One day, she might kill me, but first I'm convinced she'll drive me insane.

I'm devastated every time I see Bekah Corbin. Furious when I remember she's off-limits.

She's made me a smitten, unthinkable caricature of who I used to be, and everything I swore I'd never become.

Worse, there's no way back to sanity. All roads are as fucking closed as my balls are blue.

It's been weeks since we met and I first had her under me.

Weeks since being the Bastard Axe of Wall Street meant something.

The steady twitch in my eye speaks volumes when I see my reflection. It says the impossible. It creeps up in a sardonic voice and whispers in my soul, you, sir, are utterly screwed.

This wasn't meant for Grant Shaw.

I'm no stranger to fate, but obsession? Fuck.

Maybe if I were on my knees thanks to a catastrophic trade on the wrong side of Mr. Market, then at least I'd understand. I'd forgive. Career madness always has a certain mercy. But this, this woman I can't ignore, and damned sure can't bleach from my head...she's cost me so much more than mere fortune.

She's stolen my focus.

Set my level head on fire.

Sapped my calm, my patience, my cool, sure as desert sun.

She's bruised my ego more than I'll ever admit.

Shit, I'm in my office for the third time today, watching her through the one way glass overlooking the cubicles, dick throbbing so hard I feel it in my throat.

At a simple glance, she's just another cog in my empire. Indistinguishable from the thirty or so boys and girls at their desks, watching share prices and resistance points on their screens, screaming into their phones like the double dealing attack dogs they are. Hungry for their fortune, their personalized pat on the head, every last one of them confident I'll be able to spin their passion into gold. Often, I do.

Obviously, there are a few key differences with Bekah.

They're clear as ever when her body draws my eyes. My gaze goes to the ripe breasts she's hiding behind her little blouse, or the ass that caught my hand when I took her cherry less than a month ago, or sometimes the long, wavy brown hair I wrapped in my fist, holding her face up, ready, and aching for my lips.

No, she's not like the others. She doesn't have their frenzied energy, their need to make their first million, their puppy dog urge to impress every time I call them into the board room to talk this week's numbers.

She has an effect on me like no one else in this office.

Hell, like no one else on this planet.

It doesn't make sense. We've already fucked. I spent the best two days of my life taking her over and over again in my quiet cabin, breaking the silence with her screams and my vicious grunts. I brought myself off in her a dozen times.

That's eleven more than I normally need to remember my first commandment with women: one and done.

Before Bekah, it never failed. I never second guessed myself, not even once, too balls deep in my career to find the time.

That was before everything got complicated. Before I knew who she was. Before she walked into my office, and shot almost as much adrenaline through my heart in two minutes as the two insatiable nights we had in Eden.

Utterly screwed is absolutely right. I know I am when I'm watching her with sweat beading on my brow, one hand on the wall for support. I ask myself for the hundredth time why emptying my balls in this girl hasn't flushed her out of my system like it always did before. Why isn't one and done enough?

I don't fucking know.

Logic flew out the door the day she walked back into my life. So has my infamous, calculating caution, the biggest tool in my box I have to thank for the billions I've earned in a tough market over the past decade.

They don't call me the Bastard Axe for nothing. I earned my moniker. I know when to swing, when to hack miracles, and when to cut and run. This is my world.

Driving hard bargains. Accepting no excuses. Chewing competitors up for lunch, and shitting out any shark who crosses me – especially the clueless, entitled trust fund brats disarmed by my beard and the warm smile buried in it. They think I'm easier than dealing with another clean shaven piranha. They're always wrong.

She can't be my Waterloo. The Bastard Axe isn't brought down by girls almost half his age, who chew bubble gum at their desks between calls involving my biggest deal ever, and brush off multi-million dollar contracts like they're no big deal.

Until Bekah, I knew who I was. Knew my many strengths and non-existent weaknesses.

Now? Oh, there's weakness, all right. It begins and ends with spreading the legs I can't stop thinking about long enough to remember my own name.

Tell me it's wrong.

Tell me it's madness.

Tell me what's made her off-limits on more levels than I can count.

Tell me I must be pathologically obsessed when I'm threatening everything I've ever built for one more sip of her moscato lips, sweet and dangerous and rare.

Tell me a hundred times. Burn it in my brain. Brand it on my skin.

I don't care.

Tasting Bekah once wasn't nearly enough. Ill have her in my bed again – very fucking soon – or else I'll lose what's left of my mind and it won't even matter.

* * *

Sweet freedom.

