I grin so wide, it hurts.

Fuck. Everything hurts.

Every drop of power in my dick. Every molecule of air in my chest. Every crazy thought in my head.

It hurts, and I’ve never felt more amazing in my life.

I sure as hell haven’t ever spouted such quixotic bullshit and truly meant it. I’ve never stared at a woman’s face like this and sworn I’d never be tired of the sight. And my cock sure as hell has never demanded a repeat trip to paradise this fast after the first visit.

Most remarkably, my hands have never felt like this before.

Yeah…my hands.

They’ve never ached to hold a woman tighter. Never clenched into fists, fighting back the urge to cradle her face as I kiss her senseless and screw her into nirvana.

And they’ve never glowed brighter.

Ten garish reminders of the freak I really am.

Which is why I reach beneath us, gripping her ass as I lean in close, consuming her vision with nothing but me as I tell her through my teeth, “Close your eyes, beauty.”

The center of Emma’s brow pushes into a perfect little V. “Why?”

My jaw clenches. “Emma—”

“You’re so beautiful.” She delves a hand into my hair. “Let me watch you this time.”

“Close your eyes, Emma.”

I hate that it jolts her. Hate how it paints her face in nervousness, even though she complies. And I hate what it does to her body, tensing her before I can even drag the second condom from my pants.

I want to fascinate her again. Turn her into the mindless she-beast who let me take her in front of the window. Turn her into my partner to the stars.

So once again, I tiptoe into territory I’ve never traversed with a woman before.

Seduction. The real kind. As in, slow and sensual…and verbal.

“That’s good.” Simple, but an effective start. Also the truth, though I know everything I’m about to say is the truth. I’m just not sure how. This isn’t my normal MO. I’ve always been a show-not-tell guy. A master in the art of stringing women along with expensive food, expensive booze, and the belief they’ll somehow get beneath the suave shell I show the rest of the world.

I don’t want to be suave with her.

I just want to be real.

“Yeah. Very good,” I say with more confidence. “You’re gorgeous like this, Emma.” I brush kisses across her eyelids. “No. Not even gorgeous.” I swallow and hope she feels it. I hope she knows that texting this shit is one thing but speaking it is another. An experience that makes me feel like anything but a super hero right now. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, I’m in the fucking desert—and she’s the only oasis that can keep me alive. “You’re…you’re gravity.” It spills out, lamer than I ever imagined but good because it’s straight from my gut. My deepest instinct. “You’re morning. And—”

I’m silenced—saved—by her grip around my neck and her mouth jutting up to mine. She shoots her tongue into my mouth. Rolls the gorgeous curves of her hips, drenching my throbbing head in her scorching juices. “And the woman who needs you inside her again,” she grates. “Now.”

I growl hard. Kiss her harder. There’s a charge in our contact now, making her taste sooty but sexy, which awakens an animal drive in my gut as well as my dick. She tastes like me and all the places I’ve already marked her from the inside out. Now I want to find even more.

With that thought dominating my brain, I fumble the condom on. The second it’s slammed tight next to my balls, I grip Emma hard and position her for my full, fiery slam. No gradual build-up this time. I’m a rod of rage, full of racing electrons and blazing come, manifested all too clearly by the neon-blue glow cast across her ass. I fixate on that sight, reflected back to me from the mirror, as I plunge deep into her. Faster. Harder. Driving to make her scream. Giving everything to bring her pleasure. Rejoicing in the view of my erection, lunging deeper and deeper into her wet sheath.

Succumbing to her magic.

Giving in to her spell.

Hailing her as my sorceress…as I give her every drop of my own super power again.

Two days after Reece Richards made sure I’d never think of that suite in the same way again, I return to my office from the water cooler, doing my best not to wince. Neeta has come in during my absence and secured herself in the chair on the other side. Privacy is no longer a luxury, so I’m forced to hide how every inch of my ass still feels as if I spent the day at Malibu lazing too long on my tummy, covering everything but my backside.

But that’s the boring metaphor for everything that really happened.

For how Reece Richards gripped me so fiercely when fucking me, he left bruises that feel a lot like burn marks.

For how he seared himself into my mind with the same ruthless force.

For how my body has turned pyromaniac on me, craving those flames again.

For how much it hurts to ache for him like this.

And for how much I really like it.

I frown at Neeta, but she’s still furiously tapping text into her phone. She glances up as I place my water bottle, newly filled at the cooler, on the opposite end of the blotter from my computer. “If you add vodka to that, I’ll steal a swig.”

I chuckle, knowing damn well she’s joking.

“I’m not joking.”

“Okaaaayyy.” My deeper frown counteracts the casual blurt. “Sorry, honey. What’s going on?”

“You mean what’s not going on,” Neeta returns. “As in, what’s happened to Bolt and his hot streak.”

I resettle in my chair, jolted again by my private hot streak. “I’ve been…busy. Haven’t even turned on the news. What’s going on? Wasn’t he just zapping every creep in town with thunderbolts and lightning?”

