MIRANDA

I’m still shaken the next morning as I sit in my office and check my lipstick in the small compact I keep in my desk. Cherry ripe red. My signature color. At least it has been for the last few years.

Back in college, I wore a shade called Pale Iris. It might as well have been called Insignificant Iris. Invisible Iris.

I wanted so badly to stand out back then. To be somebody. And when, right out of college, the budding mega-star in the business world, Bryce Gentry took notice of me, meager Miranda, minor Miranda, miniscule Miranda, it felt like the light of the universe was finally shining on me.

Like maybe finally, after a lifetime on the sidelines, I could be the star of someone’s show. Maybe even my own.

And look how well that went. Maybe that was what you got when you relied on someone else to find you.

I got swallowed up in him instead.

And he was the worst kind of man, the kind who will devour you whole instead of giving you the strength to stand on your own two feet beside him.

And Dylan?

What kind of man is he?

I check the rest of my face in the small mirror. I was in a rush this morning because I overslept my alarm after tossing and turning all night. After two back to back meetings, it’s the first time all morning I’ve had a second to myself.

In the mirror, my blue eyes look too large and cartoonish in my face. At least the circles under them from my restless night are only slightly visible after working my magic with concealer.

I snap the compact shut and run my hand from my temple down to my throat, brushing my fingers across the skin where Dylan’s hand gripped me so roughly last night.

I once read an article that said you can tell everything about a man by the way he fucks. And I wonder if, after last night, maybe it’s true.

I shudder again as I close my eyes and relive every moment. I bite my lip as I recall the feel of his huge cock breeching me. The merciless way he thrust into me.

But then his hand was on my clit, making sure I was right there with him. Occasionally I felt him pause like he was checking in on me before continuing.

Or is that just wishful thinking?

After all, how many years have I been searching for the perfect man? Someone who will be a bastard to me in the bedroom—or on the hood of my car—but could be a gentleman the rest of the time?

Of course I don’t know if Dylan Lennox is a gentleman the rest of the time. But I’ve read up on him. He and his brother Darren are the entrepreneurial duo who came on the robotics scene six years ago with a vengeance, taking up an impressive market share almost from the get-go.

Dylan’s never seen with women in public. Some speculate it’s because he’s still in the closet but I know the real reason.

It’s because of Bryce Gentry.

The mutual skeleton in both our closets.

When Bryce finally went to jail for his crimes two years ago after the man he was blackmailing, Jackson Vale, caught him trying to commit corporate espionage, all the dirt Bryce had on Jackson and everyone else in his blackmail files went public.

Including a story on Dylan Lennox that was a small blip in the flood of the Gentry Files, as they came to be known. A story about Dylan brutalizing a prostitute.

It was there and then gone the next day. Disappeared.

I made it my personal mission to follow every story that Jackson released. Because though the story might have disappeared, Jackson was my ex and we were still friendly. I contacted him and he gave me a copy of the files directly.

There were pictures of Dylan and the prostitute. Him holding her down, hands around her throat. Her crying and trying to shove him away from her. They were the kind of pictures that would have made any other woman shrink away and avoid Dylan completely.

But both Jackson and I were willing to suspend judgement a little longer. We both know that Bryce liked to create circumstances and then take pictures as ‘proof’ of a salacious story, or even a crime, to get dirt on a competitor or enemy. Then use it as leverage against them to blackmail them, whether or not it was true.

I now know it’s how Bryce’s company Gentry Tech rose in prestige so quickly. Every permit he needed, he was granted. Funding he requested magically went through. Contracts were won amid stiff and more experienced competition. He got patents before anyone else.

But it was a house of cards that Jackson brought tumbling down. Bryce bribed judges, government officials, contractors, employees from other companies to get confidential product information to reverse engineer and delay their patents so Bryce could get the patents first.

Bryce tried to take as many people down with him as he could. Hence the story on Dylan. But why had it disappeared so quickly? Jackson didn’t know why.

So I tracked down the prostitute, Lenore Richards—who was no longer a prostitute, but living in a two bedroom in south San Jose with her two children—and asked her.

And got a door slammed in my face.

But I persisted. At the time, I wasn’t even sure why. I just had to know. What kind of man was Dylan Lennox?

Was he the kind of man who hurt women against their will?

… or with their permission?

