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LUCIA

A t 7:30 the next morning, I’m woken by a text from Roman Stevanovsky.

You’re late, Miss Lopez. Coffee. In my office. As soon as you arrive.

I stare at my phone in astonishment.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

My uniform is still damp, and there’s no time to braid my hair. Even at a run, it’s almost nine a.m. by the time I’ve ridden the elevator to the top floor of Hale Corp, where a tearstained assistant is clearing out her desk. Before I’ve finished explaining why I’m here, the intercom on her desk buzzes.

“Send her in,” Roman barks.

Balancing the tray precariously on one hand, I open the heavy door and step into an office big enough to rival his penthouse. Roman Stevanovsky is standing by the plate glass windows with his back to me, hands thrust deep into his pockets, which makes it almost impossible for me not to look at his entirely too perfect ass. I can smell the faint hint of citrus and leather that always clings to him, fresh and somehow smoky.

Hellfire.

“You left without a tip when you delivered my food yesterday.”

Oh, that voice. Low, gravelly, and enough to make my body go from exhausted to quivering arousal in all of six words.

“I understand the issue with delivery was my assistant’s error, not yours,” he continues. “There’s an envelope on the desk with your name on it. Hopefully the amount inside is enough to ensure my coffee remains arsenic free.”

I’m so stunned I almost drop the tray.

Roman Stevanovsky, apologizing?

Either hell really has frozen over or I’m still asleep and this is just a fever dream. Both possibilities seem far more likely than the current scenario.

I put the tray down and stare at the indecently thick envelope, my name scrawled across it in a bold hand that could only belong to him.

“I would have given it to you in person at the café.” His voice is coming closer, the sardonic edge to it signaling the end of his apology and the beginning of his daily bid to disturb my body’s peace. “But it appears you have yet to master the alarm app on your phone. You’re slipping, Miss Lopez.”

Oh, game on, CEO Man.

Or it would be. Except that the word slipping combines dangerously with the fact that I’m currently bent over his desk. Not to mention the fact that my shorts have ridden up the crack of my ass during my tray-carrying journey, which means I am at present treating him to an eyeful of bared butt cheek.

A treacherous rush of heat between my legs tells me he’s just won the first point.

Hastily I straighten up, willing my nipples to stop their determined swelling beneath the damp sheath of my T-shirt.

I turn to find him regarding me with politely raised eyebrows and an insolent smile that suggests he knows exactly what I was just thinking.

The smile lasts about as long as it takes for him to notice my disheveled appearance.

Then his eyes narrow, and all trace of amusement disappears from his face.

“Well, well, Miss Lopez.” His eyes travel slowly over my body, from the messy topknot to the damp shirt clinging to me like a second skin. “Clearly I interrupted more than just your sleep this morning.”

Wait. I struggle to wrestle my overstimulated body into submission and kick my caffeine-deprived mind into action. Is he trying to imply what I think he is?

His next words remove any doubt. “Doing the walk of shame, more than an hour late, in yesterday’s uniform?” His light tone is completely at odds with the dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Your employer is clearly more tolerant than I am, Miss Lopez.”

I stare at him in astonishment. I don’t know whether to laugh, slap him like some maiden out of an eighteenth-century novel, or put my head in my hands in despair. In the end, all I manage is a strangled “Seriously?”

“Your personal life really isn’t any of my concern.”

There’s no trace of snark, no insolent smile.

Just curt dismissal.

He picks up the envelope from the desk. “I think we’re done here.”

Oh no we’re not, CEO Man. Not even close.

Not least because I have a sneaking suspicion that if I take that envelope and walk out right now, it will be the last time I ever see Roman Stevanovsky. And despite yesterday’s exchange, and the fact that he is currently being a world-class asshole, that thought fills me with a strange sense of loneliness.

Maybe it’s the stolen lockbox. Maybe I’m just so overtired I can’t think straight. Or maybe it’s the fact that his face has haunted my dreams, or more aptly, my fantasies, for months now. Whatever the reason, I don’t like the idea of not seeing CEO Man every day.