I start smiling like a fool when I see the sign for Chandlersport. Ten more miles ahead, and hundreds from New York City, plus my obligations. The private lodge I've spared no expense to build in this tiny Maine town feels like home, more than my condo in Manhattan ever will.

I love New York for work, but play? I need quiet, trees, and lots of fresh Atlantic wind in my hair. The city, the exchange, and the office gave me billions, but they'll never give me the glory within a few more miles of lonely coast.

Part of that glory is the challenge when I hunt down a woman for the night. The girls out here are wholesome. None of them have seen my face on the New York gossip rags, or read my latest hedge fund interview. The billionaire schtick is just icing on the cake, and for much of the pussy I've poached, not very much.

Sometimes, they're local gals. Others, starry eyed tourists. Their tastes in men aren't much different.

They want charm. Class. Heart.

They love being wooed by a man who knows how to wear a tie, but doesn't run at the first sign of a bar brawl.

They love a beard against their thighs and lumberjack strong hands to hold them open. I don't spend much time chopping firewood in the boonies, but I've cultivated the look. It's become my trademark in a suit, and completely naked when I'm in bed with my next lucky lady.

This week, there's extra cause for celebration and a well deserved break. I've made progress toward a lucrative merger with a fifty year old fixture on Wall Street. In another year or two, my ten figures could be eleven. And there's no better reward for the good things to come than a couple bourbons on the rocks while I decide which small town honey will get every inch of me tonight.

* * *

As soon as I'm checked in at my gated wooden palace up the long dirt road and dressed down into a fresh Oxford shirt and jeans, I'm ready. I feed and water my boy, Jack, who rubs his velvet blue head against my legs, and gives me a garbled mew for good luck.

“You love when daddy's home. Hell of a lot more exciting than chasing birds and squirrels, huh?” I pat his head and he squeaks again.

The cat was a stray. He came to me on my doorstep here one snowy morning a couple winters ago. Didn't have the heart to turn him away. Since his fateful entrance, he's made my cabin his, at least when I'm in town, or he decides he wants an easy meal left by my maids and a warm place to sleep.

“Chow down so you have plenty of energy to look cute tonight when I get back with my girl,” I tell him. “They always appreciate that.”

It's true.

Something about having pussy to stroke and smile at in front of my rustic fireplace gets the pussy I'm most interested in extra wet when it's time to bring them upstairs. They never realize until much later I've done them a big favor, easing them into it. Because once our clothes are gone, I go hard, and they find out these muscles covered in ink are more than just a wild lumberjack aesthetic.

I fuck like one, too. Longer, meaner, and dirtier than any city boy should.

* * *

Sanford's is my traditional hunting ground. I'm in good with the owner, Mack, the only man in this town who knows what I really do back in NYC. It's also clean, well lit, and they do the kind of craft cocktails that pull touristy chicks from across New England like bees to pollen.

I order my usual, pull up a stool, and sip my drink while my eyes wander over tonight's offerings. The two bubbly blondes in the corner are both in their mid-twenties. They're already laughing, making eyes at me the first time I give them a glance for more than a second.

It's like watching puppies fight over a bone. It wouldn't take much to bring them both home tonight, but I've been there and done that too many times. Lately, my dick just isn't interested in threesomes.

There's nothing quite like giving one lucky woman my complete, unbridled attention. The Grant Shaw Experience isn't meant to be shared, and if any woman walks away without that pleasant hangover lingering in her thighs in its fullest, I cringe.

I ignore the girls when they wave. Next, I tell myself, taking a fresh pull off my drink.

There's the lonely redhead in the corner, nursing her margarita and reading something on her phone. She's hot enough, shy enough, and innocent enough under ordinary circumstances.

Too bad Mack's son has had his eye on her for months. I've seen the boy eyeballing her like he's a kid prepping for his first prom. I don't shit where I eat, even if he's too ridiculously shy to make a move.

I ignore her, eyeballing the door as several more small groups stream in. It's the evening crowd. Men and women mixed together, mingling. They're cheerful, loud, and probably halfway blasted to drunk already.

My guts clench. Ever since I hit my thirties, the party-sorority scene that shows up from the colleges down state doesn't do it for me. It's too young, too rowdy, and there's nothing special about being one great O-maker in a long stream of men for the girls aiming to get their tickets punched as many times as they can before graduation.

Next, damn it. There has to be somebody. Look again.

My frustrated eyes pierce through the crowd, going over the tables on the other side of the bar again. I'm not sure how I overlooked the two girls keeping to themselves at first, but I did.

