Page 72 of Filthy Promises

Tell me what you’re wearing underneath.

Each day, he finds new ways to brush against me, to stand too close, to make me aware of him in ways that are distinctly unprofessional.

And each night, I go home alone, frustrated and furious with myself for wanting more.

On the fifth day, something in me snaps.

I stare at myself in the mirror before work, really looking at the woman reflected back at me. Mousy. Hiding. Playing it safe.

“No more,” I whisper to my reflection. “Two can play this game.”

I reach for the back of my closet, pulling out the pieces I never wear. The silk blouse with the daring neckline. The pencil skirt that’s just a bit too tight. The heels that make my legs look a mile long.

I take extra time with my makeup, too. Smoky eyes. Pink cheeks. And a bold red lipstick I bought on a whim and never had the courage to wear.

When I walk into the office, Diane actually does a double-take.

“Ms. St. Clair,” she says, something almost like approval in her voice. “Striking choice.”

I just smile and continue to my desk.

There’s a note waiting for me, as expected. Today’s is chaste by comparison.

Dinner with Katerina Volkov tonight. Wear the dress being delivered at noon.

I tuck the note into my drawer and get to work.

When Vince emerges from his office an hour later, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. “Ms. St. Clair,” he says, his eyes darkening as they take in my transformation. “This is a new look for you.”

I smile up at him, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster. “Is it inappropriate, Mr. Akopov?”

“Not at all.” His voice has dropped an octave. “It’s refreshing.”

I stand, making sure to brush against him as I reach for a file. “I’m glad you approve.”

His eyes follow me as I walk to the filing cabinet, lingering on the sway of my hips.

Game.

Fucking.

On.

For the rest of the day, I mirror his tactics. I find reasons to touch him—straightening his tie before a meeting, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, letting our fingers linger when passing documents.

I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. His eyes following the movement of my lips as I talk on the phone. He inhales sharply when I bend at the waist to retrieve a dropped pen.

When his coffee arrives at three, as it does every day, I intercept it.

“Let me,” I tell the delivery guy with a pouty, sultry wink that he’s powerless to resist.

I take the cup to my desk first. After making sure Vince is occupied on a call, I press my lips to the rim, leaving a perfect red imprint. Then I carry it into his office, setting it down directly in front of him.

“Your coffee, Mr. Akopov,” I say, making sure to lean forward just enough to give him a glimpse of what’s beneath my silk blouse.

He looks up, his eyes immediately dropping to my cleavage before moving to the coffee cup. When he spots the lipstick mark, his eyes narrow.

“Thank you, Ms. St. Clair.”

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