by Meghan March
A rough voice and filthy orders that I’m quickly growing addicted to.
“You do not want to make me wait.”
The warning rasps over my nipples, and I’m more aware than ever of my body and its completely obscene position. My fingers hover over the top of my right stocking, only inches away from my center.
Am I really going to do this?
The answer flashes through my brain without any hesitation.
Of course I am, but I’m going to make him want it just as bad as I do.
My hand drops to just above my pussy, and I dart out a fingertip to trace the path I’ve already taken.
I’m not just following orders—I’m putting on a show.
My finger circles my clit, and my eyes adjust more to the darkness where he sits. His fist clenches tighter around my panties.
“I didn’t say tease yourself.”
“Too bad.”
He moves quicker than I anticipated, rising out of the chair, shoving his cock back in his pants and buttoning them before crossing the room to stand directly in front of my spread legs. He crouches down and the unzipped fly of his pants gaps, allowing me a glimpse of his veined shaft.
“My eyes are up here.”
My gaze cuts to his as he reaches out and grips the arms of the chair, boxing me in. The lace of my panties peeks out from beneath his flattened right hand.
“Don’t stop on my account. We’re just getting started.” From his crouching position, he leans forward, dipping his face between my legs and inhaling deeply. “God, I want to taste you. Now, finger-fuck that pussy.”
Speechless. He’s rendered me completely speechless. However, my body doesn’t suffer the same paralysis as my tongue.
My fingers grow a life of their own and slide between my legs. My gaze locks on his face and the hunger burning in those blue eyes.
Has anyone ever looked at me like that before? Like he might starve to death if he doesn’t get a taste of me?
Power radiates through me and I’m spurred on, sliding deeper, spreading my pussy lips apart. Baring myself to his gaze.
It’s indecent. Wanton. Dirty. And I love it.
“More.”
I slide one finger inside and moan, letting my knees fall farther apart.
“Fuck. Yes.”
My hips rock into my own little thrusts, and I fuck myself for him. My moans grow louder, and so do his growls.
He’s coming unglued, but not faster than I am. My orgasm is sneaking up on me quicker than ever before in my life. Then again, I’ve never experienced anything nearly as incendiary as this moment.
“Make yourself come.”
I wasn’t waiting for his permission, but that order kicks up the urgency driving me to the next level.
When his nostrils flare, my vision begins to blur and I move my hand faster, pumping in and out and grinding the heel of my palm on my clit.
“I’m so close.”
I pull my fingers free and press down hard on my clit, and my body responds like it’s the button for my detonation.
Chapter 13
Temperance
A hoarse scream breaks free of my throat as my entire body tenses and my hips rock against the chair.
Calloused fingers pull my hand from between my legs, and he sucks my fingers into his mouth.
Oh my good God. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
After he licks them clean, he lets out a groan. “Tart, tangy, and oh-so-fucking smooth.” He releases my fingers and rises, reaching out to wrap both hands around my waist. “You’re about to get fucked so hard.”
“God, yes.”
I nod, but he’s already lifting me off the chair like I don’t weigh a thing and backing me up against a bare wall. As soon as he sets me on my feet, my spine pressed against it, he pulls a condom out of his pocket.
“Take my cock out.”
My hands drop to his pants, releasing the button. The silk-lined fabric falls away as his dick springs free. He rolls the condom down his shaft and gives it a hard tug.
“You gonna be able to take it all? Because this is what you did. This is what you bought with your show. Your fucking sexy moans when you came. The taste of your sweet cunt.”
“Yes.” It comes out as a plea because I’ve never wanted anything more.
“Good.”
He grips my waist again and lifts me up. “Wrap those legs around me.”
My palms reach out to grip the solid slabs of his shoulders as I follow his order, lifting one leg to lock around his tattooed hip.
There’s no way he can . . .
But he moves forward, lining up with my entrance, and his blue eyes pierce mine as he pushes inside me until he’s buried to the hilt.
Like a live wire, raw energy charges between us. His nostrils flare as he squeezes me tighter, wraps my other leg around his hip, and pulls back before pounding into me.
This is what I’ve been dying for ever since I ran out of Haven like a scared little girl last weekend. His ownership, his dominance—and if I’m honest, his cock.
He plunges into me and withdraws, dragging over every sensitive nerve ending again and again.
He lifts me higher and keeps me aloft effortlessly in a stunning display of power. I buck against him, grinding my clit against his hard stomach as he stills.
When he pulls away again, I’m ready to beg.
“Please, I need to come.”
He finally breaks my stare and glances toward the window into the office. “Look at them. Look at them right now.”
I turn my head toward the window, and the man is fucking the woman bent over the desk, her hands bound behind her back.
Her mouth is open, like she’s moaning her pleasure, but I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears and the sound of my own heavy breathing.
“I want you to come for me. I want you to scream so loud, they can hear you through the soundproof walls.”