It’s a difference that wouldn’t matter to a lot of women. But to me? To me it meant everything.

So I staked out her house like a crazy person. Every time she left, at least when she wasn’t with her children, I followed her to her car, peppering her with questions.

“Look, lady, I could call the cops on you,” she exploded on the second day. “I got rights. Reporters can’t just be showing up at my house—”

“I’m not a reporter! I told you I’m not. I just need to know. Did Dylan rape you that night? Please. I’m only asking for myself. As a woman.”

Lenore breathed out and looked around us. She lived in the bottom level of a townhouse and the small cul-de-sac was quiet.

“Look, I don’t want no trouble. I ain’t said nothing to nobody just like I promised in the paperwork.”

Paperwork. So she was paid to stay quiet. Did that mean Dylan was guilty of what they said he was?

I held up my hands. “I won’t make trouble. I just need to know. For myself.”

She frowned. “You know him or somethin’?”

I nodded even though it wasn’t exactly true. “We’ve run into each other here and there.”

She hefted out a long breath. “Naw, he didn’t rape me. Paid me extra for all that kinky shit is all. But you didn’t hear nothing from me.”

Then she backed away from me. “You leavin’ now?”

“But if he didn’t…. then why didn’t you just say so? Why would he pay for you not to clear his name?”

“You said you’d go if I answered your question.”

She looked pissed so I backed up just like she did, nodding vigorously. “You’ll never see me again.”

She narrowed her eyes at me but I was already halfway back to my car. I had what I’d come for.

Regardless of the reason for the payoff, I believed her. Dylan Lennox wasn’t a rapist.

But he did like the game.

Just like me.

I check my reflection one last time in the mirror, flashing a smile.

Packaged perfection.

My smile drops. Outwardly perfect, anyway. I can only keep up the illusion for so long. And being this person, the Miranda in the Mirror, means I can never be truly intimate with anyone.

I just want someone I don’t have to pretend with.

So no matter how much last night might have scared him or freaked him out, I’ve been excited by the possibility of him for far too long to let this go without another try.

I look at my calendar for the day.

Yep, I can afford to take an early lunch.

I’m just pulling my purse out from under my desk when there’s a knock on my door. Then Chet pushes the door open without waiting for my reply, naturally.

“Miranda,” he says, his smile wide, bright white teeth flashing. “You look lovely today.”

“I’m just on my way out, Chet. What is it?” I swing my purse over my shoulder to illustrate my point.

Chet steps further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “Can’t I stop in to see how you’re doing?”

I sigh, looking down at my phone.

“Chet, we aren’t dating anymore. If you have something to say about something work related, you don’t have to come by, you can just—”

“I just don’t understand it, Rany,” he says, coming in and sitting down in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Ugh, I always hated that nickname. “We were so good together. Everyone looked at us and thought we were that perfect it couple. We had the kind of relationship everyone dreams of having.”

I can only stare at him, my mouth slightly ajar. Is that what he really thought?

Fine. Apparently we’re having this conversation here and now. I broke up with him two weeks ago and he’s been calling and texting every day since. At least I assume he continued to. I blocked his number on day four because I didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

I sigh and look at him now. “Didn’t you think it was strange how I always wore my makeup all the time when we were together? Or odd that I never wanted you to sleep over?”

Chet frowns. “I guess. But girls get weird about how they look or whatever. And you have insomnia and can’t sleep with someone else in your bed. I respected that. And I lov—”

“No, Chet, you don’t.” I shake my head. “I was never myself when I was with you, don’t you get it? You don’t even know the real me.”

No one does. Because I don’t let them in. I’m so careful with the Miranda in the Mirror. Maybe Chet fell in love with her. But she’s a fantasy.

“I was tired of pretending,” I say, coming around the desk. For a while, when I first started dating Chet six months ago, I thought that maybe, if I tried hard enough, just maybe, I could be her. That pretty, normal woman. Maybe if I worked hard enough, I could get it to stick. If I had the right man, the right job, the right clothes…

But then we’d have sex, and no matter how Chet tried, he couldn’t make me cum. He was too much of a gentleman in bed. Or, more likely, too much of a wimp. I asked him to spank me a couple of times and he half-heartedly smacked my bottom. Eventually I gave up and just pretended to cum every time because it was easier and made Chet happy.