“They've been over there for an hour sucking down sangria,” Mack says, noticing where my eyes have fallen while he wipes the counter behind me. “Go on, Grizzly. Surprise me with who you decide to take home tonight.”

“Yeah, I just might surprise myself.” I stand, taking a second to let the whiskey do its delightful churn in my guts, before I start moving toward them.

The bartender always likens me to a bear, and the nickname stuck. He's doubly careful not to say my name. This helps keep me incognito.

Smiling, I drift out of my chair, channeling my inner beast as I push through the stragglers, toward my lovely targets.

I'm next to the one with the dark hair, darker eyes, and softball sized tits before they notice. One look at her tells me I'm not interested, despite her impressive assets.

“You're just in time,” she says with a huge grin. “Grab a seat. Bekah and I could use another round of drinks.”

She knows the game. She may be thirstier for booze than she is for dick, but a gentleman always buys. Her friend, on the other hand...

Christ, she's young.

They both are – maybe younger than the chirping sorority girls I turned my nose up at. Still, the woman next to her draws my eyes a second time, and then a third.

I can't look away. She's as alluring as an ocean sunset, and just as impossible to ignore.

Long chestnut hair. Jade green eyes. A hint of the shy librarian thing that gets me hard, minus the glasses.

Reserved in her posture, perhaps to the painful degree that tells me she's interested. Her lips are a deep red contrast to the rest of her face. I'll bet she usually has a rosier glow, but it isn't evenly distributed because the heat, the energy, the blood has gone somewhere else.

Yeah, there. The parts begging to feel warm and wanted on my mouth, my fingers. If there's any doubt I haven't found my target for the night, it evaporates when I notice how hard I am.

I stop gawking and give raven hair a friendly smile before my eyes return to her friend. She bites her lip hard, refusing to look at me for longer than half a second, bashfully draining a melting ice cube from her glass.

My hand goes up, signaling to the waitress. “Whatever they'd like, and another bourbon for me,” I say, waiting for their order.

The loud one grabs the drink menu and moves her finger over it. “Oh! How about the lobster trap, Bekah? Vodka, citrus, pomegranate, with a cherry in the middle. It's totally Maine.”

“Not from around these parts?” I ask, begrudgingly taking my eyes off the shy one to chat with the girl doing all the talking. She's my key to the quieter, sexier door.

“Nah. We saw this place on a travel channel we like. Nice break from the Big Apple. So far, so good. We're having a blast, and it's only our first day. Right, Bekah?” She moves like she's lightly kicking her friend under the table.

My eyebrows twitch. New York? Too close to home for my liking.

Exactly what I avoid when I'm here on the off chance I'm recognized. But then I see how Bekah jumps, stiffens in her chair, and looks at me with a bright, all too sober flush on her cheeks. I extend a hand, spread my fingers over hers, tightening my grip until she gives me her eyes.

Her heartbeat quickens when her fingers loop through mine. I smile, but it's only half as big as I want to.

Heat arcs straight to my dick. This will be fun. Oh, fuck yes, very fun.

“Grant. It's a pleasure, Bekah.” Her name rolls off my lips, sweeter than this bourbon. So smooth I decide not to use a fake name, though I've done it before with girls around the city when I really want to lay low. “And you must be?” I nod toward her friend.

“Trouble,” Bekah says, her voice soft and mild, the first word I've heard her say.

“It's Taylor, but everyone calls me Tay.” She takes my hand, giving it a respectable shake.

“Welcome to Chandlersport, ladies. You'll find about ten lobsters to every tourist between the beaches and bars.” Bekah laughs, and Tay rolls her eyes, just as our drinks show up.

We're on a roll.

“What brings you girls here? Marine biology?” I ask, enjoying the even warmth from my drink as it settles in my veins. It's a lot more soothing than the primal fire crackling in my blood every time I look Bekah's way.

“As if!” Tay says, laughing. “We're both grads with boring office jobs. We're here to beat the urban hustle for a couple days. The boring crap will be there for us when we get home. The travel show tipped us off: you've got boating, drinks, and men who have to work harder than swiping right to get their junk wet.”

“Bekah looks too nice to come fishing for dick.” I set my drink down, eyes never shifting over to Tay. “She can't even look at me. How's she prowling this bar for any boys her own age?”

“What's my age got to do with it? Are you saying I can't have older guys?” She finally snaps out of it, meets the challenge in my eyes, and then looks mortified when the words are out of her mouth.

Tay laughs. “That's my girl. Too honest for her own good. Come here, beard, I'll let you in on a little secret...”

