Pleasure Payback

by Zara Cox

  ‘God, I never thought I’d be thankful for Gideon being an arsehole and refusing to listen to what I’d found out from the investigators that day. If he had I’d never have flown to Boston.’ He shuddered with the rush of unwanted might-have-beens. ‘I’d never have met you.’

  ‘But he was. And we did.’ My smile seemed lit from within. ‘We’ll have to send him a very large gift basket.’

  He moved closer, his gaze devouring me. ‘He can wait. Tell me more about how you felt that first time, please.’

  ‘I wanted to soothe you like I’ve never wanted to soothe anyone. I wanted to take you home to Westport, feed you, take care of you. And yes, fuck you blind every chance I got.’

  Hoarse laughter barked from his throat.

  ‘But most of all, I wanted to love you.’

  The hand he lifted to rub over his jaw shook wildly. ‘I don’t fucking deserve you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I have ways to remedy that.’

  ‘I’m all ears, sweet love. Tell me,’ he commanded.

  I left my seat, made my way to where he stood. Leaning up, I wrapped my arms around his neck, breathed him in and filled myself with everything I’d missed for long, harrowing weeks. ‘First, you drink that shot I’ve paid good money for.’

  He immediately threw back the drink and tossed the glass on the bar. ‘Next, please.’

  ‘Next, you let me throw you a party for all the birthdays you’ve missed.’

  Another tremble shook him from head to toe and the eyes that blinked at me were suspiciously damp. ‘Neve, darling, you don’t have to—’

  I sealed his mouth with mine. He groaned, pulled me close and deepened the kiss. When we parted we were both breathing hard. I rubbed my belly against his erect cock and smiled when he groaned again.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Yes, Neve. Whatever you want.’

  ‘What I want is for us to be each other’s safe place, Damian. Always.’

  He lowered his forehead to mine and slowly exhaled. ‘For as long as I live, I’ll always be yours. You have my promise.’

  I blinked back tears and forced myself to look around. ‘Where exactly is this place?’

  ‘My penthouse.’

  ‘And the bar? I can’t believe you made a replica of the bar where we met.’

  He smiled slyly. ‘It’s not a replica. I had the whole thing dismantled and shipped over from Boston.’

  I gasped. ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I had no idea how to get you over there but I hoped I could tempt you to come here since you were in England. So I took a gamble. The bar at Hotel M is closed until further notice for refurbishment.’

  I stepped away from him, ran my hand over the smooth, shiny countertop. ‘So this belongs exclusively to you now?’

  ‘It belongs to us, Neve,’ he said, stepping up close to wrap his hands around me.

  ‘Hmm.’ I nudged my bottom into his groin, revelling in his thick groan. ‘In that case I have a fantasy or two of my own.’

  He leaned close, caught my earlobe between his lips. ‘I’m way ahead of you, darling. And I guarantee you won’t need panties for a very long time.’

  * * *

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  Mr. Temptation

  by Rachael Stewart

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘FUCKERS.’

  Daniel raked his fingers through his hair and rose to sit at the edge of the bed, his body hunching over his mobile and its glaring news feed.

  It was entirely expected, everything he’d envisaged the night before, so why was he so riled?

  He’d asked for it. And the press had delivered. In fact, more than delivered—the article had to be the most scathing yet.

  But where was the usual sense of fun, the thrill of living up to his name, of pissing on his mum’s glory?

  ‘Honey, whatever it is, let it go and come back to bed.’

  The voice purred at him from behind, a set of nails down his bare back designed to add to the appeal, and yet he wasn’t taking the bait. Not even a nibble. Both his cock and mind uninterested.

  ‘You should go.’ He twisted to take in the naked rear of the woman who was last night’s fix. What was it? The third—fourth time they’d slept together.

  She was beautiful, everything you’d expect an elite model of her calibre to be. But he was bored, the spark already dying out; it had to be a record. He felt a pang of guilt and buried it. She wouldn’t care, not really; he was careful who he chose to fill his bed. And she’d got what she
came for. He always lived up to his rep.

  ‘What time is it?’ She rolled onto her back, stretching out and pulling the crisp white sheet down her front, her bared rose-tipped breasts pert and alert. His cock gave a twinge, a little interest after all...

