Page 67 of Filthy Promises

“Yes, Mr. Akopov?”

“The Nakamura contracts,” I say. “Have they been finalized?”

She blinks, confused. We both know there are no Nakamura contracts pending.

“Not yet, sir. I’ll check on their status if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I gesture to the chair beside me. “Have a seat. There are a few details we should go over.”

Irina’s eyes narrow, but her social training prevents her from showing any real displeasure.

Rowan hesitates. “Now, sir? I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“It won’t take long.”

She sits beside me, careful to maintain a professional distance. I can smell her perfume—the one I had sent to her apartment along with the dress. Light. Fresh. Nothing like the heavy, cloying scent Irina bathes in.

“Ms. Petrov,” I say, “this is my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Irina Petrov.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rowan says, extending her hand.

Irina takes it with the enthusiasm of someone picking up a dead rat. “Likewise.”

I place my hand on Rowan’s knee under the table. The whisper of silk between us is offensive to me. I want the hot flush of her skin right up against mine. Fuck this barrier.

But for now, I leave it be. Just the weight of my hand on her thigh.

She jumps, her eyes darting to mine in shock.

“Next quarter’s projections,” I say, as if nothing’s happening beneath the tablecloth. “Do we have them ready for the board meeting?”

My hand slides an inch higher on her thigh. The silk of her dress is smooth under my palm. I dream about shredding it, burning the shreds, ejecting them into fucking orbit for the crime of hiding Rowan’s body from me.

“Y-yes,” she stammers. “They’re in your inbox for review.”

“Excellent.” My fingers draw zig-zags on her thigh, teasing closer and closer to the slit in her gown. I can feel her muscles tense beneath my touch. “And the London office? Any updates?”

Irina is watching us with laser focus now. She’s not stupid. She senses something’s off.

“All on schedule,” Rowan manages, her voice impressively steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

Yes, that’s what I want, little doe. I want that flush to consume you. I want to know you’re burning up, green and red, red and green, a melting pot of need and lust and angst and anger. I want you to be fuckingfuriousthat this haughty princess here gets to make eyes at me while you tap away on your tablet and do my bidding. While you sit there and take every goddamn thing I give you without a word of complaint.

I want to light you on fire and watch you burn.

And only when you beg for my help will I step in to douse the flames.

I move my hand higher, just to the edge of propriety. Her breath catches, but she maintains her composure.

“Vincent,” Irina interrupts, “perhaps business can wait until tomorrow? We were having such a stimulating conversation.”

I reluctantly withdraw my hand from Rowan’s thigh, not missing the small exhale of relief (or is it disappointment?) that escapes her lips.

“Of course,” I agree. “That will be all for now, Ms. St. Clair.”

Rowan nods, rising quickly. “Thank you, sir. Ms. Petrov, it was nice meeting you.”

As she walks back to her table, I catch Irina watching her with calculating eyes.

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