Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  I’ve always thought orgasms were orgasms. Always good.

  Wrong.

  Sometimes they’re so blisteringly good you’re both terrified it’ll never end and terrified that it will.

  Ian drops beside me, still breathing hard, and I muster the energy to roll toward him.

  He turns his head slightly, pressing an absent kiss to my forehead before gathering me close. “Well.”

  I smile. “Well.”

  Ian shifts to look down at me, his fingers finding a lock of my hair and stroking it with his thumb. “You never did answer my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Worst lay you’ve ever had.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “Oh. Gosh. I had a different answer before, but . . . wow, this is awkward. I feel like I should at least let you get dressed before I answer. You know, to save your pride.”

  He tilts his head back, then lets out a laugh of pure masculine confidence. “All right. What about the best lay you’ve ever had?”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you put notches in your bedpost, too?”

  “Maybe.” He gives a quick wink.

  He rolls toward me until I’m on my back once again, and his eyes return to mine. “Ask me.”

  “Ask you what? Worst lay you’ve ever had?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells. Ask me the other one.”

  “Best lay you’ve ever had? You just said a gentleman never—”

  “You.” He stamps a kiss on my lips.

  When he pulls back, I mean to roll my eyes again and call him out on the line. But then I see it . . .

  Embarrassment. His cheeks are just the slightest bit pink, and he looks at me, and he’s . . . fidgeting. There’s a sweetness to his nervousness that undoes me.

  I set both my hands on his face. “Ian.”

  “Yeah?”

  I lift up slightly to brush a kiss across his mouth. “Me too.”

  27

  IAN

  Week 5: Sunday Morning

  I’m halfway down the hallway to my apartment when I realize I’m humming.

  For fuck’s sake, get it together, man.

  Stacking one Starbucks cup on top of the other, I dig my apartment key out of my running shorts and push open the door.

  And smile even wider.

  There’s a woman in my kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts and tiny little sleep shorts.

  No, not a woman. The woman.

  Lara glances up from whatever she’s whisking and adjusts her glasses, taking in my running clothes and slightly sweaty state.

  “Is getting up at four a.m. a regular thing for you? To exercise? On a Sunday? If so, I have very serious doubts about our compatibility.”

  I grin. “That’s crazy talk. My alarm goes off at four thirty on weekends.”

  “And on weekdays?”

  I grin wider. “Four.”

  “Oh, Ian . . .”

  “What? I’ve got a lot of shit to get done before the market opens.”

  “I would have thought you don’t get home until four.”

  “Well, that, too,” I say, kissing her as I hand her one of the coffees. “Not as much as I used to, though.”

  “Getting old?” she asks, taking a sip of the coffee.

  I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her back to my front and nuzzling her neck.

  More like getting domesticated.

  I don’t say it out loud. It sounds absurd. I’ve known this woman for all of a month, had her in my bed only two consecutive nights.

  Which is one night longer than my previous record.

  After our Friday date night, she slept over (out of sexual exhaustion, I’d like to think). And as fantastic as Friday night was—and it was fantastic—Saturday was even better. It never occurred to me before that spending an entire day with a woman could be centering, but I can’t remember ever enjoying a weekend day so much.

  Or enjoying a woman as much as I enjoy her.

  “You mentioned yesterday you had some work to do?”

  “Mm. A little,” she says, her head falling back onto my shoulder as my tongue finds a sensitive spot behind her ear.

  “I’m behind on e-mail as well. How about we eat whatever you’ve got going on here, take a couple hours for work, then brunch? There’s a place uptown near the park—”

  She stiffens slightly and eases away before turning to face me. “Ian, we still can’t be seen together. Not yet.”

  I tamp down a surge of frustration, even though I understand. The woman’s already gotten a delay on her dream job. The last thing I want to do is threaten her day job as well.

  It just fucking figures that the first time I actually want to spend time with a woman, I feel like her dirty little secret.

  But if we’ve got to be dirty . . .

  I set aside my coffee, then gently ease hers out of her hands and set that aside, too.

  “Hey,” she says in a warning tone. “Taking caffeine out of a woman’s hand is very dangerous business.”

  “I’ll give it back. Eventually.” I settle my hands on her waist and hoist her up onto the counter, much as I did that first night.

  “Okay, new plan,” I say, nudging her knees apart and stepping between them. “We eat whatever deliciousness you’re cooking up. I’ll go get us some orange juice and champagne for mimosas later—we’ll sip them on my balcony and pretend we’re someplace exotic. But first . . .” I run my palms up her bare thighs. “I’m thinking an appetizer.”

  “There’s no such thing as a breakfast appetizer,” Lara says, adjusting her glasses in that way that makes me crazy with lust.

  “I beg to differ,” I murmur, capturing her mouth with mine as my hands continue their leisurely stroking over her thighs.

  When my fingers find the top of her underwear and hook inside just slightly, Lara pulls back from the kiss with a narrowed gaze. “I don’t mean to be prudish, but one of us just got back from what was probably an obscenely long run; the other is already showered.”

