Week one down.

First week with my balls on fire so long I break out in a cold sweat every time I watch her through the glass.

First week I've become a distracted, gawking mess.

First week racing home after playing clumsy catch up on the merger late into the night, then ripping off my clothes, and fucking my own fist furiously underneath an ice cold shower.

First week I get how Hayds and Luke felt when their women started to chew through their souls. Both my brothers fell to a love bug obsession I swore I'd never understand. So fucking much for that.

One week over. Roughly fifteen weeks, maybe more, to go.

I can't go on like this. Not sipping coffee in front of the one-way glass, pretending I'm overlooking my vast empire. It should remind me what's at stake if I can't swallow this need to have her under me again.

Reality is, it doesn't do a damned thing. Everything I've built with my own bare hands and a good head on my shoulders falls to pieces when I'm able to stare at her, knowing I can't touch.

There are reasons I'm becoming a raving loon when I see Ms. Strictly Off-Limits. Seventeen billion reasons, to be precise. That's what's on the starting line as soon as the merger with Corbin's group is final.

Still, my screwed up brain wants to put all seventeen billion chips on the table for one more kiss.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I've considered hitting the clubs for fresh skirt, leaving the merger to my managers and going away to a nice tropical island. Maybe even talking to a damned shrink. But the devil's in the details when machines as big as Neolithic and Corbin Financial move their gears. Besides looking like a reckless idiot, I'd seem unreliable and crazy to my own team if I pulled up stakes in the thick of this company growing like never before.

Bekah's one of the crew now. I watch her laughing with my boys at the water cooler, handing off printouts to them throughout the day, always with a grin on their faces that's a little too broad. She chews her bright purple bubblegum, popping it with her finger when she thinks no one's looking.

It turns the heads of several boys a few desks down when they have just the right angle to see. Secretly, maybe I want to rip a few of those heads off. Each and every time they see her as more than just a co-worker.

Hiring too many bright-eyed, bushy-tailed kids from the best colleges in the country means too damned many are still single. Sniffing around her too close for my liking, when they tell their buddies they're going to ask her to drinks after work.

Yeah, I may have had Nina keep an eye on the gossip, and report back to me. So the fuck what?

It's Corbin's daughter, I tell her. I can't have the young hotheads here getting into her pants, screwing with her heart, sending her home to VIP daddy in tears.

She doesn't need to know the real reason.

Sure, I may have lied through my teeth. I've been doing a lot of that lately. Mostly to myself.

I'm at my desk on Monday evening, legs reminding me I went too hard on a fitful late run, picking over the latest details from legal with my silver pen.

I'm learning fast I can't just work her out of my system, or bleach her from my brain with too much exercise. Every time I glue my eyes to billionaire legalese for more than five minutes, the words blur. They become words like Bekah, fuck her, now, right before my screaming eyes.

Crazy. What's even more insane is what I decide to do when the office begins closing up Monday night.

I stand up from my desk, walk over to the window, and stare down at my obsession. She's one of the last to leave. As much as she loathes it here, she has a work ethic. Nina hasn't ever had it this easy with Bekah lightening her load. She's wearing a long blue summer dress today. It's classier than she usually dresses, and I want to know why.

If it's for one of the boys from trade or I.T., I'll strangle the sorry bastard with my bare hands.

I wait for her to grab her phone, her purse, and make her way to the elevator. Then I count to sixty before I follow, giving her a full minute's head start.

Those quiet walks in the Maine woods watching nature pay off. I'm as sneaky as I am patient. She won't see me coming.

My guts knot up driving behind her, my car strategically positioned out of sight. There's a sense of imminent risk or reward in my system, like waiting for a hand of poker.

Tonight, something goes. It'll either be the ocean blue number clinging to her skin, or my fucking mind.

* * *

She walks into a local wine bar, and she isn't alone. There's a man. A total stranger I've seen for all of ten minutes, and I already want him dead.

Who he is, and what he's done to land a date with what's mine isn't the big mystery.

No. It's why Bekah looks bored out of her skull when she's sitting across the table from him, drinking her wine way too fast for a date that isn't bombing. When she isn't glazing over, there's a nervous tick in her lips, and not because she likes what she sees across from her. I swear, her face isn't much different with this stranger than it is at work.

Hell, maybe it's more tense than ever.

I watch for another five minutes, plotting my move. A couple people do double-takes when I make my way across the street and into the restaurant, where I hit the bar for a quick glass of wine. Some of them are probably wondering where they've seen my face before, the Bastard Axe of Wall Street, plastered on the tabloid racks.

