by Nikki Sloane
I laughed softly. “It was fucking hot, and you know it.”
He didn’t argue with me. All he did was sigh and shoot me a fake, stern look. “Language.”
And he grabbed my wrist, pinned it to the bed, and used his mouth to deliver a punishing kiss that left me unable to speak.
Before I left his house that morning, Macalister announced that going forward, I would ride to and from the office with him every day. It was wasteful for us to travel separately, and it’d give us more time to discuss work, he’d said. I was to park in one of the spaces of his garage and meet him in his foyer at seven a.m.
It didn’t take long to realize his true motive, but I wasn’t upset by it.
There was dinner for two waiting at his house when we arrived after work on Monday. We ate, and then he ordered me upstairs, and we’d barely made it inside his room before he’d had his hands up my skirt.
Although we didn’t spend every night together, because sometimes we had different obligations, it became a pattern. I’d text him my outfit for approval in the morning, drive over to his house, and then ride with him to work. And at the end of the day, I’d come home with him to have dinner, and sex, and conversation where he seemed intent on learning everything about me.
And then I’d hurry home to fall asleep so I could repeat it all over the next day.
He was typically great at shutting off the part of him I saw behind closed doors, but occasionally he’d slip on the drive home. He’d lean too close, or his fingers would graze across my thigh, or he’d tell me in a seductive voice he had plans for us after dinner.
His driver had to know we were fucking. By this point, most of his household staff did.
But the people who worked directly for Macalister Hale were well paid and had signed ironclad NDAs, and they were either too smart or too intimidated to leak the faintest whiff of his personal life.
Very few secrets ever came out of the Hale house.
I’d told Macalister he should view getting people to like him as a game, and holy shit—did that work. He began to look for ways to help. On the first Friday of August, he went out to dinner with Evangeline and some of her friends, and by the end of the evening, he’d arranged an introduction with the head of admissions at Cape Hill Prep for one of the couples who was desperate to get their thirteen-year-old in. Besides money, Macalister had accrued a vast network, and now that his reputation was climbing, it was easy for him to connect people.
The man who owned me was becoming the hero I’d hoped he could be.
He lamented my “terrible” taste in Netflix shows, but was stunned and impressed by my excellent taste in porn. One evening after dinner he’d taken me downstairs to his home theatre and streamed his favorite for me to watch while he went down on me. I’d leaned back in the recliner, his head buried happily between my thighs, and gazed up at the mesmerizing couple fucking on the huge screen.
I came twice before he pulled me down to the floor and on top of him, making me fuck him the same way the girl on-screen did. The whole experience was hot, but getting to see what specifically turned him on made it that much hotter. I loved how filthy he was, and how obsessed he’d become with giving me orgasms.
Shit, he was obsessed. Like it wasn’t a hobby but his one and only job.
A tiny voice in the back of my mind worried I was just a temporary fix. Something to be plugged into the hole of loneliness he felt, or a substitute for the woman he couldn’t have, but I shook it off. Macalister was not a replacement for Tate, so I hoped it was the same for him.
“Dude, what is with you?” Penelope asked me, snapping her fingers in front of my face.
I turned my gaze away from Marist and shifted my focus back to my friend. We were at a fundraiser for the Boston Zoo, and for anyone else, Penelope’s leopard print dress would have been a bit too on-the-nose. But on her it looked fabulous.
“Sorry.” I smiled with embarrassment. “I got distracted. I like Marist’s dress. Don’t you?”
It was such a dark purple, it looked black until she moved. The boning lines of the corseted top were visible, and the skirt burst out into shimmering layers of tulle.
Penelope gave Marist a once-over glance, taking in the dress and the way it worked with her dark green hair. “I guess. She’s weird.”
I frowned. “We’re all weird.” I gave her a pointed look. “You did the foot thing with Dean Halbeck, remember?”
She nearly spit out the gin and tonic she was sipping. “Oh, my God! Don’t bring that up.” She tucked a strand of her maple syrup colored hair behind an ear. “And I didn’t just mean now, you know. You’ve been totally MIA the last month.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice low. “Who is he?”
I fought the desire to seek him out. He was here tonight, probably lingering beside Evangeline and pretending to listen to conversation he’d tell me later he found insipid. No one knew while he’d been escorting his “girlfriend” around the room, he’d secretly been sending text messages to his assistant he was fucking on the side.
Although I couldn’t see him, I felt Macalister all over my body. Literally. He’d bought me expensive French lingerie, which I was currently wearing under my dress. With every step, I felt the straps from the garter belt pinned to my stockings and the delicate lace of my bra as it brushed over my nipples.
This was why I was distracted. I couldn’t not think about Macalister.
There’d been other gifts too. A potted orchid appeared on my desk the day after he’d discovered an orchid picture was my phone’s lock screen. When the zipper broke on my favorite handbag, a new one was delivered the following morning. The office kitchen suddenly stocked my favorite black vanilla teabags.
Before, he’d been a man who only thought about himself, but it couldn’t be true now.
He spent a lot of time thinking about me.
