Page 25 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE INTERN

IVY

T here’s one day and twelve hours left until our big presentation.

The team is still grinding, huddled in the war room like our entire existence depends on thirty colorful slides, blown-up balloon candies, and a product video.

We’ve all been chatting nonstop—fixing minor lines and revising where we’ll stand, and Dominic hasn’t said much of anything. He’s remained mute in his chair, watching.

“Do you think we should lead with the montage of our proposed commercials or the montage of their slogan against the stock footage?” Marcus asks me.

“The commercials,” I say. “I’m not changing my answer on that.”

“I know.” He smiles. “Just double-checking.”

“Would you mind going over the color blocking on the?—”

“He should mind since he’s already gone through it for you six fucking times tonight,” Dominic speaks for the first time—his voice laced with venom.

All the air is suddenly sucked out of the room, and everyone goes still.

“I don’t mind showing it to you again, Miss Locke.” A junior strategist stammers. “I know you mentioned swapping the placement of the demographic data and?—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Dominic silences her with a glare and then he scans the room.

His jaw ticks once. Twice.

Someone coughs. A pen clicks. Chairs creak under nervous shifting.

“How about fixing this instead of going over the same shit over and over again?” He holds up my segment like it’s garbage. “Do you actually think this is good enough?”

I blink.

My part has been the strongest since day one.

“You all are wasting your time going in circles,” he says. “Make a decision, commit to it, and then focus on making it stick. I can’t believe I’ve sat here this long without saying that.”

“And I can’t believe you’re being this much of an asshole, for no fucking reason.” I snap.

A collective gasp fills the room, and suddenly it feels like everyone is scared to take a breath.

“Excuse me, Miss Locke?” Dominic’s face reddens. “What did you say?”

“You’re being an asshole.” I enunciate every syllable. “For no reason. Everyone is here late, working their asses off for your company, so you and your partner can potentially make millions, and this campaign is amazing.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t take out whatever personal issues you’re going through on us.”

“Miss Locke, there is nothing personal going on between us right now.” His voice is cold as ice. “And there’s no room for questioning little things this close to a presentation day. If you had years of experience like most of the people in this room, you’d know that.”

“Okay, Mr. Sutton.” I refuse to put up with a back-and-forth with him, refuse to let him make me feel small. Especially now. I grab my bag and make sure to leave my materials on the table.

“You know what?” I shrug. “I’m done working here.”

“If you walk out now, don’t bother coming back.”

“I won’t.” I shove my phone into my bag and leave without another word. I walk straight out the glass doors, past the elevators, and down the hallway until I find one of the dark, unused client offices.

Shutting the door, I lock it and brace my hand against the desk.

What the hell are you doing, Ivy?

No, what the hell is wrong with HIM?

I take several deep breaths and try not to scream. Then I count down from fifty, so I calm down and leave this office and Dominic’s random rage behind.

Right as I’m getting ready to leave, the door handle jiggles.

I step back.

“Ivy...” It’s Dominic. “Open the door.”

I stare straight ahead. Maybe if I stay silent, he’ll just go away.

“Ivy, I’m not going to ask you again,” he says. “Open this door.”

I still don’t move.

The lock slowly turns and he steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

“I don’t appreciate being talked to like that in front of my staff,” he says, his voice low.

“Fuck you,” I say. “None of us appreciated being talked to like that either.”

“I followed you to fix some of the damage,” he says. “I believe we both lost a bit of control.”

“No, only one of us did.” I shake my head. “You. So, can you just admit that you’re taking out some personal frustration you have with me on everyone?”

“Yes.”

“I…” I stop, shocked that he’s admitted it. “Can you tell me what I’ve done to you, then? I didn’t realize you were this pissed at me until then.”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says. “But I am having a bit of a personal problem with us.”

“I wasn’t aware we were an ‘us.’”

Silence stretches between us, but he doesn't come closer.

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that last sentence,” he says, voice low.

“Don’t.” I swallow. “I definitely did.”

The second the words leave my mouth, he closes the distance—his hands tangled in my hair, mouth crashing down on mine.

The kiss is messy. Rough. Every ounce of tension from the last few days poured into the way he claims me.

I try to stay mad—try to push him back, but his grip tightens at my waist and a low growl escapes him as our bodies press together.

He backs me against the desk, knocking pens and papers to the floor, lips on my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone as his hands tear at the buttons of my shirt like they’ve personally offended him.

“You really want to pretend this isn’t happening?” he rasps against my throat.

“Shut up.” I yank his belt open, tugging him closer. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“Good.” He shoves my panties to the side like they’re in the way. “Then you won’t forget this.”

He lifts me onto the desk in one smooth motion, and before I can even catch a breath, he’s inside me—hard. Deep. No buildup. Just raw, relentless need.

I cry out, back arching against him, nails scraping across his shoulders.

His rhythm is brutal—unforgiving. Like he’s trying to erase every word we said before this.

“This changes nothing,” I breathe.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, slamming into me harder.

I cling to him, matching every thrust, every bite of pressure, like I’m chasing a high I don’t want to come down from.

Our bodies slap against the wood, breath ragged, sweat slicking our skin, and the tension we’ve been choking on all week finally explodes between us.

When it’s over, we’re both breathless. Quiet. Eyes locked like we have no idea what the hell we just did.

He kisses my shoulder. His thumb strokes my thigh.

“We need to do that again before we go back to work,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

Minutes later, we slip upstairs to the executive suite that’s connected to his office.

This time, there’s no anger. No chaos.

The shower’s barely on before he presses me against the wall, steam rising around us like fog swallowing the moment whole.

He kisses me slower now—his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me again.

The tile is cool on my back. His body is hot, hard, and completely in control.

His mouth finds my neck, then lower. His hands grip my hips, tilting me to meet every slow, devastating thrust.

“I should hate you right now,” I whisper.

“You don’t,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “Not even close.”

His pace is unhurried, deep. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s trying to make me stay.

Fingers tangle in wet hair. Legs wrapped around him.

Every moan is swallowed by the water. Every breath feels stolen.

Something about this round feels different—dangerous. Not just because it’s slower, but because it feels like he means it.

And I don’t want that. I don’t want to name whatever this is.

After, we change back into our clothes and head back down to the war room.

No one says anything when we return. It’s as if our argument happened ages ago, and they’re far too tired. Too focused.

I settle into my seat and work, finding Dominic’s eyes in between readouts. His fingers graze mine when he hands over notes, and I follow him out of the room four times for a kiss in the hallway.

It feels like I’m floating on air, like maybe—just maybe, we are an “us,” but I know better than to let that thought go any further than one sentence.

Because somewhere between round one and round two, I realized something.

This can’t (and won’t) last.

Dominic is not the relationship type, and he never has been.

He doesn’t do girlfriends. He doesn’t feel the need to keep any people around, unless they’ve been on his staff for more than ten years.

After we land this campaign, I won’t have an excuse to stay.

I’ll move out and into one of the apartments I liked from last week.

And I’ll find a new job.

Preferably one where my boss doesn’t make me forget my own name every time he touches me.