These days, my publicity is less about my sales antics, and more about business. I play it cool with the media, especially when there's as big a fish as Corbin on the line. Especially when I'm after my business partner's daughter.

It's too damned loud in the restaurant to hear what they're saying without getting close. I take the stool closest to their table, where I sip my moscato – what else? – and wait to see if she notices.

“Surely, you've seen the news, cheri. So many sides to their war. So much opportunity. My grandfather never dreamed of the contracts we'd have abroad, even during the worst of Algeria. It's simply breathtaking how well Fabius is doing. There's money in war, and in the aftermath. And I'm eager to share the wealth, whatever way I can.”

What the hell? I didn't expect money and politics, much less what sounds like dirty business.

“Then why don't you use it to broker peace? If you have deals with so many different sides, like you say, then you should have a leg up getting them to the table instead of selling them more to kill each other.” Perhaps I misjudged. The grim expression souring Bekah's face tells me she isn't interested in what he's offering. “If I had billions to spare, I'd make the world better. I wouldn't waste it making more on war.”

“War isn't the only thing Fabius does, cheri. Why don't you find out for yourself? You don't have to do everything your father insists. Why waste your time with this dead end internship? Self-initiative would do you good. Come to Europe. I'll send you anywhere you'd like, wherever we have offices. Paris? Rome? Both are exceptionally romantic in the late summer. I know the best they have to offer, and I can show you.” Mystery Asshole slurs his thick French accent. He's blasted, already had one too many, and it isn't helping his case.

“Ethan, I told you, I didn't come here to talk about that. I came because I want us to have an understanding without screwing up family business.” She pauses, as if considering her next words very carefully. Her hand goes to her face, wiping sweat from her brow. “How do I put this?”

“Tell me we're moving too fast?” he says hopefully. Then the overgrown weasel puts his dirty paws on my woman, and I fucking lose it.

“Bekah!” I call her name, more angrily than I'd like, stepping quickly toward the table. She turns, blinks in disbelief, and totally forgets about the idiot next to her when she finds me standing behind her. “Damn, it's really you! Such a small world.”

“Grant? What the hell are you doing here?” she whispers.

I lean in, ignoring the dirty look from the Frenchman glaring over her shoulder. “Saving you. Now, play along.”

She turns, a nervous smile on her face. “Ethan, this is my boss, Grant Shaw. Mr. Shaw, Ethan Fabius, business associate and friend of the family.”

Not date. Thank God.

I smile, extend my hand, and receive the limpest, clammiest handshake I've ever had in my life. “Charmed,” he says in his smooth accent. “I'd intended to pay you a visit soon anyway, Mr. Shaw. After the merger, we'll both be working more closely.”

Wonderful. Is there any end to this tight rope I'm walking?

“I knew I recognized the name Fabius,” I say, bringing my hand to the small of Bekah's back. “My apologies for the interruption. I came by to pick her up, and I got here a little early. Bekah asked me to go over her charity's financials tonight, and for my favorite intern, I'm happy to oblige.”

Even happier to oblige her tight body. Sweet fuck, I have to pinch my thigh through the pocket just to control the instant, annoying hard-on touching her brings.

“Tonight?!” He accidentally bangs his knee against the low edge of the table, catching it before their glasses go crashing to the ground. “Rebekah, you said we had something to discuss. I cleared my schedule for you.”

She gives him her best puppy dog eyes. “I'm really, really sorry, Ethan. Bad scheduling. I swore I was sitting down with Grant tomorrow for the charity stuff. Can I make it up to you? How about the family dinner dad said he'd like to do in a couple weeks?”

I feel her stiffen while Fabius ponders. His handshake tells me he's a damned pushover, but there's a quiet fury in his ghost blue eyes I don't like. “Of course. I have some other business to attend to, anyhow. Have your father contact my assistant to set up dinner.”

He rises, reaches into his wallet, and throws down his credit card. It's a black Centurion with a royal purple stripe through it, just like mine. I'd expect nothing less from another billionaire. I also pick it up, press it back in his hand, and give him my warmest smile.

“Don't worry about it, pal. My treat for the inconvenience. I've had her buried in work all week. Really should've sent her a reminder this evening about our meeting. Totally slipped my mind in the merger craze.”

“Merci. Appreciate your generosity, Mr. Shaw. We'll sit down one day soon, and talk international business,” he says, his eyes showing none of the warmth in his tone.

