Page 21 of Fair Trade (New York Monarchs #2)

I’ve held out strong these past few months, not giving into my unbridled desire to have his hands all over me again.

Although I spend half the time I’m in Nick’s presence planning my true crime documentary interview answers, because the way he pushes my buttons while I’m leading my meetings makes me think that life behind bars isn’t as bad as they make it out to be.

And while I’d never admit it to another living soul, his relentless questioning has made me better at my job.

Sometimes I need to slow down and look at things through a different lens.

I’ve realized I sometimes rev myself up before a meeting in anticipation of someone trying to go against me, and in doing so, I miss opportunities for collaboration.

I’ve spent so long clawing my way to the top that I fear I may always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Someone to walk in and announce, “Sorry, but the jig is up!”

I live my life under the pressure of knowing that every move I make is being dissected by camera crews, journalists, and fans around the world.

But Nick is always there. And the sparring we do in these meetings tends to keep me focused and grounded. Nick is someone I’m not afraid of going head to head with. Which is how he’s become the only person in my life with the ability to challenge me in a way that doesn’t feel threatening.

Maybe it’s because I know that he slept with a night light until he was nine or that lately he’s been on the hunt for the best Dominican food in the city.

All because of these damn emails.

I’ve managed to say things that I’d never to say to his face, only to continue our bickering like business as usual the following day at work. And our touches are subtle but laced with reined-in violence.

Like when he pulled out my chair at the head of the conference table, only to push it in a bit too deeply, causing my breasts to momentarily rest on the table as I leaned forward.

Or when I walked around the table, dropping off materials in front of my seated staff, only to lean over Nick a tad longer, enticing him with the view of my cleavage right before I sank the heel of my stiletto into his shiny black shoe. Hard.

The muffled grunt as he bit his fist put me in the best mood that lasted the rest of the workday.

But these emails? This is the only place I allow myself to be a little reckless. Where I don’t feel like I have a million eyes on me. Where I am allowed to be myself.

Which is why I hit Reply, not fully thinking through what I’m about to type.

I let out a low, evil laugh.

Nick wasn’t lying when he said he would replace my damaged clothes and underwear.

After I was drenched in sangria by Nick and my entire team, I had to toss every single piece of clothing in the trash.

But when I got to my apartment later that night, I had ten new sets of suit pants and jackets.

Prada. YSL. Celine. Chanel.

All in my size.

I was surprised to find a few pairs of designer heels that fit perfectly.

And when I opened the last package, I discovered an insane amount of lingerie. And not the super skimpy stuff that would dig into my skin. The box was full of beautiful lace bras I can wear under a dress shirt for a night out if I’m feeling daring.

I emailed him immediately after.

His response had been immediate.

I haven’t referenced the lingerie again after I thanked him via email. But every time we’ve seen each other at the office since then, I sense his eyes scanning me from top to bottom, as if he hopes he can see through my professional clothes to discover what I’m wearing underneath.

I hope he’s adequately tortured, believing I am indeed fully dressed in every stitch of clothing bought by him.

I know I’m playing a dangerous game, but we all have our vices. And secretly, Nick is mine.

My phone rings on my nightstand.

I don’t recognize the number that has a few more digits than a local number should. I hope no one has gotten a hold of my private number, because it’d be a real bitch to change it and update every online shopping account I have linked to it.

I answer the call but don’t speak, in case it’s a rowdy fan or a wrong number calling.

“Luisa Marie álvarez. What. The. Fuck . Was. That?”

I bolt up in bed and look around my room, as if a growly Nick Stonehaven is about to barge into my home.

“How did you get my number?” I ask stupidly. The man has more than enough resources to find my number, including my personnel file.

But up until this moment, we’ve never spoken on the phone or even texted, keeping it strictly to email.

“Luisa,” he warns, his voice dropping an octave.

“Lucifer,” I say innocently, my brain catching up on why he’s probably calling.

“I’m going to be very clear here, so listen closely,” he starts.

I immediately clamp my thighs together at his demanding tone.

“I’ve been on my best behavior here. Truthfully, I could be considered a monk at this point. I’ve respected your wishes. I’ve treated you with nothing but respect in front of our staff and have even let your bratty ways slide when you try to push my buttons.”

“I’d hardly call you a saint, Luci. Last week you pulled my hair when—”

“If you think you can mention wearing a piece of lingerie, one I’ve handpicked for you, and expect me to not crash through every door to get a good look for myself, then you’re dangerously unaware of the frail tether of restraint I’m holding on to.”

I gasp, and he releases a sinister chuckle.

“Yes, Angel. Now you’re getting it.”

“That’s not—We’re not, uh.”

“Trust me, I’m painfully aware.” I hear him groan faintly, as if he’s pulled the phone away from his face momentarily. “But just because I’ve shown I can be on my best behavior, that doesn’t mean you can taunt me mercilessly.”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No, I didn’t. I was only stating the facts. Maybe I can concede that it was a bit of a tease, but nothing more than usual,” I venture.

“Save your excuses for another time, Luisa. Because we are going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all. I expect you in my office tomorrow at eight a.m., and we’re going to have a long overdue conversation.”

His voice brooks no room for argument.

“Okay. Sure. Fine. I’ll be there.”

He hums in agreement, the rumble causing goose bumps to rise along my skin.

“Oh, and Luisa? Please be careful when you call for the devil.” His tone is laced with amusement and warning all at once. “Because he just might show up.”