Page 6 of Masked Seduction

I shake my head, coming back into the moment. I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled against my mouth, eyes unfocused. My mind drifts back to the conversation we’d had earlier.

“He mentioned it’s a sex club.”

Just like that. No hesitation, no awkwardness. Like she was reporting a fluctuation in the stock market.

And fuck me, it had taken everything I had not to react.

I’d asked the question to test her. I know what kind of club The 13th Floor is; hell, I’m the one buying it. I wanted to see if she’d flinch. See if she’d squirm.

She didn’t.

I shift in my chair, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to let the memory take hold of me.

And then she’d had the audacity to tilt her head, eyes sharp as razors, and ask,“If I were a man, would you have asked for those details?”

I’d kept my voice cool when I answered, telling her yes because it’s true. I expect thoroughness from everyone on my payroll. But that’s not what she was really asking. And we both knew it.

Because by then, the power had shifted.

And God help me, it made me want her more.

Not just to fuck. Not just to claim.

To unravel. To crack that shell. To see if she tastes just as sharp when she finally loses control.

I exhale slowly, adjusting myself under the desk.

I’m still imagining her saying all of that again—but on her knees this time, lips parted, eyes daring me to break her.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off. But it clings to me. The memory. The heat.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t flirtation. She wasn’t playing a game.

She was just doing her job, which means this isn’t going to go away. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until I know what she looks like when she stops being so goddamn composed.

And maybe not even then.

I stare at the office door, pulse thudding behind my ears. The air smells faintly like her—sweet and warm, with a trace of something sharp underneath. Something that cuts through my control like a blade.

I should get back to work. Instead, I stay frozen, staring at the place where she stood. Where she smirked. Where she challenged me, like she doesn’t know—or worse, doesn’t care—who I am.

Most women in this building shrink when I speak. Most don’t even look me in the eye. But Jenna Ridley? She holds her ground.

It should piss me off.

It doesn’t.

It makes me hard. And it makes me curious, which is far more dangerous.

I glance down at my desk, at the spot where she’d rested her tablet. Something small catches my eye—a single strand of red hair. Long, glossy, curled at the end. She must’ve tucked it behind her ear when she leaned forward earlier, just beforetelling me all about public sex with the voice of someone reciting quarterly financials.

I reach out, fingertip brushing it before I can stop myself.

Goddamn it.

This is how it starts. The obsession. The craving. The slow undoing of everything I’ve built.