I don’t like it at all.

Right now, I need all the escapist fantasies I can get. I need to hold on to them for my own sanity, against the dark night that is my life.

So I decide to give Roman Stevanovsky a dose of his own medicine.

“Do you honestly think,” I snap, “that I spent last night rolling around in some man’s bed?”

He gives me his death stare, sending a thrill straight to my groin. “I’d say that much is perfectly obvious.”

“And I’d say you’re perfectly deluded.” I send the death stare straight back to sender. “It’s been less than seven hours since I finished my last shift, and I have at least fifteen hours to go until the end of this one. I don’t have time for a personal life , as you call it. And I certainly don’t have time to be delivering your food, answering your messages—or doing whatever this is.”

I’m doing my best to ignore the effect that his close proximity and even closer scrutiny is having on my body. But it seems that with every word of my tongue lashing, CEO Man’s eyes become darker and more penetrating. And the truth is, the more he stares at me, the more I think about his tongue lashing me. Preferably right here. Right now.

“You can keep your guilt money.” I’m going to regret that particular decision, but man, it feels good. “And for the record, I don’t appreciate being woken up and summoned to your office. Your daily cup of coffee is already a twisted form of punishment.”

Oh, damn.

The way that last comment came out was just a little too close to the truth. And by the sudden narrowing of his eyes, Roman Stevanovsky sees right through it.

For a moment we stare at each other, my breath coming short, his eyes examining mine with the intensity of an x-ray machine. Then he throws the envelope onto the desk and closes the space between us, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous that makes every nerve in my body thrum.

“Believe me, Miss Lopez.” His eyes rake me from head to toe, leaving a trail of hellfire on every inch they touch. “My methods of punishment are far more twisted than you can possibly imagine—and take a lot longer than a cup of coffee to administer.”

He did not just say that.

But he did. And by the way he’s staring at my chest, he knows exactly the effect he’s having on my body. The familiar prickle of heat starts to spread up from the twin points that currently have his attention, turning my skin a deep crimson.

Damn it.

Reaching out with one finger, he touches the bare strip of skin between the edge of my T-shirt and the top of my shorts. I freeze, willing myself not to react, and his mouth curls slightly. “It’s a pity,” he murmurs, trailing his fingertip from one side of my navel to the other, never taking his eyes from mine, “that you don’t have time to find out.” Finishing his leisurely exploration, he takes a step back, out of reach.

I have to bite my lip to stop myself crying out in protest. Somewhere between my tirade and his filthy response, I’ve tipped right past the point of no return. My nipples are hard as bullets, and my T-shirt is definitely not the only part of me that’s wet right now. The pulse between my legs has grown to a throbbing, swollen ache that is threatening to rob me of the power of speech entirely.

“I could make you wait, for example.” His mouth curls evilly. “The way you look right now, making you wait would be a game I’d enjoy very much. Do you want me to make you wait, Miss Lopez?”

I bite my lip to stifle a gasp. I’m so hot that if he touches me, I’ll explode.

“I’m sorry.” He raises his eyebrows innocently. “You’ll need to speak up. Did you want me to make you wait?” His eyes drop to my nipples again, which flare in response. “Although,” he murmurs, “I don’t really need to ask. Somehow I doubt you’ll make it down the elevator. There are cameras in there, you know. I could always watch.”

My legs spread high and wide on the elevator walls, one hand down my pants, the other on my nipples—and CEO Man watching me from his office, cock in hand.

I’m so far gone I can only stare at him.

“Your habit of blushing is very useful, Lucia.” His arm snakes out, lightning fast, spinning me around and pulling me in so my back is hard up against him. The corded forearm I’ve been aching to touch sears across my bare belly, locking me in place. “It’s an easy way to know when you’re telling me the truth. For example.” His mouth is close to my ear, his hard length pressed against my ass, and I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing a while ago. One calloused hand strokes slowly up my outer thigh. “How long has it been since somebody touched you, Miss Lopez?”