I'm suppressing a smile. Bekah's eyes get a whole lot bigger as her friend leans her lips to my ear and whispers. “I'm trying to get her laid, jackass. Don't screw it up. She likes older guys, and I think she likes you. So play along.”

“You're right,” I say, pretending my dick didn't just jerk to her confirming everything I already knew. “Bekah is kind of cute when she's drunk.”

“Tay! I'm not even close to drunk.”

I believe her, but she's slurring her words for another reason. Same reason she's aiming a dirty look her friend's way. Her cheeks go so red they're probably numb. I wonder how many places she's imagined my hands on her since I took her little fingers in mine.

“That's your third sangria, lightweight,” Tay says, elbowing me surprisingly hard. “Excuse us. I think we need a little trip to the ladies' room. It'd be a shame if anyone says something really embarrassing.”

“What the hell?!” Bekah fights her friend, but not really as Tay yanks her up, walks her toward the back of the bar, and looks at me, flashing a wink over her shoulder.

Think I'm starting to like this girl.

The awkward ones are always hit or miss on approach. There's a thrill in the uncertainty, and it never fails to get me hard.

While they're gone, I watch the crowds, spotting Mack's son, Dean, who's pretending not to watch the redhead in the corner while he sweeps the floor. I try to telepathically transfer some of my luck to the kid. He needs it more than me.

I'm not sure whose karma train I rode to make it this easy tonight. But I know before the night's done, I'll be up inside Bekah. I'm sure.

And double sure I'll find out how hard she bites that lip when I tell her to call me sir.

* * *

When they come to the table again, they're both a lot more collected. The girls sit and we talk. Tay sucks up most of the conversation, telling crude jokes and talking about the latest duds she slept with. I force my way in between her half-drunk anecdotes and train wreck date stories, focusing my words on Bekah.

None of the boring shit.

I want to know her passions. “Tell me a secret: what brings a tear to your eye? A happy one.”

“Humanitarian work,” she says. “I've been involved with water access in the developing world. Colombia, mostly. My grandfather owned a fruit company there. It's heartbreaking, but it makes me happy, knowing I'm doing good. No one should go thirsty, or worry about dying over tainted water.”

I drain my bourbon and lean in closer. It's a curious cause to latch her young self to with so many hashtag movements vying for attention elsewhere. Clean water in Colombia isn't exactly winning any popularity contests. It's pleasantly surprising.

“Why water? Your characters catch too much cholera playing Oregon Trail or something?” Fuck, as soon as I've said it, I wonder if the game I played in history class is before her time.

This one's young, but she gets it. I tell by the sour smile twisting her suckable lips. Offended and innocent angst shines through her green eyes. “Do you know what it's like to go without water?” she asks quietly.

“No. I don't do dry bars or dry spells. Haven't had to worry about them since I was fifteen.” I look her dead in the eye, watching as her jaw drops.

“Of course. I should've known I was expecting too much. Like getting your dick wet is totally the same thing I was talking about.” She looks away from me, clearing her throat of sarcasm before she mutters the last word under her breath. “Ass.”

She's right. I'm being a royal asshole.

Deep down, I admire what she does. It's laudable. If this were a standard business charity event, I'd be the first to raise a toast. But I'm not here to kiss ass. Or to make her pussy dry up talking about the very real suffering overseas.

Lord knows, I've raised fortunes for good causes. No Shaw ever skimps on charity. It's part of our branding, and also something that mattered to our dearly departed mother. We honor her memory by giving back to a world that's given us so much.

I just don't wear my charity on my sleeve. Neither do my brothers. If the women I'm after know I've got a heart, they're all too likely to sink their claws in, and never let go. That just doesn't jive with one and done.

The table wobbles slightly a second later. I can tell by the way Bekah jumps that her friend has kicked her under the table, flashing her warning eyes. What the hell are you doing? He's not that bad!

Tay's glance says it all. She's obnoxious, but I like having her on my side.

“I don't know...” she mouths to her friend.

Fuck, this isn't the time for second guessing. I muster my warmest smile and shoot Tay a quick, subtle wink before I turn my chair toward the tender little minx.

“It's a joke, Bekah,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Learn to laugh. It's a stress reliever. You've also got a million dollar smile hiding between those cheeks.”

The barbs in her eyes soften the instant I've said it. Across the table, Taylor laughs, muttering something into her half-empty glass that sounds a lot like, “Oh my God.”

“Tell him about your charity!” she pipes, banging her little fist on the table.

Bekah flushes. I don't let her hand out of my grip, even though I feel the heat flowing in her skin as her pulse quickens.