My eyes cut back to him, and the other couple is already forgotten.
“Hold on.”
I grip his shoulders as he carries me across the room to a couch and lowers me so my hips are tilted up on the arm. Once I’m settled, his thrusts begin again, hitting inside me at the perfect angle. I’m writhing, thrashing, moaning, and everything inside me threatens to break free when one of his hands slides between us to thumb my clit.
My scream pierces my own ears, but I don’t care who hears me, because the pleasure barreling through me is more than I can process.
I’m splintering apart. Shattering.
He doesn’t let me stop. The orgasm keeps going and so does he, pounding into me and unleashing another wave of overwhelming sensation. My voice turns hoarse, but I keep moaning like I’m some kind of wild creature, and maybe I am. This is what he does to me.
I’m completely under his control.
My body no longer belongs to me.
He owns it. Owns me.
I lose track of time, space, and every other damn thing as I embrace the intense pleasure surging through me until he finally lets loose a harsh roar and his cock pulses.
He pulls out and drops to his knees, his forehead resting on the arm of the couch between my legs, and one of his hands wraps around my calf.
I’m limp. Boneless. In this state, lying draped over a sofa with a man between my legs doesn’t faze me in the least.
A wave of exhaustion hits me and my eyes flutter shut. I’m too tired to do anything but let go.
When I awaken, warmth surrounds me. I’m cocooned in a soft, thick blanket, and there’s a weight on my lap.
I blink a few times to adjust to the dim light of the room. I’m still in the library on the small sofa. The two-way mirror is dark, and there’s a bottle of water, the expensive kind I would normally laugh at the thought of buying, resting against my stomach. Next to it, there’s a note.
That’s all I need to see to know he’s gone.
Didn’t want to leave you alone, but I had to go.
/>
I want to see you again.
The fact that he left doesn’t bother me. Instead, I’m filled with warmth, and it’s not solely because of the fluffy blanket tucked around me.
He wants to see me again.
Why does it feel so good to know that?
Do I want to see him?
As soon as the question forms in my mind, the answer is clear.
Yes. Definitely.
I uncurl from my cocoon and rise on shaky legs, using a hand on the back of the sofa to steady myself. A small smile curves my lips when I realize my dress and stockings have been restored to their rightful place, and my shoes are waiting next to my purse.
As I slide them on, my brain latches on to one thing that’s missing from the room other than my stranger.
My panties.
I press my lips together to stifle a giggle.
Kinky son of a bitch. I have no idea why I like that so much, but I do.
As I make my way down to the valet and then drive the long miles home to downtown and my apartment, I can’t help but relive the encounter over and over.
When I finally slide into my own bed, my body feeling deliciously used, I question my sanity.
I don’t know anything about him except he’s dangerous. At least, according to Magnolia.
But even that doesn’t curb my growing addiction.
My rational brain tells me I can’t keep doing this. That tonight has to be the last time. It’s not smart. It’s not safe. But my body disagrees.
I have to keep doing this.
But there’s one massive hurdle—I have no way to get in touch with him.
Some of the fluttery feeling in my belly fades away.
What if he doesn’t find me?
He will. He has to feel this too.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter 14
Temperance
The next morning, as I lock my Bronco in the parking lot of Seven Sinners, my mind is still on the tangled sheets of my bed and the filthy dreams that had me waking up sweaty and begging. Every twinge of my sore muscles keeps last night firmly fixed in my mind.
I’m addicted to this stranger, and I don’t even care how crazy it is.
Those thoughts evaporate like water on a blazing-hot tin roof when the yelling starts.
“How dare you pass off some piece of trash as my art!”
Gregor Standish’s insult slams into my belly like a sucker punch as he slams the door of a Range Rover. He storms toward me, his face mottled and red.
“Mr. Standish—”
“Did you see this garbage?” He waves a newspaper in my direction as he advances.
Stepping away from the flapping pages, I clear my throat. “Sir, if you’ll please—”
“They put my name under the picture of that abomination. I’m going to be the laughingstock of the art community by lunchtime.”
“Sir, please—”
“I can’t have my name associated with that tasteless pedestrian refuse masquerading as art!”
Each word scores a direct hit, reinforcing what I’ve always feared—my work isn’t good enough to be seen. The burn of tears stings the back of my eyes. The death of a dream is never painless, even if it’s an arrogant asshole wielding the executioner’s ax.
I straighten my spine, determined not to allow him to see how deadly his strikes are. He can never know that the piece was mine. No one can.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Standish. If you have a complaint to lodge, you can do it civilly or I’ll have to ask you to leave.” I inject authority into my tone, even though I’m crumpling on the inside. Shoring up my defenses now is too little, too late, but I have no choice but to pretend.
Standish’s face turns an even darker shade of red, and if he wasn’t such a jerk, I might worry about his blood pressure. As it stands, I can’t find it in me to give a damn about his health. Not when he’s eviscerating me.
