by Nikki Sloane
I set a new personal record.
And although I was gasping for breath when it was over, I was pleased with both my victories.
After my shower, Lucifer sat on the edge of my bed and meowed angrily, displeased we were behind the schedule he liked to keep. I did not like being summoned, and I glared at him as I made my way toward the bed. “All right, I’m coming.”
I’d barely lain down before he was beside me, turning in a circle to find the right spot to settle into, where he’d be irritatingly pressed to my side.
My phone buzzed with a text message.
Sophia: You up?
Me: Yes.
Sophia: Just left a party where everyone was talking about you.
Me: In a positive light?
Sophia: Oh, yeah. Everyone loves a bad boy who’s secretly a good man.
FOURTEEN
SOPHIA
DAMON LYNCH’S FUNDRAISING PARTY, which was masquerading as his sixtieth birthday celebration, was devouring my life. I didn’t have to plan every detail, as Macalister had authorized a budget, told me to hire a team of coordinators, and Mr. Lynch’s team said they’d send someone from the campaign to help, but I still had to run point on all of it.
I enjoyed this kind of work, but the pressure was intense. It was beyond important to me that I do a good job. If the party was a success, it was further proof to Macalister that I was a valuable asset and, oh, how I desperately wanted to please him. If I wasn’t thinking about the party, my thoughts were on the man in the office next door.
I’d gone down on him.
He’d given me an orgasm.
And now he wanted to pretend none of that had happened. Well, fine. I’d play his game, and I’d freaking beat him at it. Macalister could say whatever he wanted, but Monday morning after the auction, there was another white box on the table in his office waiting for me.
This dress was black with an asymmetrical neckline and a skirt that was shorter than the last one he’d given me, ending just above my knees. I didn’t have to change today, he’d explained.
“Tomorrow will be fine.” His voice was exacting, and electricity sparked down my legs. I liked how he gave me orders and disguised them as casual statements. It was better this way too. I was already wearing a silk blouse and a skirt, and tomorrow I could wear the right shoes and accessories with it.
After his gift had been opened and discussed, Macalister joined me on the couches, his coffee in hand, and I began to spill the first of my secrets. I started small. Things like how Janice in accounting didn’t get invited to parties anymore because stuff always went missing after she’d left. I worked my way up to telling him that Jared Nasbaum’s wife was having an affair with her personal trainer, as was Jared, and occasionally the three of them fucked each other at the same time.
Macalister’s eyebrow arched, and I pretended I didn’t find it sexy. “Does that make you uncomfortable?” I asked. “Knowing your head of credit financing sometimes sleeps with men?”
“No,” he said, his gaze tracing the HBHC logo on his mug. “The only news to me is they’ve moved on. It used to be their nanny.”
I grinned. “Really. I hadn’t heard that.”
He was quite the gossip, and it was surprising the things he knew. Nothing recent, of course, but like me, he’d collected a file on everyone in his head. Everyone, it seemed, but me. I hadn’t been on his radar before, but what about now?
“I’ve decided you’ll go with me to Aspen,” he said. “I have a vacation home there, and you’ll stay in one of the guest rooms.” To put a period on the end of his declaration, he set his coffee down with a loud thud, like a gavel banging his final verdict.
Inside me, there were fireworks, but I tried to remain calm. Anyone who was anyone in Cape Hill went to Aspen during Thanksgiving weekend, and I’d heard rumors of how amazing the Hale house was, but I’d never been. “You’re not taking Evangeline?”
His expression gave nothing away. “She’s planning to meet me there.”
“Mr. Lynch’s party is the week after,” I said. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better if I stayed in the office?”
I don’t know why I said it. I wanted to go with him, if for nothing else but to be there when he met with DuBois the first time.
Macalister shot me a look that reduced me to a puddle. “I trust you can multi-task, Sophia. I need you in Aspen with me.”
As soon as his words were out in the room, it became volatile. They lingered in the air, dangerous and exciting. His eyes went wide then narrowed in displeasure, although it seemed like it was with himself.
“I think,” he continued, “we can both agree this first impression with DuBois will be everything.”
“Yes,” I said softly.
His icy blue eyes cut right to my heart. “I cannot overprepare, so you will travel with me, and we will use every available moment to practice for it.”
He was waiting impatiently on my approval, and how could I say no to him? “Okay.”
A faint smile lurked in his eyes, but then they turned serious. “I must ask a personal question.” He hesitated for a single breath. “Have you been tested for sexually transmitted diseases recently?”
My brain slammed into a wall. “What?”
“Last weekend, I overheard a conversation I found distressing. You and I have had sexual contact, so I need to know this answer.”
My face heated until it was on fire, both with embarrassment but also irritation. Macalister and I had fooled around, but it wasn’t like we’d had sex. Plus . . . was he implying I was careless and had caught an STD? “I, uh, haven’t been tested, but I’ve always used condoms.”
“Is that your only form of birth control?”