  “I don’t need to be clean for what I have in mind,” I say, raining kisses down her neck. I bunch my shirt up around her waist with my fist, then bend and lick just below her belly button.

  She gasps, and I do it again.

  “In fact,” I murmur, easing the underwear over her hips and all the way down her legs. “One might even say it’s a little bit dirty . . .”

  Spreading her legs wide, I lower, hooking my forearms beneath her thighs.

  I look up her body. “You may want to get comfortable.”

  “Ian—”

  I flick my tongue over her.

  She lets out a long breath, dropping back onto her elbows.

  “You were saying?” I ask with another teasing lick.

  This time when she says my name, it’s a plea, not a protest.

  I take my time with her, tasting her with languid strokes of my tongue. Having spent most of yesterday getting her naked and keeping her that way, I’ve learned she likes it slow and gentle right until the very end. I do exactly that, soft licks over her most sensitive areas as she writhes beneath me.

  Her hand comes down to mine, and I link my fingers with hers with my right hand, my left hand spread low across her stomach to hold her still. It’s intimate in a way I’m not used to. I don’t often have women in my kitchen, and I certainly don’t eat them out.

  But it’s more than the location and what I’m doing. It’s the way I am with her, the way she is with me. As though we’re just getting started, and the best is yet to come.

  Her hips tilt up, her thighs tightening around my shoulders, and I know she’s close.

  I’m tempted to make it last, wanting to prolong every moment with her indefinitely, but her nails find my head, digging in in a way that tells me she needs release now.

  I give it to her. Circling my tongue faster, I slide a finger inside. The second I do, she comes with a quiet cry, tightening around my finger as her body arches up in helpless release.

  I
stay with her to the end, not pulling back until she drops limply onto the counter, the perfect picture of a satiated woman.

  My woman.

  Straightening up, I ease her into a sitting position, smoothing her hair back with a tenderness that belies my next move. Bending down at the same time I pull her forward, I hitch Lara over my shoulder so she half-dangles over my back as I walk to the bathroom.

  She shrieks in protest. “What are you doing?”

  “Showering. With you.”

  “I already—”

  “Yes. But ”—I interrupt her with a quick smack on her bare butt—“you’re about to be a very dirty girl.”

  28

  LARA

  Week 5: Monday Morning

  Objectively, I know I don’t look any different. Same ponytail. Same glasses. Same pink lipstick. Same basic pumps, same black skirt I’ve worn a million times before, same blue shirt that’s been in my workday rotation for years.

  But I feel different, and as I walk into the SEC elevator on Monday morning, I’m paranoid that someone will notice. That someone will look at me and not only think, oh, she got some, but that they’ll know who I got some with, and they’ll know I want more, and . . .

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, since there’s nobody in the elevator to witness my lecture. “People have sex every day. It doesn’t have to be a thing.”

  It is a thing, though, because sex with Ian wasn’t just sex. It was lots of sex, definitely. But it was other stuff, too. Meals. Conversation. Laughter.

  It’s the other stuff that has me tangled in a knot of happiness and terror.

  It’s the fact that I like him, not just in the bedroom but out. It’s the fact that he’s funny and smart and considerate in ways I never expected. It’s the way that even now I’m wondering when I’ll see him next, wondering if he’ll call.

  “Pathetic,” I mutter, stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby of the SEC offices. Although lobby is a strong word for the entry area. It’s more like a couple of sad chairs and an ugly coffee table topped with a few magazines that are three months old, at best.

  I smile and wave at Ida, the front-desk receptionist, and she gives me a tired wave back without stopping her conversation with whoever’s on the other end of her phone call.

  I’ve taken only about five steps when I realize that my worst nightmare about this morning is true. Everyone is looking at me. And there are more than a few whispers.

  They know. They know that I hooked up with a suspect.

  No, not a suspect, my brain screams. He didn’t do anything wrong, and you waited until after you’d determined that to let anything personal develop.

  That’s the rational, black-and-white part of my brain. The other part, the part that deals in nuances, merely raises an eyebrow.

  “Hey, McKenzie,” one of the other investigators calls out, coming toward me with his hand outstretched. “Nice work.”

  I shake his hand, a little perplexed, because his tone is genuine; there’s no trace of mockery. This isn’t a nice work for toeing the conflict-of-interest line, it’s a nice work for . . .

  I don’t know.

  Generally, turning in findings on an informal investigation recommending against a formal investigation doesn’t warrant more than a nod and a what’s next? in the eleven o’clock status report meeting.

  Even more puzzling, I get similar reactions on my walk to my cubicle, including a couple of thumbs-up from people on the phone.

  What the . . . ?

  “Morning, Lara!” I turn and see Evie Franklin, Steve’s busybody assistant, coming toward me.

  “Morning,” I say with a smile. “Love the hair.”

  She lifts a hand to her halo of slightly frizzy blonde curls. “Some days just aren’t worth fighting the humidity. Did you know, back in the eighties, women used to pay for hair like this? What I wouldn’t give for a time machine.”

  “Totally,” I say, trying to be agreeable.

  She gives me a wry look. “With that straight hair? I don’t think so, honey. And were you even alive in the eighties?”