I ended it after I woke up in a cold sweat after another nightmare. I was back in Bryce’s apartment and he was humiliating me and hurting me. I woke up sobbing. And then I touched myself and came almost immediately after a months-long dry spell.

I broke up with Chet the next day and went to see that woman Lenore the day after that.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry.”

Chet stands and walks to the door, not looking at me. He’s hurt and obviously trying to hide it. “Rod wanted me to ask you if you made any headway with Lennox last night.”

“What?” I ask, too sharply. What do they know about what happened with me and Dylan last night?

Chet looks my way, frowning at my overreaction.

“He asked you to talk to him at the conference, right? To see if he’d give up any information on if they were considering ProDynamics’ bid? On our processors?”

“Oh, right.” My heartbeat slows a bit. “No. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.” It was true. We hadn’t done much talking. Our encounter had been more of a… physical nature.

“Dammit, you know we need that contract, Miranda. Why didn’t you try harder? God knows you don’t have a problem using your… attributes,” he looks right at my chest, “when you really want something.”

And here’s the other reason why I broke up with Chet. Because sometimes he can be a misogynistic asshole, which, if I’m honest, was part of my attraction to him. Cause I’m fucked up like that. He just couldn’t keep it up in bed, which is the only place I really need or want it.

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, Chet. I’m taking an early lunch.” I brush past him.

“Hi there, is Dylan Lennox in?”

“You have an appointment?” A shrewd woman in her mid-fifties looks over her spectacles at me in the lobby of Lennox Brothers Corp.

“Just tell him Miranda Rose has stopped in to see him.”

Her eyes narrow in scrutiny. “Mr. Lennox is a busy man.”

I get what she’s not saying. He doesn’t have time to pause his important work for every hussy that stops in wanting to chat with one of the industry’s most eligible bachelors.

I smile, humoring her. “I think he might want to see me.”

Of course, he could very well order his assistant here to send me away without ever uttering a word to me in person.

Somehow I have a feeling he’s classier than that. Then again, that might just be the man I’ve built him up to be in my mind as I’ve obsessed over him the past six months. But isn’t that why I’m here? To try to separate fact from fiction and let go of this fascination once and for all?

Still frowning at me, the assistant ushers me to sit in one of the lobby chairs while she picks up her phone and murmurs into it.

Her eyes dart over to me and I see the surprise register there. I only barely suppress a grin. Aha, so Dylan’s not the cowardly sort after all. He’s going to see me.

The assistant clears her throat and then stands. “This way, Miss.”

She leads me to the door to the left of her desk, pushes through it, and then heads down a long hallway. It soon opens up to a large warehouse like space.

There are a couple of rows of cubicles but they’re interspersed with portions of the room where various robotics components are set up. Some are in pieces, but there are several large robotic arms taller than a car that whir and twist as technicians poke and prod at them.

It all looks a little like the time I went to NASA when I was visiting my cousin in Houston that one time.

We go down the wall of the room and to the back of the building. There the matronly assistant knocks on the door.

“Come in,” comes Dylan’s low, manly voice. Even the sound of it sends shivers down my body.

I reach for the door handle but the assistant gets there ahead of me and opens the door.

Dylan’s sitting behind his desk, intimidating and hulking as he stares darkly past his secretary at me.

“Thank you, Hannah,” he says, eyes still on me. “You may go.”

“Do you need water or tea, sir?”

He gives a hard shake of his head. “No, that will be all. Hold all my calls.”

Hannah flashes me a distrustful glance and then backs out of the room, shutting the door as she goes.

Dylan’s nostrils flare as soon as the door shuts. “What are you doing here?”

I bristle a little at his bark, but only a little. I’ve been a sub to dominant men before and I know my coming here breaks all sorts of rules.

But Dylan’s not a dominant, at least not in the traditional or contractual sense. And maybe I could play it coy and wait a week before contacting him but I don’t do that. I don’t do games.

So I stride forward and sit in the chair opposite his desk and pull it closer, then lean in. “Look, last night was…”

Shit. I had a whole speech prepared but it suddenly completely leaves my head as his dark eyes pierce mine.

Looking into them last night for the first time had a similar effect but it was more manageable because of the dimness of the ballroom and darkness of the roof. But here, in the light of day…

“Last night was regrettable,” he snaps, finishing my sentence. I immediately start shaking my head but he’s on a roll now. “Last night was something that will never, and I mean, never, be repeated.”

