He can’t make me attend these meetings with him.

Can he?

No. It’s completely inappropriate. Completely outside the bounds of a professional working relationship.

And that’s why it turns me on so much.

Even though it’s such a risk—such an incredible risk—hearing his voice over the phone, telling me in no uncertain terms that I will be meeting with him on Thursday, turns my core to molten heat. I want his hands between my legs again, his hand on my back, pressing me down into the desk. I want thirty minutes where I’m not in control.

Because, Jesus, it feels so good to let go of everything for that half hour. It’s something I’ve never been able to get from exercise or drinking with girlfriends or shitty movies or anything else.

I need this from him.

I need this month.

At the end of it, he’ll go back to his regular billionaire life, with exclusive parties and personal drivers and clothes tailored perfectly to his rock-hard body. I’ll still be here.

Unless he closes Basiqué.

I don’t think that’s going to happen. Sandra is one of the best editors in the business, and Basiqué is one of the top magazines in the country. It’s Williams-Martin’s best property. There’s no way he would shut it down.

The fact is, he needs me, too.

He gave himself away a little on this phone call. A man who didn’t care—a man who was only in it for the sex, to be able to fuck me over his desk, to be able to get me off for the hell of it—would have let it go when I told him it was too risky to continue.

He didn’t.

* * *

The flight home from Los Angeles crawls by. I’m sitting in coach, which is a small blessing, because Sandra sits in first class and leaves me to my own devices.

My head throbs from lack of sleep. Sandra scheduled two days of back-to-back meetings with Rodarte for a new feature, then booked an early flight back to New York City. Once we land, it’ll be a full day in the office before my next meeting with Jax.

With a racing heart, I throw myself into the tasks of the day. While we were on the way to the airport for the flight out, Sandra had me reshuffle her schedule for the week to accommodate the last-minute trip. It’s a decision I still don’t understand, to be totally honest. She could have sent any number of people to meet with the people at Rodarte in her place—including me—but I know better than to question her. If she wants to take meetings in person, that’s up to her. Regardless, it makes Thursday afternoon a logistical nightmare. The meeting rooms are crowded with people waiting for approvals on everything from layouts to new pieces for photo shoots. I guide them into the office one by one so Sandra can oversee her empire.

When 5:00 comes, there’s a miraculous break in the steady stream of meetings.

After I’ve ushered a pair of designers back out into the hallway, Sandra slips off her reading glasses and places them in her desk.

“Coat and purse, Catherine.”

I gather her lightweight summer coat—it’s too hot to wear it, but she folds it over her arm nonetheless—from the closet and bring it to her.

“I’ll be at a dinner with Theodore for the next couple of hours. When I return, have the mockups waiting for me.”

“Of course, Sandra. Have a lovely time.”

“Yes.”

She’s already heading for the door, not giving me a second glance.

I shouldn’t go down to meet with Jax.

It’s the wrong choice, and I know it.

I go anyway.

There are still a couple of people lingering in the meeting room. One woman, with a tape measure hanging around her neck, looks up hopefully when she sees me, then goes back to tapping her foot on the floor. She’s probably hoping to get an approval from Sandra. She’ll be waiting a while.

Three steps down the hallway, and Bryce appears, rounding the corner almost too fast for me to avoid him.

“Cate!” he cries, grasping my shoulders and pulling me in to kiss both my cheeks. “You look terrible!”

I laugh out loud. He’s probably right. I grabbed enough from the Closet to make it through the two days in LA, and I’m sure the bags under my eyes are too big to be covered by makeup. “It’s been a long week.”

“But you’re good to go. I saw Sandra leaving. I’ll be out of here too, as soon as I can get the final fitting on this outfit over with.” That explains the impatient seamstress.

“Don’t let me stop you!” I say, as quickly as I can without seeming rude. I do want to catch up with Bryce, but Jax is waiting.

“You owe me a coffee date,” he calls after me as I hurry down the hallway.

Pulling open the outer doors, I prepare to rush in and knock…but one of Jax’s inner doors is propped open already. He’s standing in the middle of his office, waiting, his mouth a thin line.

My heart pounds against my rib cage.

I step carefully into the room, and he moves behind me to close the door. The lock clicks into place.

We’re alone.

But instead of wrapping me in his arms like he did the last time, he steps around in front of me, his eyes hard and cold.

“Jax—I—”

“Mr. Hunter.” His tone is full of reprimand.

“Mr. Hunter…I wanted to talk about—”

He silences me by stepping forward, taking my face in his hands, and devouring my mouth with a kiss so hot I think I’ll melt right into the floor.

His lips crush into mine, his tongue explores my mouth, his hands are everywhere, on my waist, my breasts, the back of my neck. It lights every part of me on fire. The taste of him is pure sex, pure confidence, pure extravagance, and I want to taste him forever.

I moan into his mouth as he takes me in his arms, guiding me roughly until my back is pressed against the wall. One of his strong hands pins my wrists above my head, the other yanks my skirt up and rips my panties aside.

His mouth is still on me, nipping, licking the side of my neck, ravishing my lips.

When his fingers make contact with my folds I’m already soaked. He shoves two fingers inside, lowers his head to my ear. “Spread. Wider.”

I obey him without hesitation. What he’s doing to me is rough and hot and I can’t get enough.

He brings me right to the edge and then without a second to catch my breath sends me tumbling over, coming so hard on his fingers my vision blacks out.

Then, abruptly, he pulls his hand away and steps back, licking my juices from his fingers without breaking eye contact.

“We can stop meeting right now.” His voice doesn’t have a hint of a question.

And even in this moment, my muscles quaking from my explosive orgasm, my heart bursting with how much I want him, I can’t let go of the risk.

My voice is a choked whisper. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer, the manly scent of him filling my lungs. “If you’re not here tomorrow, I’ll consider our agreement void.”

Then he’s gone.