Page 293 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Knight

"Thank you for the dinner last night, but you didn’t have to do it,” she murmurs from across the expanse of my desk.

I place the tips of my fingers together. "I deprived you of your dinner. Least I could do."

Her features soften, and her lips part.

"I’d have done it for any other employee."

"Right." The light in her eyes dims.

Something stabs into the space behind my breastbone.

Don’t catch feelings for her. Don’t. It’s strictly business.

It has to be. Last evening, when she climbed into my lap and pressed her lips to mine—I was taken aback, and that’s saying a lot.

I should have pushed her away at once, but her scent had gone straight to my head.

And my balls. And the feel of her lips on mine was like the first rain on parched earth.

Like the first snowfall that covers the earth in a carpet of virgin white, so everything is muted, and hushed and waiting… Waiting…

I couldn’t have stopped myself from grabbing her and bringing her closer, deepening the kiss and taking from her.

She opened herself up and allowed me to draw from her—to use her innocence, her response, her softness to repair that wound inside of me.

I felt myself healing from trauma I haven’t even fully processed yet—and that scared me.

Enough that I set her aside and decided to drop her back home instead of spending another moment in her presence. Then, I called Adam.

We met up and ran five miles together before he had to take off.

By the time I reached home, I was drenched in sweat.

So, I took a quick shower, then managed to get four hours sleep, which is unusual but welcome.

Most nights, I've been averaging about two hours of sleep, if I’m lucky.

The result of my marathon sleep session is, I feel rested, despite being up and awake since four a.m. Now, I reach for the coffee she placed on the desk.

"Have a seat, Ms. Easton."

"Uh, I’d rather stand." She sets her jaw.

"Suit yourself." I push a sheet of paper in her direction.

She picks it up and glances at it. "It’s blank."

"Indeed."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Make a list."

"A list of—?" She taps her foot, clad in three-inch stilettos which are another shade of pink. Her skirt is purple, the shirt she’s tucked into it a pale lavender.

Her lips are painted fuchsia. Perfect to wear on my dick.

She chose the color to taunt me, no doubt, with visions of how soft her mouth had been, how her lips had clung to mine, how the outline of her nipples against my chest and the heat of her pussy as she rode my cock through the layers of clothes we were wearing had made me almost shoot my load in my pants.

"Mr. Warren, Sir?"

My cock stiffens on command. Fuck. Maybe it was a bad idea to encourage her to address me by that title. I shake my head to clear it, then focus on the task at hand.

"Make a list of attributes my future wife should have. Then, use it to find someone for me by the end of the week."

She laughs. "You want me to make a list of attributes for your future wife?"

"Don’t make me repeat myself."

She draws in a breath. "I have no idea where to start."

"How difficult can it be?"

"If it’s that easy, why don’t you do it?"

I scowl; she scowls back. My lips almost twitch at her show of defiance, but I manage to hide it. My Little Dove is learning how to hold her own. This makes things more interesting.

"Virgin."

"What?"

"She should be a virgin."

She scoffs, "Of course, she should. Not that you are, but she should be."

"She’s the mother of my future spawn; she needs to be untouched."

She stares at me. I skim a pen in her direction. She picks it up then, plants herself in the chair and begins to write. "Virgin, got it."

I frown. "Don’t sass me."

She widens her eyes at me. "Like I would dare."

My lips twitch again, and she stares. "OMG, did you smile? Did the big, bad, macho, scary alphahole forget to act all grumpy and growly and curve his lips?"

"Alphahole?" I blink.

Her cheeks redden. "Just a slip of the tongue, is all."

"I like it."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course, you’d take it as a compliment."

I lean further back in my chair. "Keep them coming."

"That’s it. That’s all you’re getting out of me." She pretends to zip her lips. "Also, you’re the one who should be speaking. It’s your list."

"And I pay you to do as I tell you, so why don’t you put down the attributes my wife should have?"

"Hmm, let’s see. Must be thick-skinned enough to put up with your crotchety temper, your general lack of politeness and your disagreeable nature.

