A LONG, MARBLE TABLE THE color of sand extends the length of the conference room. Ford and his father sit across from each other, Graham and I sit at either end.

The security meeting has lasted three hours, most of which I’ve sat and watched Graham in action. His brain works so fast, his intelligence so apparent, that I’m awestruck. I’ve worked with bright men before, but nothing like this. He’s on another level with facts, figures, insight that blows my mind. How does one man, at his age, no less, have so much knowledge?

Everything Ford or Mr. Landry ask, Graham has the answer. He seems to have thought and researched this from every possible angle and I’m beyond impressed.

And beyond turned on.

“All we need to close up this piece are the numbers for the insurance. Do you have them?” Mr. Landry asks, turning to Graham. He starts to flip through his files, his forehead crinkled perfectly.

He doesn’t have them. I do. In our little banter this morning, he left them on my desk.

“You had me bring them, Graham,” I say, sliding the file to his father. “Remember?”

A look of relief washes over his face. “Thank you, Mallory.”

“You’re welcome. Also,” I say, pulling out a notepad, “I found this in Linda’s drawer. It looks like there were notes taken by someone at some point in a meeting about training courses and different licenses.”

“We’ve been looking for that!” Ford exclaims as I scoot the legal pad down the table to him. “We’ve looked everywhere. With Graham’s assistant merry-go-round, we didn’t know where these went.”

“They were in a file buried in the back of my desk,” I explain. “There’s no notation on them at all to indicate what they’re for. I just knew because I’ve been working with you all on this.”

Mr. Landry peers at me much the same way Graham does. “How long have you worked here?”

“Not long,” I reply, looking at Graham. He’s almost beaming at me. “A couple of weeks.”

“I like you,” he says, almost like an afterthought as he flips through the file. “These insurance numbers look great. Let’s get some lunch and then get started on location. I really like that one downtown, but I know Ford prefers the one on Woodrose Avenue.”

They all start to stand and I clear my throat. “I hope it’s not out of line, but I ordered you all lunch. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“You did?” Graham asks.

“You told me this would last through the morning,” I shrug. “Not taking a lunch break will expedite this. That’s what you want, right, Ford?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning at me. “Thanks, Mallory.”

“No problem.”

“Graham, if you ever want to get rid of Mallory, I’ll take her.” Graham flashes his brother a look that only makes him laugh.

“I was kidding,” Ford says, “but not kidding. If this doesn’t work out,” he says, looking at me, “I have this company I’m starting . . .”

“She’s employed,” Graham says.

“Boys,” Mr. Landry interjects, silencing them both, “she’s sitting right here.” He looks at me and smiles. “And she’s not stupid. If you need a job, I’ll hire you.”

We all laugh before they return to their discussions about location and square footage, and I find myself spacing out while I watch my boss. His fingers twist a pen, flipping it back and forth, while volleying ideas with his family members. The way they defer to him, ask for his opinions, the way he’s ready with a plan for every possible path is such a turn-on.

I take my hands off the table and place them in my lap.

The movement gets Graham’s attention, but he doesn’t miss a beat. He continues his little speech on utility prices, his eyes trained on mine. I hold his gaze, widening my eyes, teasing him. I could never go through with this here, not in front of his brother and father. But he doesn’t know that. And this is fun.

Graham’s head cocks to the side in a silent warning, and I can’t help but smirk. I wiggle my eyebrows and watch his lips press together. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat.

I form an “o” with my lips and wink at Graham. That does it. In one swift movement, he stands. His brother and father lean back, puzzled.

“Is everything okay?” Mr. Landry asks. “Graham?”

“I need to get something from my office. Excuse me,” he gruffs, storming out the door.

I bolt upright, not sure what to make of that. When they look at me, I shrug. “He didn’t have a lot of coffee this morning,” I offer weakly.

Ford chuckles. “He seemed a little preoccupied when I got here today. I think he was focused, and I know when I’m thinking about work like that,” he grins cheekily, “coffee gets easily overlooked.”

“Graham does have a drive that’s hard to find,” Mr. Landry offers. Ford tries to stifle a laugh. “Would you agree, Mallory?”

“Most definitely,” I giggle.

“He’s acting odd today,” Mr. Landry comments to Ford. “Is he acting all right with you?”

“He’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry about him.”

“I don’t, usually,” Mr. Landry says, shaking his head. “He has his shit together more than any of you, which concerns me today when I see him like this. I—”

He’s interrupted by a buzzing sound loud in the air.

“Mallory, would you see me in my office, please?”

Graham’s voice is clear and not without a brusqueness that’s impossible to miss.