  But not enough.

  It was gone eight. He was due at his sister’s in less than an hour and the press were already gathering outside. The sooner they broke out, the better.

  ‘Time you went,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m hitting the shower.’

  ‘I’ll come with.’

  She moved to follow and he faced her off, unconcerned that the semi he was sporting gave a very different response to his, ‘Nej—don’t.’

  She gave a sultry pout and fell back onto her haunches. ‘Party pooper.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t got a rammed schedule for today.’

  She rolled her eyes with a resigned sigh. ‘Thanks for the reminder.’

  She turned to reach across the bed and take up her mobile from the side table, her focus now on the screen while her pert little ass beckoned him.

  Shower. Now.

  Making himself turn away, he headed to the bathroom. He could get his fix later, find someone new perhaps. Hell, he could have his pick...maybe that was the problem...

  ‘Annie, dahling,’ he heard her coo down the phone, ‘can you sort me an escape from The Shard? Seems we’ve caused a bit of a stir with the paparazzi...’

  He set the jets of water running and drowned out the remainder of her conversation. He’d just finished with his hair when her naked body curved around the doorframe.

  ‘Sure I can’t change your mind?’

  Ah, fuck it, another ten minutes isn’t going to hurt...

  * * *

  ‘Zara, Shit-Bag is on line one—he’s after a number for a contact, apparently.’

  EJ, her PA and right hand, leant back over her office chair, her head appearing through the open doorway to Zara’s private office. Not even her black-rimmed glasses were big enough to conceal her raised auburn brow and sparking blue gaze. She was as pissed at taking the call as Zara was to receive it.

  ‘Tell him I have an appointment. I’ll call him back.’ It wasn’t a lie, she did, and she needed to get moving if she wasn’t going to be late. She had the whole day mapped out touring London with her latest client, Julia Larsson, showing her abodes that matched the property brief they’d mapped out together to a T.

  ‘Righto,’ EJ said, dropping back into her own space. Although it wasn’t really as if the rest of her team had any designated space as such. Not yet.

  Other than her office, the walls were only partially in place, the refit as per her design spec was halfway through completion and they were all living with a rather open workspace in the interim. Not that it really mattered. Zara only had a handful of employees currently, but it paid to have space for her expansion plans and, more importantly, it paid to have the right kind of space to entertain the right kind of clients.

  The kind of space she’d had up until five months ago when Shit-Bag had left her no choice but to walk out of her former company. Six months of trying to work together following their break-up having taken their toll.

  ‘Err, Zara, he says it’s urgent.’

  EJ walked her chair back into view and gave her an apologetic grimace, making a derogatory hand signal against the receiver at the same time. The latter succeeded in pulling out a smirk. How very different from the way EJ had reacted to him in the early days. How very different from every woman when first being caught in his charismatic web. She’d been no exception. Falling for his clean and slick appearance, a voice that rumbled with teasing provocation no matter what was being said and a body fit for a boxing ring.

  Yeah, you fell for it, all right, but no more—you’re older and wiser for it now.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she assured her, ‘let him through.’

  Her tummy twisted, but her smile at EJ was solid. She wasn’t going to upset her with her own discomfort. And she most definitely wasn’t going to let him hear how much he could still hurt her.

  She lifted the phone receiver and accepted the call. ‘Charles, what is it?’

  ‘Zara, be a good girl and send me Tristan Black’s phone number, will you?’

  His brash condescension had her teeth clenching, her anger flaring. Did I really find that cockney arrogance sexy once?

  ‘I’m rather busy right now,’ she said neutrally, using the anger to her advantage. Anger she could work with, it was so much easier to control than pain. ‘I’ll see if I can find it later and send it on.’

  ‘Come on, Zara, darling, it’s urgent and you know full well you have his number.’ If she didn’t know him better she’d think she caught the hint of panic, as though he could sense she was about to cut the call. Which she was. But panic? What could be so important that he needed to reach Tristan this second? ‘Look, our blasted systems have gone down and I don’t seem to have it on my mobile.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because he was my client.’ She couldn’t help the barbed comment. But hell, he’d refused to let her take anyone, enforcing the restrictive contract clauses to the letter. She’d been lucky to set her new business up at all. Even luckier to take EJ with her.