“My artwork—my actual art—is inside, and if you try to keep me from it, I will take everything from this company and that bitch who runs it.”
As soon as he insults Keira, steel lodges in my spine and I level a hard stare in his direction. “Mr. Standish, it would be in your best interest to stop right there.” He opens his mouth to spill more vitriol, but I keep speaking, a new confidence in my tone. After all, it’s much easier to stand up for her than for myself. “You will not like the consequences of your actions if you don’t.”
The expression on his face turns snide. “Don’t you tell me what to do. You don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he’s the one who doesn’t have a clue who he’s dealing with, and any further comments are going to mean that he ends his day in a body bag, but I don’t. This man will not be calmed with reason or threats. He’s completely unhinged.
“I looked you up when you wouldn’t answer my calls. No wonder you’re so completely inept at this job. COO? You’re still a glorified secretary.” His glare turns gleefully cruel. “I don’t know why I was surprised. You’re just swamp trash, which is exactly what that sculpture looked like. So you tell whoever made that piece of garbage that I’m coming after them too for trying to pass it off as mine.”
Direct. Hit.
Instead of staggering backward and letting him know he’s scored a painful point, I square my shoulders. “The mistake was innocent, Mr. Standish, and might I point out, sir, that it wouldn’t have happened if you had allowed us to move your piece, or if you had actually shown up on time, per the instructions I provided you.”
He wrinkles his nose like someone just waved a hunk of rotten gator meat under it. “You should’ve waited. Just one more example of your mismanagement. This was no innocent mistake. This was planned.”
As much as I want to shout at him and tell him it’s not in any way, shape, or form my fault, and he couldn’t be more wrong about every single one of his conclusions, I know that screaming in the parking lot isn’t going to be helpful or productive.
I’d much prefer to shoot him in the parking lot, but prison orange isn’t exactly my color.
My brother would get rid of the body, though . . . The unvarnished thought puts a bloodthirsty smile on my face.
“I’m not going to argue with you any longer, Mr. Standish. Please accept my apologies, and maybe we can both agree that Mary’s House still received a substantial benefit from the auction last night, even with the mistake. Therefore, the purpose was still served and you get to keep your piece, perhaps to donate for an even larger benefit to a charitable organization in the future.”
I’m congratulating myself on sounding poised and professional, when what I really want to tell him is if Mount doesn’t kill him for what he said about Keira, someone else surely will for being such a nasty human being.
Standish’s face screws into an evil expression as he darts forward, wrapping his fingers hard around my upper arm, his fingers digging into my skin. “Only someone so plebeian would ever think something so simplistic.”
I yank my arm free, and his nails scrape my skin.
“Do we have a problem here?”
The door slams behind Louis Artesian, the head of distilling operations, as he comes toward us.
“Yes, we have a goddamn problem,” Standish says, his lips curling.
Louis looks to me, concern edging his tone. “Do you need me to call security?”
I meet his kind brown eyes before looking pointedly at Gregor Standish. “That’s up to Mr. Standish. If he wants to collect his artwork, he’ll need to contain himself.”
“How dare you, you—”
My phone rings, interrupting whatever insult he’s planning to throw at me next. I pull it out of my bag and look down at the screen. Keira.
“Excuse me, Mr. Standish. I’ll speak with Ms. Kilgore about your concerns. If you’re able to calm down, perhaps you’ll be allowed inside the building to collect your art.”
I walk
away from him as he sputters at Louis, but I don’t look back as I answer my phone. “Good morning, boss.”
“What’s going on?”
I unlock the back door, open it, and make sure to lock it behind me. “Standish is having a meltdown in the parking lot. Making accusations and threats. I tried to explain, but he’s not listening.”
“Of course not. And I’m also not that surprised because I just read the one-star review he left for Seven Sinners on every single online platform in the known universe. V and I are almost there. He’ll take care of him.”
In Keira’s world, taking care of someone means something different than it does to most people.
I open my mouth to ask if she’s sure that’s necessary, but Keira has already ended the call.
This is not how I expected my day to go.
Chapter 15
Temperance
Thankfully, I don’t have to face Standish again, and I try to get to work and attempt to forget about how V might be taking care of him. I’m only marginally successful when my phone rings after lunch.
“Hi, Temperance, Valentina Hendrix. I’m hoping you can help me out.”
Please don’t let it be about the sculpture, I beg the universe. After Standish’s brutal verbal attack this morning, my guts feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and I don’t have the emotional distance to talk about it objectively right now.
Still, I keep the positivity in my tone just like a good COO would. “I’m happy to help if I’m able. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“Valentina, please. And I’m pretty sure you already know what I want. The name of the artist, since I wasn’t able to buy the sculpture last night from the winner.” She pauses and I consider how to respond, but I’m not quick enough. “If you have the person’s name, you’d be doing him or her a great disservice by not passing along some information.”
