Page 10 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE CEO

DOMINIC

I have a feeling I’m going to regret taking on Skittles as a client. Maybe not now, but somewhere down the line.

The last time we worked with a candy company—Mars, Inc., via their M&M’s line—their sales skyrocketed for three straight quarters. Then they hired a new CEO who credited all their success to “vibes” and fired us.

Their numbers tanked six months later, and they’re still trying to rebuild the bridge they torched—without paying my new “fuck around and find out” fee.

That issue aside, there’s one thing I already regret:

Hiring Ivy.

After yesterday, I should’ve relegated her to the twenty-fifth floor with the rest of the marketing execs. Somewhere far away from my gaze. And my dick.

Needing a distraction, I scan the notes she left in my book. I’m halfway through reviewing the budget breakdowns when she reenters the room—ten minutes early.

Our eyes meet, and her cheeks flush pink.

We stare at each other a beat too long, and just when I open my mouth to say something like “You’re being reassigned, effective immediately,” the team filters back in with loud conversations.

The meeting resumes with Marcus firing off things we’ve done before, but this time, Ivy interrupts a few times.

Her questions stun the room into silence, and they’re followed by flustered shuffling and frantic typing.

Impressed, I let the meeting run without my own intrusions until eight in the evening.

“Anything to add at this point, Miss Locke?” I look straight at her. “Do you think the team is on the right track?”

“For now, yes.”

“Good,” I say. “That’s enough for today. Go.”

Ivy gathers her things without looking at me. She turns around and walks away, giving me a perfect view of her ass via her tightly fitted pencil skirt.

I don’t move or stand up from the table just yet.

I can’t.

My cock is hard in my suit pants, and I refuse to allow anyone in this building to see how easily Ivy affects me.

Around midnight, my entire building is silent—giving me the perfect chance to think, as always.

I roam the floors one at a time, walking through the empty offices and in-progress projects. No buzzing interns. No fake laughter. No Marcus monologuing into his phone like he’s pitching the sequel to his own ego.

I’m headed to the garage, scrolling through the Ferrera deck on my tablet, when a godawful metal-on-metal screech cuts through the silence like a chainsaw on steel.

I stop walking.

The sound comes again—something between a grinding cough and a guttural scream.

I look down the row that holds part of my car collection, and then I spot something gray swaying.

Ivy’s skirt…

Bent over the hood of a rusted Honda, she has one knee on the bumper, a wire hanger clenched in her fingers, and a don’t-mess-with-me glare aimed straight at the engine block.

The air in here is thick—humid from trapped heat, with the tang of engine oil and burnt rubber. Her perfume floats faintly above it, sweet and stubborn.

Amused, I take my time walking over.

She doesn’t notice me—until the engine turns over with an angry wheeze and she slams the hood shut like she just slayed a beast.

Then she circles to the back and peels off her blazer. Then she crouches to wrap it around the tailpipe like a makeshift bandage.

Her blouse stretches across her ass. Her legs flex.

I quietly adjust my belt before she can see me.

“You know,” I say, stepping into view, “you’d make a decent mechanic. Assuming the hanger doesn’t electrocute you first.”

She jumps up. “Thank you for the compliment… I think.”

“Would you like some help?”

“No, I’m fine.” She waves me away. “I do this all the time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I glance at her hands. “That wire’s too hot for you to not have gloves on with it.”

“Like I said, I do this all the time, Mr. Sutton.” She pronounces my name like I have the plague, like we’re back to square one. “I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

She dismisses me with another flick of her hand and slides into the driver’s seat.

I step back as she revs the engine, but it lets out its loudest groan of the night… and then heavy plumes of smoke unfurl from under the hood, spewing all over my garage.

She doesn’t get out, though.

She keeps her hands gripped on the steering wheel. Then she tries to start the piece of junk again.

Jesus…

I walk to the passenger side and pull the door open.

“Get out of this death trap, Miss Locke,” I say. “I’ll take you home.”

“This has happened plenty of times before.” She’s in denial. “If you want to watch it come to life within the next twenty minutes, stand right there and be my guest.”

“If you don’t get out within twenty seconds, I’ll be pulling you out.”

She doesn’t move.

But then her eyes flick up to mine, wide and unreadable. Even in denial (and distress), she looks sexy as hell.

“I’m not interested in being your charity case,” she mutters. “I’ll call a cab.”

“That’s not an option.” I lean in and pull the keys out of the ignition, keeping my eyes on hers. Then I slide my hand under her thighs—slowly, deliberately—and lift her out of the seat.

Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. She sucks in a breath as my fingers graze just high enough to make her pulse stutter.

I take my time setting her down on the concrete.

“You’re going to step away from this car,” I say, my voice firm, “and then you’re going to follow me to my car, where I’ll take you home. But since you clearly need to feel like you have a choice—you can walk, or I can carry you.”

I pause. Let my voice drop lower.

“If you pick the latter, Miss Locke… I won’t be putting you down anytime soon.”

Her cheeks flush red. “I’ll walk.”

“Thank you.”