Page 63 of Sinful Lies

I pushed him off, grabbed my bag, and walked toward the door, but before I could escape, his hand slammed it shut, trapping me inside.

Damn, he was a one-man broadcast of mixed signals—louder than static, and twice as useless.

His body was pressed against mine, his scent—dark wood mixed with honey whiskey—saturated the space between us.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

“Ten percent,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

I turned slowly, pressing myself against the door as his other hand landed on the wood, caging me in.

His face was just inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin.

“Forty,” I said, voice steady, my pulse quickening despite myself.

His jaw clenched. “Twenty.”

I shook my head, my eyes wandering over his features—sharp jawline, dark eyes flashing with irritation, and full lips. “Thirty. Last offer.”

He leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Done. And if I find out you told even one soul, I will kill you with my bare hands, Miss Whitenhouse.”

“I promise, Lazzio. I’llnevertell your secrets,” I’d lied.

That night, I had become COO and co-owner of Lazzio Exhibits Inc., and with that had come the freedom to expand my talents across the company.

More than that, it had given me the perfect opportunity to get on every single nerve of Angelo Lazzio—and it was fucking bliss.

“What about you, Miss Whitenhouse? No date tonight? Or should I say, no fucking with a mover, plumber, or—what was the last one again? Oh yeah, an electrician?”

As much as I knew Lazzio was familiar with his own history, I supposed it was only natural he’d know mine too.

After all, he’d occasionally crossed paths with the different men I’d lost myself in for a night—or sometimes more—just to erase the tension that working for him left in my system.

Even if he tried to shame my taste, it would never occur to him to mingle with the lower class.

No, Mr. Lazzio was far toouptightfor that.

I smirked, checking my nails. “What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for men who know how to use their hands… and their mouth.” I let my gaze flick up, watching the flicker of annoyance cross his face. “Especially their mouths. Kissing, making out… and going down. Ugh, Iloveit all. Especially when they go down on me. Only real men do that. The rest? They’re just… boys.”

The scowl etched across his face was almost artful—pure rage, with just a dash of offended pride. Angelo Lazzio, king of “no missionary” and “too good to go down,” looked like he was seriously considering throwing me out of the nearest window.

As if the very air he was breathing had been poisoned by my presence, he scoffed sharply before storming out of his office.

He didn’t even look back, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he made his way to the elevator.

Before the door closed, he shot me a final glare.

“You know,” he called out, “It’s pathetic how desperate you are for validation from men who can barely afford to wipe your shoes. Guess some people are so used to settling for the scraps, they don’t even realize they’re eating off the floor.”

Freaking bastard.

I saw red.

That fucking smug look on his face was too much to take.

Without thinking, I took off my heel and hurled it toward him, watching it sail through the air with all the force I could muster.

But before it could reach him, the elevator doors slid shut with that cold, final sound, and all I heard was his laugh. That insufferable, arrogant laugh that echoed through the hallway as the elevator descended, taking him from my sight.

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