I can’t answer. All I can think of is the hand roaming ever higher.

“No blush. I think it’s been a while.” I have no idea how he can tell. I’m pretty sure my entire body is flaming red at this point.

“What about here?” The long fingers slide over my hip and waist to cup my right breast through my T-shirt. I make a small, incoherent noise, straining toward it.

“Hm.” His fingers slip either side of the nipple virtually poking a hole through the material. “A long while, then,” he murmurs, pressing his palm down and manipulating my nipple until I’m squirming against him. “In that case, I should go slowly.”

Fuck, no. Don’t go slowly.

If I could force Roman Stevanovsky to throw me face down on his desk right now, I would. As it is, I have as much hope of breaking his iron grip as I do of stopping my nipples from swelling and growing impossibly hard under his slow touch.

“But I’m a busy man. And I don’t think you want slow. Do you, Miss Lopez?” His hand stops moving and lifts away. My breast tries to follow it, and he gives a low chuckle. “Fast it is, then.” Dipping his hands into the front of my T-shirt, he scoops my breasts out of my bra and free from the T-shirt they’ve been threatening to escape for weeks now. His hands cover them, the calloused palms grazing my nipples. I groan, my head dropping back against his shoulder. His tongue trails up the curve of my neck. He palms my breasts and I push into his hands, trying to force his fingers onto my nipples.

Then his mouth is hot and wild on my neck, his fingers rolling my nipples until I’m writhing beneath them and ready to scream.

“I don’t think it’s just your nipples that are desperate to be touched.” His lips touch my ear, sending a shudder of pure lust straight through me.

Oh, God, yes.

He chuckles again, and I realize the breathy, hoarse words weren’t only in my head.

I’m way past caring.

His hand is cupping me through my shorts, covering the swollen heat of me entirely. I push down shamelessly, squirming against his palm.

“You’re so wet I can feel it.” There’s a faint catch in his voice, a crack in the perfect composure. I feel a dark rush of satisfaction. I start to undulate my hips on his hand, riding it as hard as he’ll let me, thrusting my nipple between his fingers.

He allows this for a few moments. My undulations become a bucking urgency, and I feel the slow, delicious creep start spiraling in my belly.

Then he takes his hand away—and I actually do scream.

He whips his hand over my mouth to muffle it. “Stay silent,” he growls.

I make a noise against his mouth.

“If you scream,” he says against my ear, “I can’t give you want you want. What you need, Miss Lopez. And you do need it, don’t you?”

I nod frantically against his hand, helpless to deny it. Even if I wanted to, my body would make a fool of me. My breasts are spilled lewdly over my T-shirt and bra, swollen nipples thrusting toward Roman’s tantalizingly out-of-reach mouth, and I’m so wet and aching even the seam of my shorts is about to make me come.

“Remember,” he murmurs, drawing my zipper down frustratingly slowly. “Don’t scream, or I’ll stop.” He slips his hand inside my underwear.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

His warning was useless. If he hadn’t clamped his hand over my mouth again, I’d have howled the building down. It means my breasts are left without his fingers, but given the way he’s now manipulating my swollen pussy, it doesn’t matter.

“I did warn you I’d stop if you screamed. Should I stop, Miss Lopez?” His low voice against my ear is as ruthless as the steady stroking of his fingers, driving me relentlessly toward the place I need to get to, more urgently than I can ever remember before.

Nooooooo! I scream into his hand.

He slips one finger inside me, then two. “Christ, you’re wet,” he mutters. The huge, swollen length of him twitches against my ass. His fingers hit the spot inside me that needs them, and I start bucking in earnest against his palm.

“Touch your nipples,” he murmurs in my ear. “You know you need to.”

As if compelled by his voice, my hands rise to my breasts. “Show me,” he murmurs, and so I do.

He makes a rough sound low in his throat, and that’s the moment I can feel it starting, the slow tidal wave of the most intense, all-consuming, body-shaking orgasm of my life.

As the first ripples hit, he turns my head and captures my mouth with his own, drowning my scream with his perfect lips.