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Her shoulders stayed still. But her thighs? Tight. Quivering.
I leaned in and whispered in her ear.
“That’s number one.”
Her voice was steady, but her lips trembled at the edges. “Don’t start counting unless you plan to finish.”
“Oh, I’m finishing,” I murmured. “And so are you.”
She turned to me, eyes sharp and glassy with satisfaction.
“Get your wallet ready, Sinclair,” she said. “Because after you pay for my painting, you’re going to pay for what’s coming next.”
This night? Just got expensive.
I grinned. “They’ve got my card on file. Let’s head for my room.”
The door clicked shut behind us, the sound muffled by plush carpet and too much tension.
The suite was expensive. Corner view. Sculptural light fixtures. Minimalist furniture. The kind of place designed to impress the unimpressible. Normally, I liked that. Tonight, I didn’t care. I was too focused on the woman currently slipping off her heels like she owned the room.
Juliette moved in slow, deliberate steps, taking in the space, unbothered by the fact that I was standing ten feet away, pulsing with need and watching her like a man who’d lost his last ounce of discipline.
“You paid too much for that painting,” I muttered.
“You made me.”
She glanced at me, amused. “You make your own choices, Sinclair. You… offered compelling incentives.”
Juliette pulled a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket near the bar, popped the cork like it was second nature, and poured herself a glass. No offer for me. She sipped once, then perched on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, dress sliding high up her thigh.
“You going to keep staring, or do you want to know what happens next?”
My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “Tell me.”
Juliette smiled—and that’s when I knew I’d already lost this round.
“Good,” she said, standing. “Because tonight, you work for me.”
She crossed the room slowly, confidently, like every step was part of a performance I hadn’t been invited to rehearse. She stopped before me and loosened my tie with a single tug.
“Let’s try something different,” she said, voice low. “I’m your new advisor. Your newest hire. It’s late. We’re in your suite. And I’m here to renegotiate my contract.”
I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t want to. So, I stood perfectly still as she wrapped my own tie around her hand and used it to lead me backwards, slow, firm, toward the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” she said.
I did.
She unbuttoned my shirt, slid it down my arms, and draped it over the nearby chair like she was cataloging a museum piece.
Then she leaned in close, her mouth brushing my ear. “Now listen like a man who’s never held power before.” And then she blindfolded me with my own tie.
The loss of sight was instant disorientation. All I had left was sensation—her hands, her voice, the sudden drag of her nails down my chest.
I heard her move. A zipper. A soft sigh as she stepped out of her dress—the sound of silk pooling onto the floor.
My breath caught as she pulled off my slacks and boxer briefs and pushed me down onto the mattress.