Penelope stared expectantly, waiting for me to tell her who I was secretly seeing.
It wasn’t really a lie, because I thought few people in Cape Hill did. “You don’t know him.” That wasn’t enough to satisfy her, so I tacked on, “He works at HBHC.”
Hopefully, she’d assume that was where we’d met. I didn’t like lying, and I was eager to talk about my feelings for him with someone else, but I couldn’t. Penelope was the first person to admit she was terrible at keeping secrets.
“Interesting,” she said. “Does he work with Tate?”
I frowned at what she was implying, like I was dating someone he worked with to try to make him jealous. “No, and I told you, that’s over.”
“I know you said that, but are you sure?” She looked disappointed. “Because I think he’s flirting with Emily Northcott right now.”
“Is he?” I felt a strange sense of relief that I was only interested in this as information. There wasn’t even a spark of jealousy. “I didn’t realize she came.”
Since Marist’s sister had a three-year-old daughter, she didn’t go to many of these things.
Penelope lifted a carefully manicured eyebrow. “I mean, if you want to get out of here, let’s go. I’m ready.”
She knew I’d been in love with him and was worried about me, and I appreciated it. I laughed lightly and shook my head. “No, it’s totally fine. I’m over Tate. This new guy I’m seeing is a million times better.” Her gaze drifted over my shoulder, but I was too excited to talk about it to recognize what this meant. “The sex, Penelope. Fuck, he’s so amazing. I’ve had so many orgasms I think I’m getting dehydrated.”
“Mr. Hale,” she announced with a strained smile.
“Ms. Marino,” Macalister answered, his voice right behind me.
My body locked up. How much of that had he heard? If I looked embarrassed, at least she’d assume it was because I’d revealed this in front of my boss. I turned to face him, my cheeks on fire. His expression gave nothing away. He was cold, indifferent stone, and I did my best to sound natural and helpful. “Did you need
something?”
His gaze drifted down my body, and I’d swear he could see through my clothes to the lingerie he’d bought me, but then his attention turned back to Penelope. “Sophia tells me you’re a photographer. Do you do portraits?”
My friend nearly collapsed in her surprise. She hadn’t expected me to mention her to him. “Uh . . . yes, sir.” She stumbled to get her words out. “I have before.”
He looked pleased. “I need a new family portrait taken.”
Penelope was dubious. “You want me to do it?”
He had, until that moment. Macalister didn’t like repeating himself, and my friend was about to lose this opportunity, which she couldn’t afford to. She had struggled to launch her business on the side this past year, and like me, still lived at home with her parents. Photographing the Hales would be huge for her.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “Penelope’s work is fantastic. When were you thinking?”
He turned his head toward me. “You’ll have to coordinate schedules. A weekend would be easiest.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Excellent.” He held my gaze for a fraction of a second too long, just enough time to create a moment, and then he walked away, the conversation over.
She watched him as he went, her stare unblinking. “Did that, like, happen? Did I just book a job with Macalister Hale?”
I smiled. I’d sort of done that for her, but I didn’t say it. She was frozen, a nervous look plastered on her face, and it was . . . strange. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I’m going to fuck it up.”
“What?”
Self-doubt seeped into her expression. “What if he doesn’t like what I come up with?”
She was being silly. “You’re awesome, and—hello? Have you seen the Hales? They’re the most photogenic people on the planet.”
I eased her doubt somewhat, but she shook her head, making her long brown hair sway. “I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t spend every day with him.” She lowered her voice. “He scares the crap out of me.”
My voice was matter-of-fact, but my pulse quickened. “He’s not so bad. He grows on you after a while.”
She didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. He’d grown on me so much, I was pretty concerned I was falling for him.
During the limo ride to Macalister’s house, he retrieved a bottle of water from the side bar, opened it, and passed it to me. Arrogance glittered in his eyes. “You mentioned to your friend you were becoming dehydrated.”
“Oh, my God,” I muttered, wanting to sink into the seat and disappear. “How much did you hear?”
He ignored my question. “Drink.” I did, and when I lowered the bottle from my lips, a confident smile crept onto his face. “You said I’m a million times better than Tate, but you’re actually fourteen billion short.”
I snickered at how he flaunted his wealth. “You’re so extra.”
He paused. “Extra . . . what?”
Of course he wasn’t familiar with the phrase. “It’s a thing people say. It means you’re too much. Like you’re trying too hard.”
“I don’t try too hard.” He hesitated, considering something, and his voice went quiet. “But I will admit I do try, Sophia.”
Since the partition was up and the driver couldn’t see us, Macalister was free to touch me however he wanted. His hand went to my knee, slipped beneath the hem of my dress, and moved up until it rested on the band of lace decorating the top of my thigh-high stocking I’d worn for him.
“You flattered me tonight.” His fingertips traced the curves of the scalloped edge against my bare skin. “You flatter me every night when you’re in my bed, and you should be aware I will do everything in my power to keep you there. I know this arrangement we have isn’t ideal, but it’s unfortunately one of the few things I cannot control.”
I was short of breath from both his touch and his words. “I know.”