I feel my cheeks heat at this, and not in embarrassment. I haven’t even been here all of five minutes and here he is, already pissing me off.

“Do you know how long I’ve looked for someone like you? Someone real? You think I like setting up half-satisfying fucks online?”

He shoots up from his chair and bangs both fists down on his desk. “That’s fucking irresponsible and you’ll never do it again. Jesus, we didn’t even use a goddamned condom!”

“I always use a condom. It was just with you that I—” I stop when I can see he doesn’t believe me, then press on anyway, no matter how angry I’m getting. “And I have an IUD, so don’t worry.”

He just shakes his head.

“That doesn’t change anything. You could get seriously hurt. You don’t know who the hell will show up.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Oh yeah? What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“Try controlling your urges. Discipline. Ever heard of it?”

I laugh at that. “Because you were so disciplined as you fucked me against the hood of my car last night. Twice.”

He sucks in a huge breath and then releases it, looking like he’s about to start breathing fire. Shit. This isn’t how I meant for this to go. I didn’t come in here to antagonize him. It’s not going to get either of us what we want.

I just wanted to make my proposal, tempt him with my sexy top and cleavage, and get out leaving him wanting more. Okay so shit, maybe I do like playing games a little. But only because I know this could be good for both of us. With how ravenously he took me, I know he wants this, too.

“Look,” I say, trying to pacify him and salvage the situation. “Everybody has needs. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. If we can find a safe, mutually beneficial way to meet those needs, what’s the harm?”

He shakes his head and speaks through his teeth. “Some desires are shameful.”

I stand up from my chair and take a step back at that. I can’t help it. It stings. He thinks I should be asham—

“Fuck. I didn’t mean you. It’s fine for you to want whatever you— But for me, it’s not, I can’t ever—” He rakes a hand through his hair just like he did last night, looking flustered and pained at the same time. It looks like a deep pain, too.

He closes his eyes and breathes out before piercing me again with that gaze.

“This will never happen, Miss Rose. I’m not the man to scratch your itch. Find someone else. Please leave now.”

But I didn’t get where I am today by being meek. I didn’t survive Bryce Gentry by walking gently into that good night. No, sir.

I’m stubborn. There were nights, more than one, where I felt so worthless I wanted to give up and die.

But I didn’t. I’m here today and everything I’ve gotten after Bryce was because I stubbornly stood up, demanded, and took it.

“I’ll leave on one condition.”

Dylan looks exasperated and throws his hands out.

“Give me your phone number and I’ll leave right this minute.”

“What? Is this some sort of fucking game to you?”

I’m the one breathing out hard this time. Shit. Games again. “Maybe. I don’t know. I try to be as straightforward as I can. I’m not trying to fuck with your life.”

He scoffs. “Aren’t you?”

“We’re both single. And unless you’re celibate, you need, how did you put it, you need to get your itches scratched too. Why not with me? Someone you can trust to be discrete. I’ll sign an NDA or anything else if you’re worried about that, show you my test results, I know we didn’t use protection the other night but I’m clean and on the pill and I—”

“Jesus Christ, you say giving you my phone number will shut you up and get you out of my office the quickest?” He yanks open the top drawer on his desk and shoves his phone my way. “Have at it.”

I stare at the phone but only for a second before snatching it up and punching my number in. I hit the green dial button and wait for my phone in my purse to buzz before hanging up.

I know I’m being pushy as hell, unattractively so. Maybe this all goes nowhere. Probably this all goes nowhere. Probably he blocks my number the second I walk out his office door.

Still I add myself to his contacts and hope for the best. Stranger things have happened. And when I glance back up at him, it’s to find him quickly averting his eyes.

He was watching me.

He’s attracted to me.

He followed me to that garage roof last night. He’s intrigued. Maybe my pushiness today killed any interest.

Or maybe he remembers exactly why he hung around last night after he came the first time and kept on fucking me for another half hour. Maybe he remembers exactly how incredible it felt for both of us to give into the animal and let ourselves free. For once, finally free.

I incline my head as I lean over to place his phone back on his desk. Does it afford a spectacular view of my cleavage? Yes, yes it does, and yes, I hope he’s looking.

“My ass is still sore from your fingers last night,” I whisper.

And then I turn and head out the door.