Page 71 of Filthy Promises

“Good. I need you in my office for dictation in five minutes.”

He disappears back into his lair, leaving me to contemplate how many labor laws he’s currently violating.

And why I’m so desperately turned on by it.

Get it together, Rowan. Professional, remember? You’re being professional.

Five minutes later, I enter his office, notepad in hand, the very picture of efficiency. If you ignore my burning cheeks and the way my heart is trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest.

“Close the door,” he orders without looking up from his computer.

I do, then take my usual seat across from his desk.

“The Nakamura contracts,” he begins, completely businesslike. “I need you to review the terms before we proceed.”

He stands and walks around the desk, circling behind my chair. I can feel his presence looming over me like a storm cloud. His hands come to rest on the back of my chair, so close to my shoulders I can feel the heat radiating from them.

“The terms are… particular,” he continues, leaning down to speak directly into my ear. “You’ll need to pay very close attention.”

His breath tickles my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“I always pay attention, Mr. Akopov,” I reply, proud that my voice only quavers slightly.

“Do you?” His fingers brush against my neck as he straightens, the touch so light it could be accidental.

But nothing Vince does is ever accidental.

I spend the next hour taking notes while he paces around me, finding reasons to brush against me, to lean over my shoulder, to stand close enough that I can feel the heat of him. By the time we finish, I’m wound so tight I might shatter if he so much as looks at me wrong.

I’m halfway to the door when he clears his throat. It’s becoming a ritual now—just when I’m one step shy of safety, he throws something in my lap that he knows will sear its way through my brain for the rest of the day.

He enjoys the game, I think. No, Iknowit. All I have to do is meet those frigid blue eyes to see that he’s loving every second of me writhing at his mercy.

I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t love it, too.

Slowly, like it’ll be the last thing I ever do, I turn around again. He looks incredible like this, framed by the floor-to-ceiling backdrop of Earth’s greatest city. He is wealth, he is rugged, he is raw, masculine, beautiful, untouchable. His desk is an ocean of black wood that’s begging to be ruined by my moans. His eyes say he’ll never let me get close to that.

“It’s true, you know.”

I frown in confusion. “What is?”

“The note. I thought of you.”

Jaw, meet floor.

It’s one thing to write that stuff down. I mean, yes, it’s one filthy, naughty, toxic, irresistible thing.

But to have the balls to say it out loud? And to say it likethat,no less? With a voice that’s pure sex and tattooed, capable hands that are pure sin?

It should be illegal.

I gulp, nod, and run.

The pattern continues for three more days. Each morning, I find a new note on my desk.

Thinking of your thigh under my hand.

Your blush is my favorite color.

---