Page 16 of Filthy Mouth

“What happened to the sweet assistant I hired eleven years ago?” I asked as she stood, pad in hand.

“I met you.”

I grinned as she turned and marched out of the office.

Ella always got the job done.

It took nine days to devise my wicked plan. If it worked, it’d be better than acquiring the land her father kept dangling in front of me.

The greedy fuck wanted way more than it was worth.

??????

I stood in front of the mirror like a goddamn idiot, two shirts hanging beside me like they held the power to decide whether I came tonight or not.

Black or charcoal.

The black one was silk—subtle sheen, cut to precision. It screamed sin. The kind of shirt a man wore to fuck someone’s future into his mattress.

The charcoal? Brushed cotton. Softer. Smoother. Less likely to terrify her on arrival.

I looked at them both, then at my reflection, then back to the shirts.

Shit, I was spiralling.

I rubbed my hands down my jaw, freshly shaved, skin still warm from the steamy shower I’d taken. Hair blown out, the ends falling over my collar just right. Wash, condition, towel-dry with a silk blend—never cotton. Blow-dry on medium with the diffuser, two drops of oil to finish.

My mother used to say vanity was a woman’s sin. I’d proved it was a man’s, too.

I turned, looking at my bedroom like it had become a stage. Sheets crisp. Scented candles lit. The fragrance of expensive restraint wafted through the air—bergamot and black amber.

Every part of me honed for control.

Except her.

That fucking mouth.

She’d called me Daddy with her lips wrapped around my cock, and I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

And now she was coming to my house for a consultation at seven sharp.

I laughed to myself, low and mean.

I was going to break every rule I’d ever set with this woman.

Back at the mirror, I tugged on the black shirt. It clung to my arms just enough, highlighting the line of my chest. Power. I rolled the cuffs and left the top two buttons undone.

Let her look.

Let her remember what I tasted like.

And when she finally understood what kind of room I wanted her to design—when I told her what I needed—it wouldn’t be her ideas I cared about.

It would be how long I could hold off before bending her over the nearest surface and fucking that filthy little mouth again.

??????

The doorbell chimed. I drew a deep breath.