Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“You were right,” I say, meeting Brent’s eyes first. “I was having second thoughts about our deal. But I’m not anymore. I want this. One taboo night in exchange for all the evidence in my father’s case. And this stays between us.”
The silence that follows is so total it’s almost a sound. Brent doesn’t blink. James’s lips pull into a slow, feral smile, as he raises a brow. “No hesitation?”
I shake my head. “None. But I want your word.”
James pushes off the credenza and circles the table, deliberate and unhurried. “You’ll have everything you need, sweetheart,” he says, coming to a stop just behind my left shoulder. “You’ll get the whole record, start to finish. Even the stuff we kept off the books.”
Meanwhile, Brent leans back in the chair, arms spread along the table’s edge. “Saturday,” he demands in a hoarse voice. “My place. Penthouse. We start at seven. You show up hungry.”
I know he’s not referring to food when he says “hungry,” but as I process, James’s hand finds my wrist, his grip warm and gentle. Yet there’s an iron underneath. He bends close, so that I can smell the faint lemon of his soap, and murmurs, “You know you made us wait, right? That’s bad form. We don’t generally let other people do that to us.”
I feel a shiver, part thrill, part terror. “You’re going to punish me?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound bored, even as my pulse jackhammers.
His mouth is at my ear. “You’d better believe it.”
I yank my hand away, but it’s not much of a fight. “Not now,” I say. “We wait for the main event because we’re at the office right now.”
James’s laughter is soft, approving. Brent’s eyes never leave my face.
“Sweetheart, this is our firm,” Brent says in a silky tone, blue eyes gleaming. “And these people work for us. We say what happens, and being at the office has never stopped us before.”
“Besides, you owe us,” James adds in a throaty rasp, his gaze so dark it’s almost black now. “Women don’t make us wait. We do that to them. So we need to punish you for your bad behavior, sweetheart.”
I gasp. Punishment? Now?
But the two men merely smile, flashing even white teeth, as James locks the door to the conference room.
“Yes, now,” he hisses. “Get ready, sweet girl, because your world is about to be blown wide open.”
7
CHAPTER SEVEN – DO YOU LIKE PENS?
Marnie
The click of the lock behind us was a commitment. A finality that made the air in the conference room feel charged, thin and dangerous, like the atmosphere just before a lightning strike.
James moved first. From the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, he produced a pen. But it wasn't just any ballpoint. This was a heavy, gleaming cylinder of brushed stainless steel, minimalist and expensive. It caught the low light from the recessed ceiling fixtures, a sliver of silver promise. His gaze, when it met mine, was direct, unwavering. "On the table, Marnie."
It wasn't a question. It was a directive that landed low in my belly, a warm, heavy knot. Brent's hand was at the small of my back, a firm, guiding pressure. The polished surface of the mahogany conference table was cool against my palms as I leaned forward, then brought my knees up, my high heels tapping against the hard surface. Oh my god, was this really happening? Was I actually poised on Gibson Grant’s conference room table as two dominant alpha males watched me with hungry eyes? My posture was already vaguely vulnerable, my silk skirt rucked up around my thighs.
"Beautiful,” James rasped, blue eyes glinting. “But take off your panties, sweetheart. We want to see everything."
My breath hitched. My gaze flickered between his stern face and Brent's just as harsh expression behind me. My eyelashes fluttered slightly, big breasts heaving, but before I realized it, my fingers hooked into the delicate lace at my hips, trembling just slightly. I hesitated for a beat, the sheer audacity of it hitting me anew. Here. In this room where people took meetings and put up projector slides, I was going to remove my panties for these men like nothing was wrong. But with a slow, deliberate slide, I drew the scrap of lace down my legs. I dropped them onto the polished wood, a tiny, tangled piece of black frippery against the vast expanse of dark mahogany. I settled back onto my heels, knees spread, completely exposed save for the stilettos still strapped to my feet.
A soft sound of appreciation came from Brent behind me. "Beautiful," he murmured, the word a warm puff of air against my shoulder blade. His hand came to rest on my waist, the weight of it grounding me, an anchor in the storm of my own pulse. “But up, baby girl. Get down into a squat because I want to see how much you’re dripping today.”