  It didn’t matter that he was the reason she’d had to leave in the first place. That she’d been the one who had worked twenty-four-seven to make it the success it had become. The success it still was, only now it was his baby, he was the one reaping all the benefit.

  ‘Very true,’ he said smoothly, his composure back so swiftly she’d probably imagined the crack—it was too much to hope for after all. ‘But, you know, my client now, of course.’

  She clenched her fist around the phone, his smarmy tone and gibe making her want to hurl. The sooner she could have him off the line, the better. ‘I’ll dig it out and send it on, good—’

  ‘Wait, there’s something else...’

  She halted midway through hanging up, the skin at the back of her neck prickling as her memory bank came alive. She knew that tone, knew it meant some big revelation or other. Wasn’t it just how he’d sounded when he’d finally been forced to admit all his extra-curricular activities?

  ‘What is it?’ She asked the question even though every instinct told her she didn’t want to know. The awkward cough he gave only confirming it. ‘Charles, spit it out, I don’t have all day.’

  ‘I’m getting married.’

  The air caught in her lungs, ice seeping through her veins. Of all the things she could have imagined it being, it certainly wasn’t that.

  The great bachelor, Charles Eddison, finally getting hitched. Five years and he’d failed to make an honest woman of her. She’d loved him with all of her being and yet it hadn’t been enough. And now, one year after their break-up, someone had managed to do it, someone had been special enough...

  It just hadn’t been me.

  * * *

  ‘Easy, liten syster,’ Daniel said into his mobile as he pressed the button for the lift to her floor. ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Less of the little,’ she snapped, her irritation making her London accent revert to her Swedish lilt and making him grin. ‘Or I’ll start calling you Danny.’

  He gave a mock shudder. ‘Quit the strop, then.’

  Someone swept up behind him, a scent wrapping around him, vanilla twisted up in something so enticing he was damned if he could place it, and his eyes swerved of their own accord.

  ‘Strop! You were supposed to be here half an...’

  His sister’s voice trailed away into the distance, his sight landing on the woman whose interesting scent had nothing on the visual. He felt his mouth quirk, his interest instant. She was beautiful, in an unusual, edgy kind of way. So not his type, a definite ‘no’ on paper, but when presented with the physical, she was all kinds of yes..
.

  She faced the lift, waiting just as he was, one purple stiletto tapping impatiently, her body encased in a fitted black trouser suit, a leather-clad portfolio hooked under one arm, all quite usual but—

  ‘Are you listening to me, Dann-eee?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be right up,’ he said distractedly, cutting the call and pocketing the device.

  It was her hair that fascinated him: cropped to her ears, the reddish-brown mass was parted high to one side, windswept almost. And then there was her make-up, neutral save for the liner around her eyes and the bold lip colour—was that purple?

  His gaze narrowed over it and she must have sensed his attention, her eyes flickering in his direction. ‘You know, it’s rude to stare.’

  Her voice was husky, a crisp edge that rasped along his spine and sealed her appeal. He was hooked.

  Her eyes were back on the doors, her lack of interest obvious. He should’ve taken it as a sign, but since when had he backed off from anything he fancied? In truth, her lack of interest only added to the appeal.

  ‘Rude?’ he said, raising his brow. ‘I’ve been called many things before—arrogant, reckless, even an arsehole—but rude, not had that one yet.’

  Her mouth twitched but she didn’t turn to look at him, the ping of the lift arriving serving as a temporary interruption.

  The doors opened and he gestured for her to precede him. ‘See, I’m not entirely rude.’

  She looked to him then, her silver-grey eyes sparkling and those bold-coloured lips lifting into a smile that momentarily gutted him. Jesus, she was hot. The bow-like shape stretching and still the lower lip was full—swollen, even—almost as though it had just been thoroughly devoured.

  Maybe she’d had to reapply that colour after it had been rubbed clean away. Oh, to be the cause of that little misdemeanour.

  ‘Thank you.’

  It took a second to realise she had spoken, to realise he was staring all over again, and then sanity returned. ‘You’re welcome—which floor?’