Must be meek and bow to your will. Must not have a single original thought of her own.

Must do as she’s told at every turn." She peeks up at me from under her eyelashes. "How am I doing?"

"You forgot must bend over and let me fuck her whenever the need takes hold."

She swallows, and the pulse at the base of her neck speeds up. "You don’t mean that."

I raise a shoulder. "What’s the point of being married if there’s no sex-on-tap?"

"Why do you want to get married for that?" She tosses her blonde ponytail—yep, the woman has her hair tied up in a cheer-leader’s version of a hairstyle that has all that golden goodness fountaining down her back in a spring of curls, and fuck, if I don’t want to wrap it around my hand and tug her head back and bite down on the skin where her shoulder meets her throat and—

"You have enough women lining up and willing to let you into their beds for that." She scowls.

"Ah, but only my wife gets me bare-back. No barriers between us, just skin on skin, and the closest I’ll ever be to any woman."

Her flush deepens. She shifts in her seat. "You’re talking dirty to shock me."

"No, I’m talking dirty to arouse you.”

She looks away, draws in a breath, then seems to compose herself. When she turns back to me, her gaze is shrewd. "Hidden behind all that crude, vulgar, sadistic behavior of yours is a romantic."

I allow my lips to curl. "Hidden behind that curvy, Barbie doll persona of yours is someone who’s attracted to the dark side of sex."

She tips up her chin. "I’m not denying the foray into BDSM at the club got me curious about the kinky side of making love."

And she calls it making love, which is so fucking cute. I prefer to call it an exchange of bodily fluids, a transaction, a way to get rid of this need that’s crawling inside me and waiting to break through my skin.

"At least I’m honest." She squares her shoulders. "Which is more than I can say about you."

I scowl. "What are you talking about?"

"That underneath all your bluster and overbearing personality, you’re lonely. You’re hurting. You’re wounded from what happened to you when you were taken by the enemy."

My muscles bunch. My stomach tightens. I glare at her, but for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

"Perhaps these are injuries you had even before, and likely, didn’t get a chance to address. And then, with the pressure you came under, all of it came to the fore."

"What is this, pop psychology 101? Or maybe it’s a quiz you read in one of your fluffy women’s magazine and now you think you can gauge what I went through based on it?"

She firms her lips. "That’s your fallback option, isn’t it? When you’re scared or you feel vulnerable, you strike out like a cornered animal."

"And when you’re scared, you get turned on."

"What?" She gapes.

"It’s true, isn’t it, Little Dove?" I use my nickname on purpose and am rewarded when her pupils dilate. Oh, she responds to my pet name so beautifully. How would it be to make her respond to my cock, hmm?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if I dropped to my knees and pushed my nose into your crotch, I’d find you gloriously aroused and dripping all over my chair.

You’ve oozed cum all over your panties, haven’t you?

Hearing me talk about fucking without a condom has your clit throbbing, your pussy squeezing down and coming up empty.

You can’t wait to leave here and use your fingers to find relief. "

"That’s not true."

"Oh?" I allow my lips to curl. "Want me to put it to the test?" I push up as if to rise to my feet, and she jumps up. "No, no. Stop. Don’t come near me."

"Then admit that you’re turned on when I use explicit words."

"I… I—"

I begin to rise to my feet, and she yelps. "Fine, fine. I do. When you use obscene words it, uh, does something to me."

"Describe it."

"What?"

"Tell me what it does to you."

Her eyes round. "No, I won’t."

"In which case—" This time, I do rise to my feet, and she throws up her hands. "Fine, it does weird things to my lower belly and between my legs, and my nipples tighten, and my breasts seem to swell, and my scalp tingles, and my toes curl, and moisture seeps out from my—"

"Cunt?"

She nods.

"Say it."

She shakes her head.

I glare at her, she pales, then squeezes her eyes shut. "Cunt."

"Didn’t hear you."

"Cunt!" she yells.

That’s when the door opens, and Abby walks in.