“We abide by rules in this house.”

His voice was honey and scotch; the deep pull of a haunting cello. Clean and crisp, it resonated against the lush wood, leather, and marble of the room.

I swallowed heavily and nodded.

There were nine of us in the richly furnished, darkly lit study. Me, seven other college-aged girls just like me, and him.

Despite being just one of the nine people in the room, he took up ninety-nine percent of the air in the room.

His lingered over each of us as he purred the words. “Is that clear?”

One of the girls, a brunette standing a few applicants down from me, nodded quickly.

“Absolutely Mr.—”

“Sir.”

His words sliced through the room, cutting her off and making her lips snap shut before she frowned and turned to him.

“Wait, seriously?”

I felt something inside of me clutch up at her casual tone, and I wanted to shake my head. I wanted to open my own mouth and tell her, “Shh! That’s not how you speak to him!”

Because I knew. Maybe the rest of the applicants thought I was just another stranger to him — just one more vaguely anonymous applicant.

Except I wasn’t. We were not strangers.

Well, we were — to an extent — but that’s not to say we didn’t know each other. Not in the usual sense, at least. I didn’t know what his favorite color was, his favorite song, or what type of books he read.

I knew his drink was scotch, but that was just a tip of the iceberg.

Because in that room, with the seven other applicants, I was willing to bet I was the only girl that knew how Colin Kensington’s cock tasted.

I was willing to bet I was the only one who knew how he fucked.

And he knew I knew that. He hadn’t — not at first when he’d first strode into the study to address the potential au pairs. God, I didn’t know who he was until he recognized it. How in the world could I have ever imagined that that man, from that night would be him? Colin Kensington, famously secret billionaire investor.

Famously secret billionaire investor and my potential employer. The interview was set up by Dr. Rice, my freshman academic advisor at Harvard. That’s who I’d thought I was meeting this evening at his lavish townhouse up on Beacon Hill. The wealthy friend of my economics professor who needed someone to watch and care for his children for the holidays. One with a strong educational background, a valid passport, and fluency in French.

That’s who I’d expected.

What I had not expected, was him. Him being the man from the nightclub a week before. Him being the dark, dominant, arrogant and panty-meltingly gorgeous stranger that made me throw away all reason.

I was five minutes into a very important job interview, and I wanted to sink into the floor.

And he knew it.

He’d stepped into that study, started speaking, and my heart jumped into my throat. He’d closed the door, asked us all to stand in a line, and stepped in front of us. His eyes moved over each of us until for one single second, something in that armor of his cracked when his eyes landed on me.

And then he knew.

And he’d grinned.

And now here was this other girl, questioning him? I wanted to laugh. Because I knew what speaking to him like that would bring out. I knew the dominant, demanding way that man got exactly what he wanted.

I’d thrown away every last bit of my reason with him a week before at that nightclub. My reason, my caution, and most importantly, the last cloying shreds of my innocence.

“Excuse me?” The crisp English in his accent was edged in steel as he paused, turning slightly to look at the girl who’d spoken up.

The girl immediately looked like she’d realized her mistake. It was too late, of course.

“I will be addressed as sir,” he purred, moving to stand directly in front of her — towering over the small girl and leveling that steely sharp gray gaze at her.

“I— Yes, of course,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to the floor in front of her. “You’ll be addressed as sir.”

The corners of his lips turned up slightly in a smile as he nodded. “Yes. But not by you, I’m afraid.”

She looked up quickly. “What?”

“Andrew will see you out.”

She blinked as the rest of us and quickly looked straight ahead. “Oh, I—”

“Now.”

He nodded at the door to the study behind us, and she almost looked like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she whirled around and ran for the door.

That’s what speaking to him like that would bring out, because Colin Kensington got exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

And again, I knew this, because of the weekend before at the nightclub I had no business being at. The nightclub where he’d gotten exactly what he wanted from me in the stall of the women’s room.  And though I’d given it to him, he’d taken it from me, gasp by gasp, and whimpered moan by whimpered moan.

He’d demanded it from my body and left me begging for more.

The door shut on the girl who’d spoken out, and he turned. “Now then, shall we continue?”

Sure, why not. Let’s continue with one of the most important interviews of my life with the man from that night.

The man who’d whispered those filthy things in my ear. The man who’d stripped me of my reservations and hesitations. The man who’d taken the last bits of my reason, my caution, and my innocence.

Oh, right.

And the man who’d taken my v-card, seven days ago, in a nightclub bathroom.

What the hell was I getting myself into?