It was the most we’d ever said about our relationship. I thought we worried if we tried to define it, the other would back away, so we continued in our precarious situation as secret lovers and friends, unsure if it would develop into more. I didn’t want to think about the future, because doing so was too fucking scary.
Macalister’s legacy was everything to him. If he had to choose between me and his reputation, well . . . that would be one of the easiest decisions he’d ever have to make. The way I felt about him now, though, meant he’d have to make it eventually, and I wanted to put that off as long as possible.
Macalister lowered the corner of the business section of the Globe and eyed the half-eaten breakfast on my plate. “Did you not care for it?”
I took the final sip of my orange juice and picked up my phone. The egg-white and spinach omelet wasn’t really my thing. “I’m more of a bacon and pancakes kind of girl.”
He folded the newspaper and grumbled under his breath. “My nutritionist advised me to watch my sodium intake.”
I smiled in commiseration with him. A big reason he looked so good at his age was because he took such great care of himself. My appreciative gaze slid down over his shirtless form as we sat at his kitchen table, and he did not miss the way I traced his biceps and sexy forearms.
It was a question he already knew the answer to. “What are you looking at?”
“You,” I said. “Looking all sexy while you read your . . .” I pointed at the business section.. “What’s this thing called again?” I pretended I didn’t know how to pronounce it. “Newspaper?”
The muscle along his jaw flexed, making him even sexier. His eyes sharpened. “Yes. I’m sure it’s an unfamiliar media to your generation because it contains things like capital letters and punctuation.”
I laughed and made a mental note that the next text I sent him needed to be one run-on sentence, all lower-case, and contain as many abbreviations as possible.
“Would you like my chef to prepare something else?”
I waved a hand. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry, and I’d have to get dressed.”
Since I was once again wearing nothing but Macalister’s white dress shirt from last night. I’d brought over a change of clothes so I wouldn’t have to wear my cocktail dress home, but he preferred me naked, and I preferred not to freeze my ass off, so this had been our compromise.
The shirt smelled like him, and I loved having it wrapped around my body.
He finished his coffee and set his mug down. “I need a shower. Will you be joining me?”
I glanced at my screen. I had a bridal shower for Carrie Patterson at lunchtime, and the restaurant was in Boston. “I don’t have a lot of time.” I gave him an amused look. “Can you be quick?”
“I can be efficient,” he revised for me. “And the vibrator is waterproof.”
A laugh rose in my chest, but it gurgled to a stop when someone standing in the back of the kitchen cleared their throat. The man had his arms folded across his body and leaned against the doorframe with a disapproving look splashed across his face.
Macalister’s tone was dark. “Royce.”
TWENTY-FOUR
SOPHIA
The room became a vacuum without an ounce of breathable air. Macalister rose deliberately from his chair, probably wanting to reclaim a position of power, if only in stature, as he stared down at his son.
“I raised you better than this,” he said coolly. “It’s courtesy to call before showing up at someone’s house.”
Royce was impervious. “Just because I moved out doesn’t mean this place stopped being my home.” He sighed loudly. “I only came by to get something for the apartment. What you do is your own business, but if I’d known I was going to be interrupting an important discussion about shower sex and vibrators, I would have sent a text.”
Oh, my God. I stared at the plate in front of me while trying not to melt off the chair and disappear beneath the ta
ble. But, thankfully, my immediate discomfort was short-lived. Royce straightened, turned, and walked out the door.
“Damn it,” Macalister groaned. “Royce, wait.”
But his son was already gone, forcing him to follow. His heavy, quick footsteps carried him out into the dining room, and as soon as I was sure they’d cleared the hallway, I bolted out of my seat, sprinting for the stairs.
I dashed up them, into Macalister’s room, and dressed as quickly as possible while nerves rattled my stomach. It was unlikely Royce would tell anyone what he’d seen, other than his wife and maybe Vance, but dread made my hands shake. Macalister was downstairs right now, having to explain to his son what we were doing . . . and I was sure once he was forced to say it out loud, he’d see how ridiculous and dangerous being with me was to his reputation.
He was going to end it, right after I’d collected enough moments to fall for him. God, it was so unfair. Tears stung in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I’d lived for so long with a broken heart, the sensation should hold a familiar comfort.
I jerked my hair up into a loopy ponytail and bent down, putting my knees on the carpet as I collected up all the lingerie he’d peeled me out of last night, shoving fistfuls of silk and lace into my overnight bag.
My movements froze as his door creaked open, and when I took in the full, dark expression cast over Macalister’s face, my heart sank to the floor.
Don’t, I wanted to plead with him. I’m not ready for this to be over.
His voice was tight, like he had a fingertip’s grasp on his control. “Did you collude with him?”
“What?”
He walked toward me, and since I was kneeling on the ground, it forced me to arch my neck to keep my gaze on him.
“I do not like repeating myself. Did you and Royce plan this?”
Plan what? “I . . . I don’t understand.”
“He all but admitted this was the outcome he hoped for. It’s why he pushed for you to be my assistant. He believed I’d try to seduce you, and once I was successful, I’d forget all about her.”