She shakes her head, giving her friend a hard look. “It's just something I do on the side. My father's company puts money into health and human services every year. I pitched the water thing a couple years ago, and helped as long as I could getting it off the ground. As long as dad let me, I mean. I'm still involved, even though it isn't moving as quickly as I'd like...”

She trails off. My fingers move deeper through hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. I love when the secrets start flowing fast and freely.

“Initiative is sexy,” I tell her. If it weren't for keeping my super secret identity under wraps, I'd offer her a contact or two who'd get her project moving a whole lot faster than whatever piddly business her father owns. “What else does Bekah get up to when she isn't saving the world?”

“Road trips with her bestie, when she'll listen.” Tay cuts in, much to my annoyance. “I had to drag her up here. She needs it, though. It's her last big vacay for awhile.” The last word gets swallowed by a hiccup.

Thank God shifts are just turning over at the bar. When the surfer college kid Mack hired for the tourist season comes by our table, checking for another round, Tay's attention goes straight to him.

“Excuse me, guys,” she says, sliding off her chair and bounding after him. She looks over her shoulder one last time before she's gone, heading toward the counter in the back, where her beach bum crush is shaking ice like he's demolishing a landmine. “Remember what I said – lighten up!”

Bekah lets out a sigh. “I have to apologize. She's not herself when she's had too many. Or when she's found her target for the evening, I guess.”

“Let the girl have her fun. We'll make our own.” I wait for the flush to appear on her cheeks that makes my dick twitch again. “It's getting loud in here. I know a place where we can pick this up without the noise.”

Her grip tightens in mine. I throw down a wad of cash for the tab – another technique to make sure I stay anonymous – and lead her out to my car.

I'm expecting her eyes to light up, and maybe get a preview how she moans with delight when we reach my Tesla. It's a custom model with a sleek blue coat of paint, all the bells and whistles, some that aren't even on the market yet for regular buyers.

Yeah, I'm doing my part to save the environment with an electric car. My chartered flights burn enough energy.

She slides into the leather passenger seat without reacting. Nothing more than a strained smile, trying to hide her shyness. The neon pink Christmas lights hanging off Sanford's year round catch her chestnut hair, adding a warm glow that burns almost as hot as the need to get her naked raging in my blood.

I can't figure this chick out.

No, I'm serious. She's either unimpressed by wealth, or she's so damned shy, it'll take half the night to get her between the sheets.

I watch her buckle up as I start my car, taking my sweet time checking all the lights, observing her in my peripheral vision. She sits like a statue, elbow propped on the door, her hand pulling a long lock of hair around and around her finger in a circle.

Hello, tension. It's so tight I think I could cut it with a knife.

“My place is just a short drive up the road,” I tell her as we pull out, placing my hand over hers one more time. “You sure you're game for this?”

As much as I want her, I'm not into forcing it. Where's the fun in that?

“Wouldn't be leaving with you if I weren't, Grant. Tay's just a phone call away if you turn out to be a creepy clown serial killer, or something.”

“Or something. Thanks for ruining the surprise.” It takes her a second. She laughs at the silly joke, before I give her a serious look. “Actually, Bekah, there's a lot I have to show you. In exchange, you'll keep that pretty grin on your face all damned night.”

“You don't need to work so hard, you know,” she says quietly. “You had me at the beard, if you want to know the truth.”

“You're making this too easy.” I smile, running my fingers through the dark bristles covering my jaw. Every penny I dropped with the barbers who taught me to care for this beast was worth it.

Money, power, and the sky blue eyes I was born with have nothing on the pussy magnet attached to my face. If everything else sells this package, the beard closes the deal.

I'm also happy to see her confidence. She leans in when I slow the car, turning onto the long dirt path leading to the carefully concealed gate to my place in the woods. Her lips touch my cheek, kissing through my scruff.

Sweet fuck, her kiss burns.

It's a smooth, easy blaze. Sinks straight to my core. Better than the expensive scotch my brothers like to break into when we're together, and hotter than the whiskey that's more my style, too.

This isn't the usual hookup. She's keeping me guessing, something which should frustrate me to no end.

But it's more than that.

Guesses give her character. They give me a mystery I'm almost as interested in unraveling as the summer tank top hiding her body under the cardigan wrapped around her shoulders.

Chandlersport is my playground. I can have my pick of women who worship the ground I walk on anytime.

They're good for emptying my balls, and not much else. The timid, playful, sexy little thing coming home with me, though...shit.

She might be more.

Before the night's through, she may well scratch an itch I didn't even know I had.