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He checks his watch. “Forty-five minutes, but I need to go over paperwork and reports. I didn’t want you to come here in the first place, so don’t expect me to entertain you.”

I frown. “I always hoped the man who knocked me up would be at leasta littleentertaining.”

He drops the phone on the desk, and his jaw tics as he stalks in my direction.

I tighten my hold on the menus as he drops to his knees in front of me.

Reaching out, he grips my face in his strong hand. “You want me to fuck you on my desk asentertainment? Done. Lunching? No. The only time I entertain a meal is when it’s closing a million-dollar deal or if that meal is pussy.” He presses his knuckle under my chin to raise it. “We’ve already closed our business deal, and I didn’t even have to wine or dine you. It seems tasting your pussy is the only other option you have to keep me in here.”

I smack his hand away from my face with a huff. He draws back, a devious smirk on his lips.

“If youeverwant theprivilegeof tasting or fucking me, you’ll find a meal on one of these menus and eatfoodwith me.” I shove the menus in his face at the same time my stomach growls.

He ignores the menus and stands. “Fine, we’ll fucking lunch. But we’re eating in here. No arguments.”

“Next time, we’ll?—”

“There will be no next time.” He massages his temples. “I’m debating this entire agreement between us. My life would be much easier if I let Dima have you. I’m sure he’d have no problem lunching with you or killing you to eat your organs for lunch.”

“Too late. The contract is signed. You’re stuck with me.”

“I can easily rip it up and pretend it never happened.” His gaze is angry, as if he wants to rip me apart, along with the contract. “Consider it null and void.”

I release a shallow breath. “That’s illegal.”

He stalks closer to me again but doesn’t kneel this time. Instead, he towers over me, threatening and irritated. “Oh, Gen, do you think I ever consider if an action is legal before I make it? Legalities mean nothing to me.”

I cross my arms, hating that I’m losing this argument—something that usually doesn’t happen with men.

We’re arguing over lunch.

It’s so damn elementary school.

Does he think he’ll lose his perfect gunshot aim if he eats a damn sandwich?

“Fine,” I say in annoyance. “Just feed me.”

10

“Why aren’tyou touching your food?” Genesis asks, smearing a fry with ketchup.

She’s seated on the floor, eating a steakburger and fries, and pops the fry into her mouth. While still waiting on my response, she takes a bite of the burger, moaning while swallowing her bite.

I don’t blame her. I’m sure the burger is fucking delicious. The chef in the casino restaurant is one of the best in the state.

My untouched lunch is across from her. She laid it out, placing the silverware and condiments to the side, as if setting the table.

“I told you I don’t lunch.” I set the report I was reading aside and stand. “I ordered it so you’d shut up.”

She frowns. “That’s wasteful.”

“Blame that on yourself.” I stroll toward the bar and pluck a bottle of bourbon from the shelf of options. I might not lunch, but I have no issue day drinking.

“The burger I ordered is healthier than that,” she comments, watching me pour a glass.

I chug the liquor in one gulp. “I drink when I get headaches. So, again, blame yourself for that.” I pour another glass.

“That’s rude.” She takes a sip of her water. “You know what’s also rude?”