battle for control. She leaned her forehead against his. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then another. And another. Until he kissed her back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HAVING HER MOUTH on him helped. Dulled the anxiety that had jacked up his heart rate and made his palms sweat, blindsiding him with its intensity.
“You can’t win big if you’re soft. That’s your problem. You care too much, but you can’t help yourself, can you?”
He leaned into the kiss, ignored her “no touching” rule and cradled her face in his hands, shoving his tongue in her mouth with more desperation than finesse in his quest to recapture the hazy spell of lust she’d ensnared him in the moment he’d walked through the door.
“It’s your fault I have to punish you. Now, stand still.”
He groaned as she leaned into him, understanding his wordless plea and pressing her body against his, her arms around his neck, pulling him close as she kissed him back.
The kiss, her touch, helped calm his heart, until he could hear the music she’d put on and not just the rush of blood in his ears. The air-conditioning cooled the sweat on his skin, making him shiver.
“You’ll thank me for this one day. For teaching you a lesson. For making you a man.”
She was just going to tie him up. He wanted her to.
And then she’d run that fucking belt over her fingers, pressed it to his wrist and he was back there.
The bite of leather on his skin, the wash of pain along his back, biting his lip so hard to keep from crying out, from making it worse, that he tasted the salt of blood, but not tears. Never tears.
Everything jumbled together, memories and reality colliding, twisting in his gut until he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
“I’m so
sorry, Max.”
Emma. Emma’s voice in his ear, soothing him. Emma’s hands in his hair, saving him. Bringing him back.
“This was a bad idea. I never meant to... We can stop, okay? We’ll stop.”
Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, extinguishing all trace of the feisty seductress who’d broken into his hotel room.
No. Dammit. His father had taken too much from him already. Kaylee. John. Aidan. He wasn’t taking this.
Her.
He was in control of his own goddamn life, Max reminded himself, and if he wanted to be tied up by the sexy, beautiful woman straddling his lap, then no one was going to stop him.
“Use the tie. Loose knots.” His voice was hoarse.
Her fingers stilled in his hair and she shook her head.
The compassion in her eyes humbled him.
Max reached out, catching the end of his tie between his index and middle finger, pulling it free from the tangle of his shirt and lifting it between them.
“Do it.”
Emma swallowed as her eyes dropped to the black and grey striped silk. Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck. She didn’t want to. Probably afraid he’d freak out again.
He wouldn’t.
And he needed her help to prove it to himself.
Please.
The blood rushing in his ears was too loud, so he wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the word aloud, or just mouthed it.
She lowered her hands from the back of his neck, and he braced for her decision, one of the wooden slats of the headboard digging into his spine.
His breath rushed from his chest when her fingers brushed his, but he didn’t look down. He couldn’t break this eye contact with her, this lifeline.
She tugged the silk from his grip.
“What did I tell you about being bossy?” Her voice shook a little, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was doing this for him. With him.
Emma set his hand on her thigh, palm up, and he watched as she slipped the skinny end of the tie around his wrist, knotting it so the hole was wide enough for him to pull his hand free. If he wanted to.
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