“Until a day and a half ago, yes.” She pushes her sculpted brows together and slides a finger up her screen. “But now he’s disappeared into his dynamo den or whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess cheese doodles and a Lone Ranger binge are more important than saving Los Angeles from rapists, thieves, and vandals.”

I huff, progressing to the logical conclusion. “And let me guess. The tour group is now wondering why they bypassed Anaheim to stay here.”

“Give the lady a prize.” She rings an invisible bell.

With crazy-weird timing, a musical ding erupts from my computer. A window slides in from the left, topped by the name of the person hailing me via our in-house instant message system—set to a privacy level I’ve never even heard of much less been invited to share.

Reece Richards

Shit, shit, shit.

I grit my teeth to keep the words from spilling out, but a stressed sigh is inevitable.

Neeta charges. “What? Who is it?”

I shrug, praying I’m convincingly casual. “Rick from housekeeping.” Thank God there’s a supervisor in that department with an “R” name. If she glances at my monitor, she’ll see that much before I close the pop-up. “He thinks the tour group is hoarding the comp shampoo bottles. And he might still be a little peeved about Ree—Mr. Richards and me forgetting to tuck the shams on the beds in the suite during the team turnover.”

My message box pings again.

Speaking of tucking a sham.

“Sorry.” I flash an apologetic look at Neeta, not having to pretend this time. “I should get this.”

“Of course.” Neeta waves an indifferent hand but shows no signs of ceasing her scrolling. Or moving from the chair. “Go ahead. I’m just hoping to find any random mentions of Boltalicious. Maybe he dropped off his hottie leathers for dry cleaning somewhere.”

I concentrate on pulling in a fortifying breath but take my time about it. Acting like I’m thinking may actually lead to doing it. Besides, the action steadies my fingers on the keyboard.

A little line beneath my words, looking like a dwindling dynamite fuse on repeat, denotes he’s typing a reply.

I had to go and bring up dynamite.

I pass off another long breath as efficient frustration.

My lips twitch. Well, look who just got glib and sassy with the boss. I am woman, and my roar is full of sultry power. Maybe I’ll go out and kick some bad-guy ass.

My fingers fly, taking advantage of the perfect comeback.

Hell.

How is his middle name not Persistence? And how does he crash my heart against my ribs by simply messaging that nickname?

I square my shoulders. I have to be stronger than this. Remind myself I’m likely not the first woman he’s ever called that, no matter how special it feels or how many backflips my stomach insists on subjecting me to. Realize that a rich rogue with eyes like mercury, hair like satin, and the body of a god won’t care about the moony-eyed manager he leaves behind once the fascination of the fuck is gone.

I preen for a second before clicking send. “Ka. Pow.”

While I wait for his dynamite fuse to reignite, Neeta looks up with an inquisitive smirk. “Is Richard being a douche again?”

I send a wry wink. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

A new huff bursts out. He’s right, so damn right, and I can’t let him be. I really am in the middle of something—and if the tour group is as pissed as Neeta alleges, my work load as Guest Satisfaction Manager is about to get heavier—and I can’t even pretend taking a “break” with him will be “relaxing.” Peace isn’t an option when we’re in the same room together, and the more I’ve pondered it, the more I realize what he said the other night is the only way to explain the wonderful war zone.

There’s no explanation for it at all.

Unless stuff like the sun, stars, and gravity are worthy definitions. And they’re not.

They can’t be.

Which is why I must declare détente now.

I send the reply before I can chicken out. And then literally sit on my hands while waiting for his response.

But his typing fuse never reignites.

I tap a toe on my plastic chair mat. The move is actually empowering, giving an excuse to admire the new fire-engine-red pumps on my feet. Okay, so they were the result of shopping therapy as a distraction from him, but they’re still killer. But even their super powers fade after a long minute of inactivity in the chat box.

I stop the toe tapping. And hold myself back from writing stupid scripts about why he’s suddenly fallen off. I imagine him sitting there at his refined desk, in front of those penthouse windows, glorious even in his fury. Who knows what’s prompted his silence? The man has a million other things to focus on besides getting peeved with the mousy manager currently serving as his fuck buddy side dish.

No longer.

It’s for the best that he recognizes that too. That we both do.

Blasting aside the lead plate closing over my chest, I minimize the chatbox with an efficient click. “Any luck?” I query, converging my attention back to Neeta. “Mr. Lightning-in-Leather sighted anywhere at all?”

She jerks her head up, tossing her unbound hair across her slumped shoulders. “You mean other than a bad imposter on Melrose, using the lure to flash his junk?”

I groan but finish in a snicker. “So that’s a giant no.”

“Affirmative, kiddies.” With the same wry emphasis, she stabs again at her phone screen. “So we’ll probably have the group for just two nights instead of four. Ugh.” She turns the device over, slamming it to her lap while letting her head fall back. “That’ll teach me to include a last-minute booking on the weekly forecast.”