  “I was.” Barely. “Plus, I watched lots of old music videos with my dad.”

  “Old?” She puts a hand on her hip in mock outrage.

  I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Unless you have a shovel so I can really dig myself a hole, I’m going to bow out of this conversation.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you off the hook if you show me how to use Instagram later. It seems to be my best chance of seeing pictures of my grandbabies, and I don’t get it.”

  “Of course. I’ll swing by your desk at lunch.”

  “Perfect. Now, go on in and see Steve as soon as you’re settled, ’kay? He’s free till ten and wants to see you.”

  I feel a little stab of nervousness at the thought. I haven’t heard from him since turning in my report on Friday, and . . . it’s weird. The guy’s always been borderline anal about prompt communication, but with Ian’s case, Steve’s been either dodgy or annoyed any time I try to get him to even talk about it.

  “Will do,” I say, setting my purse down and punching the power button on my computer.

  “Nice work on the case, by the way,” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Hey, Evie?” I say before she can leave. “Is something going on?”

  She blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone seems under the impression that I’ve done something . . . exceptional,” I say.

  “Well sure, babe. You wrapped the case.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Evie!”

  We both turn to see one of the VPs throwing his hands up in the air in impatience.

  “Oh crap,” she mutters. “I gotta run, hon.”

  I blow out a breath. “Okay.”

  But she doesn’t even hear me; she’s already gone.

  I start to unpack my box from Wolfe but decide to wait. If Steve’s got another case for me, I’ll just have to pack up again anyway.

  I stop in the break room for a cup of coffee on my way to his office. When I take a sip, I wince. Let’s just say it’s not quite the caliber of what was in the Wolfe offices. There you could choose from three different machines, each one with a hundred different milk options.

  And sometimes people would bring you fancy drinks from Starbucks.

  You did not join a government agency to get pampered, I remind myself. It’s not like the FBI is known for its great coffee, either.

  Shaking my head, I start toward Steve’s office, giving a faint smile at the few thumbs-ups and way to gos, trying to ignore the premonition that something is seriously wrong. His door is closed and Evie’s on the phone, but she motions for me to go in.

  I knock and hear Steve’s sharp “Yallow,” which I’ve learned over the years means, “Hi, come on in.”

  I open the door but draw up short when I see he’s not alone. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries, Ms. McKenzie, I was just leaving,” the man says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket.

  He looks familiar, and my brain scrambles to place him. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair . . .

  Nope, no chance.

  He takes pity on me and extends a hand. “Jacob Houghton. I’m Steve’s—”

  “Brother-in-law,” I say, shaking his hand as the pieces snap into place. “Of course. We met at Steve’s wedding. I apologize. I seem to have a bit of Monday morning brain fog, and this is my first cup.” I lift the mug of black tar.

  He gives a good-natured laugh. “Understandable. You’ve had a busy few weeks.”

  I look at Steve for guidance, a little unsure why his brother-in-law knows anything about my workload. The guy’s not SEC, he’s . . . I can’t remember, exactly. Something in finance, but not particularly high up any food chain, if memory serves.

  My boss isn’t paying our conversation any attention, though, his focus on a document in his hand.

  “Go
od seeing you again, Ms. McKenzie. Steve, I’ll call you later. Or Whitney will. One way or another we’ll get you and Katherine over for dinner this week.”

  Steve gives a noncommittal grunt as Jacob closes the door.

  Familiar with my boss’s inability or disinclination to multitask, I take a seat and sip my wretched coffee as I wait for him to finish reading.

  A couple of minutes later, he sets the paper inside a file folder on his desk, then blinks a little in surprise, as though forgetting I was there.

  “Right. Lara. How are you? Good weekend?”

  The best.

  “Yeah, it was all right. Yours?”

  “Busy,” he murmurs. “Very busy.”

  Guess that explains why you couldn’t reply to my e-mail on Friday.

  Steve taps his fingers on the desk, then leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly and studying me.

  I wait. I’ve learned that pushing people to speak before they’re ready rarely leads to good things.

  He leans forward and exhales. “I want you to hear this from me first.”

  My mug is halfway to my mouth, but I lower it again, dread uncurling in the pit of my stomach. “Okay . . .”

  He riffles around the piles on his desk until he comes up with an envelope. He hands it to me. “I’m delivering this later.”

  I reach out and take the envelope, pulling out the paper within. I recognize it immediately. A run-of-the-mill subpoena, just like the ones we issue for formal investigations . . .

  I go very still when I see the name.

  I look up. “What is this?”

  His expression is regretful but also resigned. “I told you from the very beginning how this was going to play out, Lara. Ian Bradley’s guilty.”

  “You didn’t see my report, then,” I say, putting the paper back in the envelope and handing it to him with a calm that belies my clammy palms.

  He holds my gaze. “I saw the report. Just because there’s no evidence at Wolfe doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty.”

  “The United States judicial system says differently,” I snap. “Hell, Steve, this office says differently. What do you know that you’re not telling me? Why are you so convinced that he’s guilty?”