In my disorientation, I forgot this was none of his fucking business. “No, I’m also on the pill.”
His face didn’t change. It remained cold and detached. “For my peace of mind, you’ll take the afternoon to complete that testing, and bring me the results.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
He looked irritated he had to answer me. “Yes.”
I couldn’t catch my breath and floundered for something to say.
“Have I upset you?” His gaze sharpened, studying me.
It took all of my willpower to force a natural look on my face. “Nope.” I was an adult, and this was an adult thing to do, right? “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. That will be all, then.”
His dismissal made my blood boil, and I launched to my feet, eager to get the fuck out of his office. He was an emotional rollercoaster. One second I was on an exhilarating high, and the next he sent my stomach crashing to the ground.
On Tuesday, I wore the black dress with the asymmetrical neckline as I marched into his office, carrying the test results from the lab. Macalister was already seated at his desk, watching coverage of the markets on the television mounted to the opposite wall, the sound barely audible. I flung the paper down in front of him.
“Clean bill of health,” I said pointedly.
He picked up the paper and scanned the results then cast it aside with indifference. I was a heartbeat away from letting loose a groan of frustration, but then he opened a folder and lifted the top sheet, thrusting it toward me.
“As you can see, the same for me as well.”
I took the paper and glanced at the text with surprise. Sure enough, his results were negative and the date at the top was from yesterday. “You went and got tested?”
“My doctor comes to me, but yes.” He finally set his full attention on me, and the gravity of it threatened to crush the world. “It’s important we both feel safe in the event things were to escalate between us again.”
I reached a hand behind me to grab on to the bookshelf and stabilize myself. What the fuck had he just implied? I wasn’t sure what kind of look I was giving him, but maybe it was confusion, because Macalister’s gaze swept slowly down my body, and as it slid back up, it was scorching hot,
leaving no doubt what he’d meant.
In the aftermath of it, I was flushed and aching.
“Would you like to keep that?” He was amused.
Keep what?
His gaze went to the sheet of paper in my hand, his test results I’d accidentally crinkled in surprise. I dropped it to the desk and smoothed my hand over my hip, like I was wiping away the radioactivity of what his test results meant.
My voice was breathless. “No, thanks.”
“All right.” He motioned toward the table. “That came for you.”
Yet another white box. I bit my lip, excited to see what else he’d bought and also anxious about it. “Macalister, you can’t keep doing this.”
Oh, fuck that sexy jaw. When I tried to tell him what to do, it set, the muscle tightening and flexing. “Why is that?”
“Because people will start to ask questions, like my parents. They’ll wonder why my boss keeps giving me expensive gifts, and isn’t this, like, exactly the kind of rumor you’re trying to avoid?”
He rose from his chair, used the remote to mute the television behind me, and gave me a hard, evaluating look. My mouth went dry and my knees weak. Whatever he was considering, it was big, and . . . yeah. I was already into it.
“I won’t mince my words.” He leaned over the desk and set his hands on it, like a businessman entering serious negotiations. “I enjoy having a say over what you wear each day. This was the vehicle to do that with. If you don’t like it, I can suggest another.”
My heart galloped along, nearly coming out of my chest. “Okay.”
“You give me control.”
The word was like a flash grenade, a silent, beautiful explosion that was blinding. All I could do was stand still and experience it.
It took me forever to find the word. “How?”
“Once you’re dressed, you’ll send me a picture every morning for my approval.”
I swallowed a gulp of air. This command wasn’t sexual, and yet I reacted to it as if it were. A muscle deep between my legs clenched. There was something about the way he said the word approval. It was an arrow piercing my center, lodged inside me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to pull it back out.
He’d been the businessman, but his expression shifted into one of power and seduction. “Does that interest you?”
I knew agreeing to this was a gateway drug. I’d want more, even when it was wrong and bad for me, but it’d be too late. He was a pusher, and I’d become addicted, a junkie for Macalister’s dominance and control.
I knew all of it, and I still didn’t care. He’d asked if this interested me, and my body screamed its resounding consent.
I whispered it because there was so much meaning crowding to get out, I could barely squeeze the word along with it. “Yes.”
His shoulders lifted as he drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and expanding his already broad chest. Was this how he looked after closing a billion-dollar merger? Like he’d finished conquering the world?
Macalister pushed off the desk and made his steady, methodical approach, and he seemed ten fucking feet tall as he closed in. He came to stand just inches away from me, far too close to be considered professional. His intoxicating cologne was faintly noticeable, and his warm breath wafted down across the skin my neckline bared.
His gaze moved over me in a slow sweep, like he was taking in every detail and committing all of it to memory. The thorough way he examined me felt no different than if he’d used his hands to do it, and goosebumps pebbled on my arms.
My breath hung when he reached out and plucked something from the fabric covering my shoulder. It was a piece of lint too small to see in his fingers, or just an excuse to touch me, but I wasn’t going to complain. As he moved away, his fingertips grazed down my arm.
