Page 155 of Sinful Lies

“Not so fast,” he murmured, his lips finding their way to my neck.

I chuckled, trying to wiggle free. “Wow there, Romeo! Just because I gave you a blowjob doesn’t mean I’m giving you a free pass to push my buttons again. I, too, have a meeting—a really important one. You’re not the only one working hard around here, you know.”

“I thought we were just getting started with our productivity, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I giggled but finally freed myself from his grip and snatched my dress from the floor, pulling it back on with flair.

“As much as I love your dedication to my sexual well-being, I really do have to run. I’m all about that professional vibe today.”

“Of course, nothing screams more professional than sucking your boss’ cock.”

I grabbed his pen holder and flung it in his direction, watching it crash to the floor as he laughed. He quickly stood up, grabbing my face in his hands and kissing me deeply, which caught me completely off guard.

I pulled back, breathless.

“How about this—dinner at my place tonight? I’ll cook, you can relax. We can discuss all your hard work and the many ways I plan topromoteyou for it.”

“Hmm, dinner at your place… Thispromotionbetter be something spectacular. I’m talking over-the-top, mind-blowing, passing-out-from-pleasure good.”

He winked. “Oh, I assure you, it will be the best kind.”

I turned around, unlocked the door, and left, feeling Grace’s glare burning into my back. I couldn’t resist—I dragged a slowfinger across my lips, wiping them clean, watching as her eyes widened when she realized exactly what had just gone down.

By the time I hit the elevator, I was feeling… suspiciously cheerful.

Who’d have thought that giving my boss a blowjob could do wonders for my mood?

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

“The best secrets are the most twisted.”

? Sara Shepard

Angelo

“When are you back in New York? I’m up to my neck in bullshit. Scarlett’s throwing a tantrum—LeRoy called me this morning because she’s threatening to cancel her New Year’s show in LA tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got the ball here to handle. I swear, it’s like babysitting drunk toddlers.”

Romaniev snorted. “Next week. Chill out, Lazzio. I’ll deal with her later—don’t blow a gasket.”

The doorbell cut through my rant.

I made my way to the door, grabbed the food from the delivery guy, handed him a generous tip without a word, and carried the bags to the kitchen.

My phone stayed pinned between my shoulder and ear as I dumped the bags on the counter and muttered, “I swear, I need a New Year’s miracle or a straitjacket. One of the two.”

As I unloaded the bags, the sound of giggling and little feet racing echoed through the phone. Romaniev’s voice followed, halfhearted and already resigned to his fate.

“Girls, be careful with the vase,” he said, like he already knew they wouldn’t be.

Sure enough, a loud crash came next, followed by a chorus of Russian curses.

I scoffed.

Romaniev might be a fucking monster, the kind of man you wouldn’t dare cross, but when it came to his daughters? They ran him like a puppet on strings.

The guy followed their every move like a whipped puppy, all bark and no bite.

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