“Sure. I’ll be right there.” I stand, smoothing down my dress. The intercom disconnects with a thump. “I moved the creamer on him,” I joke. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”

I feel their gazes on my back as I exit and weave through the people standing in the halls on their lunch break. Once I enter my office, I see his doors are open.

A feeling of anticipation lingers in the air. I approach the doorway and find him standing next to his desk, his tie loose around his neck, his hair ruffled. His jaw is set as his gaze sweeps over me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

“I was still taking notes. I was doing my job.”

“You were fingering yourself.”

“You don’t know that.”

He storms towards me, grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it behind me, locking it with a flourish. “If I touch you now, will you be wet?”

“Like that has anything to do with if I was touching myself or not,” I say. “Just looking at you—”

I’m against the wall, the force causing the painting over the love seat to shake. His lips are all over mine, my jaw, down my neck to my chest. “Oh, God,” I moan, soaking in the way his hands roam my body—my arms, my cheeks, down my chest and then over to my sides. In a swift motion, his hands are palming my ass and lifting me.

Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he picks me up, pinning me against the wall. He kisses me senseless and I go right back at him, working frantically at the buttons of his shirt.

I’m whirled in a circle as he walks me backwards. I jerk his shirt free from his pants and fumble for the last button. Before I can get it undone, he drops me on the loveseat.

Lying back, my breathing all over the place, I look up at him. His hair is sticking up everywhere, his jacket half off, his shirt completely askew like he was just mugged. It’s hot as hell.

He gets on his knees, dragging my left leg and tossing it over his shoulder. A grin lifts the corner of his lips.

“You need a release, baby?” he asks.

My legs are spread, my pussy wide open for him. It seems like I should care, that I should feel some sort of self-consciousness, but I don’t.

I just don’t.

“Your dad and brother are in the conference room,” I say as clearly as I can.

“You don’t think Ford knows what’s happening in here?” He drags a finger up the inside of my thigh. “He’ll keep Dad busy.” His finger drifts over my opening, touching it just lightly enough that I shiver. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

I can’t answer him. I can’t even look at him. All I can do is lie back, my dress straddling my waist, and wait for any touch he’ll give me.

I don’t have to wait long. His palm lies flat along my stomach, his thumb finding my clit. The push, steady and firm, is enough to almost make me yelp.

“Shhh . . .” he snickers. “It’s the middle of the day, Ms. Sims. You don’t want an audience, do you?”

“I don’t care,” I say, bucking against his hand.

“No, but I do,” he replies. “I don’t want some fuckhead making copies to hear you moan my name. And you will be moaning my name.”

He swirls the pad of his thumb over me before grabbing my hips and planting his face between my legs.

“Ah!” I moan as he sucks me into his mouth. “Oh, God, Graham.”

“Told you.”

I think I’m going to melt against his face, completely lose control from the contact of his tongue parting me. When I look down and see that he’s watching me, I nearly die.

Grabbing his hair, I pop myself up as much as I can and watch this man’s face between my legs. “Do I taste good?”

He hums against my opening before flicking his tongue against me.

The sensation is incredible.

He slides his hands under me, lifting my hips so my pussy is angled right at his mouth. I can hear him sucking me, lapping against me, stroking me with his tongue. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he inserts a finger, twisting it in a “come here” fashion.

“Graham,” I groan, short of breath. My hands weave through his hair, pushing his face into me.

Another finger goes in, the rigidity of the digits such a contrast to

the softness of his mouth. He strokes in and out of me, this powerful man in a suit kneeling under me.

“You like that?” he asks, drawing his fingers out and shoving them back in. “Does that make you want my cock?”

“Yes,” I moan, begging for more friction.

“Too bad.”

I want to argue, to beg him to undress and climb on top of me, but I can’t form words as his strokes bring me higher and higher.

“The next time I tell you not to do something, fucking listen.”

“I just . . . I didn’t. I . . .” My head falls back, my hands finding my breasts and cupping them together. “Oh. My. God.”

“Be quiet or I’ll stop.”

Biting down on my lip, my back arched, I feel myself start to near the edge of no return.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he says, his tone completely controlled. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Do this to me,” I beg. “Please.”

He smirks. “I’m going to make you come now. I’m going to watch you completely lose control on my hand. I want you to remember who controls this, got it?”

He’s purposefully not getting me off, holding back just enough so I can’t come until he says so.

“Graham,” I groan, my insides clenching, trying desperately to get enough friction to burst apart. “Please.”

“Who is in control of this, Mallory?”

“You,” I bite out.

“Who says when you come?”

“You fucking do,” I huff, spreading my legs farther. “Now do it.”

“You take orders pitifully,” he says, but gives in, and within four strokes, has me coming all over him.