He spoke softly, but it was deceptive. Power swelled behind his words. “The weekends too, Sophia. Every day, I want to see what you’ve chosen to wear for me.”
I exhaled and shuddered.
“You’re shaking,” he said, pretending to be surprised, but it was an act. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Are you nervous about this arrangement?”
“No,” I admitted in a rush. “I’m excited.”
He smiled darkly, his eyes thrilled. “Good. I am too.” Our gazes held for so long, I worried I’d burst from the tension, but he turned abruptly and motioned toward the box. “You’ll start tomorrow by wearing this.”
The dress was silver-gray, with bishop sleeves that went to my elbows, and deep V that plunged down so low, I wouldn’t be able to wear a regular bra with it. I glanced at him then back to the dress, unsure. Did he realize how much cleavage I’d be showing at the office?
I thought about his schedule. He had three hours blocked off tomorrow to discuss the rollout of a programming update, so yeah. He totally knew.
Normally, I despised waking up early, but handing control over to Macalister suddenly made it easy. Each morning since I’d agreed to his offer, I was eager to select the perfect look, snap a picture, and text it to him.
I imagined him standing in his enormous closet, his crisp dress shirt not buttoned yet and a swatch of his bare chest visible, his sleeve cuffs unpinned as he paused to glance at his phone. He’d scrutinize the image then thumb out the word that set my blood on fire.
Approved.
It was a word I longed to hear in any of its forms. Accepted. Chosen. Yes.
In reality, he was probably already dressed and on his way to the office by the time my text came through, but it was more fun to imagine the scenario my way. And after a week of texting, I got my first note.
Macalister: Your hair will be worn up.
So, I twisted it back into a bun, put on longer earrings, and sent an update.
Macalister: Approved.
It was unreal the effect that word had on me.
We fell in sync with each other. I delivered his morning coffee and went over his schedule with him, making adjustments as needed, and then I’d take what few minutes I had with him to go over salacious details. Who needed to go to rehab, who was caught with questionable porn on their phone, which guy was rumored to be sleeping with his stepdaughter.
The last one didn’t sit all that well with him, but it probably hit too close to what he’d tried to do with Marist.
The day before we were set to leave for Aspen, my desk was a mess, and Macalister gave me some serious side-eye about it before heading into his office after lunch. I sighed once he’d closed the door. I had too much on my plate right now to be tidy, but his irritation ate at me.
I was reorganizing the stack of things still needing my attention when my phone rang. Why was Natasha calling me? Usually we just texted. She worked for a busy literary agency in New York, which meant she never had time to talk.
“Hello?”
“Hey, girl,” she said. “I’ve got some bad news.”
It was apparently bad enough to warrant a call, so I braced myself. “What’s wrong?”
“I just got off the phone with my boss. James DuBois’s mother died this morning.”
All the air went out of the room. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. I know you were hoping to meet up with him in Aspen, but that’s off his schedule now. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
My mind raced with panic. Everything Macalister and I had been working toward, and now our plans were scrapped. What the hell was I going to do?
“You still there?” Natasha asked.
“Yeah, sorry.” I stared blankly off into the distance. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure thing. I gotta run. My next client is—”
“Wait!” The idea formed, taking shape quickly. “I need a favor, please.”
After hanging up, I was instantly out of my seat and marched into Macalister’s office, hurrying to close the door behind me. He raised his critical gaze to me and the now-closed door, and suspicion cast over his face.
“Yes?” He did nothing to hide
his irritation.
I’d learned quickly in this job he did not like to be disturbed, but this was important.
“DuBois’s not going to Aspen,” I blurted. “His mother passed away this morning.”
Macalister’s shoulders stiffened as the news settled over him, then fell a touch as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze breaking away from me.
Even though he wasn’t disappointed with me, it was still hard to see.
“I have an idea,” I said. “We get someone from Lynch’s campaign to reach out and invite DuBois to the party at your house next week.”
The invite couldn’t come from Macalister. It needed to look like he had no idea the book was in the works and he was a man striving for redemption with no ulterior motive.
He considered the option. “If DuBois is considering writing the book, then he’ll accept this invitation. It would be too good of an opportunity for him to pass up.”
“Right.”
Macalister was traditional, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t adapt. He nodded, which I understood as his acceptance of this new plan. “I’ll tell Damon this afternoon. Perhaps Kristin is a fan of his work.”
“Fucking doubtful,” I said. “The only thing Mrs. Lynch reads is the labels on her prescription bottles.”
He scowled dark enough that he didn’t need to speak the words to scold. He didn’t like cuss words, especially in the office setting, but he’d tolerate them from others. Not me, though. I was held to a higher standard. And although I was supposed to be his partner, I’d given him control over one aspect of my life, and now it was bleeding into other areas.
“Whether or not she is a fan is irrelevant,” he said. “We only need a reason to push the invitation.” His gaze returned to his computer, like his personal life was sorted and now he’d focus on HBHC. “Cancel our Aspen plans.”