“But you can put a note on the report, right? Explain that the revenue loss was due to circumstances beyond our control?”

She stabs me with a new stare, now drier than her tone. “Last time I checked, a super hero no-show doesn’t count as an Act-of-God excuse.”

My encouraging smile twists into a grimace. “So who’s going to tell Mr. Richards?”

“Says the new teacher’s pet herself.”

This time, I really need her to be kidding—but I see the unnerving truth sneaking through her sheepish smile. “Oh, come on. Seriously?”

Neeta rises, leaving her phone on the desktop so she can clasp both hands, practically petitioning me. “I’ll bring you ladoo for the next month.”

“Not fair.” I’ve had a weakness for the coconut dessert balls since she shared some with me last week. The girl makes a mean ladoo.

“Then consider it a noble act. He likes you, Emma. And you’re more comfortable with him than the rest of us.”

I double down on the glower. Comfortable isn’t how I’d describe the vibe between the man and me, but that justification is way different than everyone else’s. They all act like he’s a moving nuclear waste zone and they’ll start glowing if they breathe around him. And me? I have to keep reminding myself the glow won’t last forever.

“And you think that’ll make him less ticked about the news?”

“What news?”

It’s more dictate than question, issued from the doorway behind Neeta with the authority of an arriving king. The man to whom it belongs is such an image of sovereign glory, I’m shocked there isn’t a crown atop his umber waves. That elegant double-breasted suit. That regal stature. That all-encompassing gaze. I own everything I see…

I’m actually thankful for my next wave of astonishment. How did he get here from the spire so fast? And looking like he’s been at some thousand-bucks-a-ticket gala or awards dinner, instead of giving me shit from his desktop in his dark office?

“Mr. Richards.” Neeta really looks ready to curtsy until her nose hits the floor, only I wonder how that’ll work in her fitted navy pantsuit. I’m glad I chose a similar ensemble. If I’m not wearing a skirt, the man can’t even think of invading his way up it—though the bright silver fire in his gaze leads me to believe he went there for a second. Maybe more than a second.

“Miss Jain.” He nods with regal deference. “Have I interrupted?”

“No, no.” Neeta’s gaze zips back to me, flaring with meaning. “As a matter of fact, Miss Crist was just thinking of calling up to you.”

“Is that so?” He jogs a brow, making me wonder if he might really be descended from nobility. The subtext in his eyebrows alone likely sent a few heretics to the guillotine in years past. “What a nice idea. I wouldn’t have even had to shout about it.”

As I glare, Neeta jolts. “Shout about it? Why?” Again, I wonder if she’s about to nosedive for the floor. “Is everything all right? Is there something we can do for you?”

“Nothing I can’t take care of myself.”

His gaze, gorgeous and dark gray, doesn’t leave me.

Neeta’s stare, pensive and penetrating, doesn’t leave him.

“Okay,” she finally says, very slowly—preparing the air for a pause as murky as his eyes.

At last, Reece fully enters the room and refreshes the expectancy in his gaze. “So…Miss Crist? There’s something you wanted to discuss?”

Neeta’s smile is brilliant, framed by her toffee-shaded lipstick. “Ah, yes. She did.”

“I didn’t.” I burn a meaningful glare her way. “Nothing yet, at least.” I gaze back to him. Whoa. Even pulling my focus for ten seconds instigates another first-look rush. “Besides, you seem to be having a busy night.”

“Have had.” He shrugs, rumpling his formalwear into even more delicious angles, before clarifying. “Dinner with an old friend. I was on my way up to the office but realized it might be a good idea to check up on things in the trenches.”

“The trenches are fine.” I insert it before Neeta can formulate anything more. “All systems just grand.”

“Outstanding.” He unleashes a smile that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Neeta practically simpers. He seems to notice but not notice, if that makes any sense, before stating, “So you won’t mind if I glance at the latest guest-satisfaction numbers?”

“Of course not.”

“Outstanding.” He accentuates every syllable, turning every one of them into aural caresses—so smoothly diabolical in his intent, my senses take a second to catch up. By the time they do, he’s already pivoting to Neeta, arms casually folded. “But I’m sure you have other duties to attend, Miss Jain. Don’t let me keep you.”

If my gaze were daggers…

I’d never understood the idiom until this moment, having to pretend the man’s suggestion means nothing more than business-as-usual when wicked intent flows like quicksilver from the back of his gaze. Even Neeta picks up on that provocative energy now. Her glances are curious, her shuffle slow, as she turns toward the door. “Of… Of course, Mr. Richards. I’ll just be in my office should you need anything, but Emma’s been right on top of the satisfaction scales.”

His gaze thickens. The edges of his mouth become perfect parentheses for his shit-eating leer. “Satisfaction.” He rubs a thumb along his lower lip. “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that…but really look forward to hearing more.”