“One day,” I agree, picking up the tab.

I walk it to the register, never taking my hand off Bekah. Ethan's eyes are dirty magnets. They never leave us for a single second while I pay. I still feel them when we get in my car, but I don't look back to double-check. Now that she's with me, he isn't worth another second.

“Great timing,” she says, buckling herself in as I start the engine. “Glad I wasn't alone when I saw how he got when you stole me away.”

“Where to?” I ask. There'll be time later to get the real story out of her. “Sounds like you've got a lot on your chest.”

“Anywhere he doesn't know,” she says, fixing her hair. “Surprise me.”

“Give me ten minutes. I know a place. Not quite the small town gem as Sanford's, but it'll do.” Bekah smiles when I mention the bar in Chandlersport.

It's raining. My car cuts through the wet, velvety night with ease, adding its soft growl to New York's dark streets.

The car won't be the only thing growling before this night is over, if I have my way.

I'll get Bekah's story out of her. Then I'll remind her how good it feels to have my tongue again, mouthing a filthy prelude to all the other ways sir knows how to taste his moscato.

* * *

“Why'd you do it if he makes you so uncomfortable?” We're up on the rooftop at my favorite Italian place with a fresh bottle of wine. Slipped the owner an extra bill or two for some privacy. It's technically closed off on Monday's, but for the right price, a man will sell anything.

“Playing peacemaker. Trying to get him off my back before I freak out, and blow dad's relationship with him. Maybe yours, too.” She drains what's left in her first glass.

I reach for the bottle to top us both off. “I know this deal means a lot to your old man. He practically made the Euro investments part of the fine print when we reached our agreement. Didn't know he was personal friends with Fabius.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Something like that. I don't see the appeal either, except for the guy being loaded. Like, old world money and royalty loaded. A tier higher than families like ours, brought up in the un-aristocratic US of A.”

“Never felt under-classed in my life, and neither should you,” I say, moving an inch closer to her.

There's static in the air between us. The kind that doesn't hurt when you touch it, but burns like a complete bastard because we're still too far apart. I need my hands back on this girl before the night is through.

“It's more than that,” she says, clamming up like she's said too much.

“Tell me,” I say.

Fuck it, I reach for her hand, enjoying how she swallows when my fingers twine with hers. “Whatever it is, I want to know.”

“He's...well, frankly, he's just a creep. There's something off about him, Grant. Tay started calling him Monsier Creep-o, and it fits like a glove.”

“Charmingly old world. Didn't know your best friend was an expert in linguistics,” I say. She giggles. Sweetest sound I've heard since I first coaxed it out at my cabin.

“I'll never understand why my father wants to deal with this guy so badly. I feel like there's more than money at stake.”

“More how?” My eyes narrow, and my fingers tighten on hers, pulling her nails across my skin. “You think there's, what? Something illegal happening?”

She doesn't answer. “Not necessarily. But the man doesn't have a heart. He doesn't spend his personal time with other associates like he does with Ethan.”

I don't follow. She looks at me, and I lean closer, pushing the wine glass gently to the table, making room for my hand to claim her face.

Brushing her cheek, Bekah closes her eyes. Easier than I expected to bring her to the zone. That makes it twice as wrong. Twice as dangerous. Damn if that deters me.

“And Ethan...he pretends, but deep down, he's just as cold. Doesn't think twice about profiting off war. Before you barged in on us at the bar, he was telling me about his firm's new contracts in Syria. Talked about building guns and bombs, passing them out like Girl Scout cookies. He doesn't see anything wrong. He thinks it's just Fabius pushing one more product to eager buyers.”

“And you're a humanitarian at heart,” I whisper, bringing my face closer to hers, heat pouring from my lips to her neck.

Bekah nods. It's hell keeping my hands off her chest. Know I'll find her nipples hard as stones, begging to be rolled and sucked, aching for me.

“You thought being a generation apart made us polar opposites, didn't you, moscato?” My lips brush hers, once, very lightly.

I hold the kiss until she nods. But before I move in to fully conquer, she twists her neck, her jade green eyes strained and unsettled. “No! We can't start up again, Grant. As much as I might want to –“

“Don't lie to me. Your words tell a different story from your pretty green eyes, moscato. They want me tasting you again. Just like I did when I put my tongue between your legs until you screamed.” Her body seizes in my arms, warming a few degrees. “Let those eyes do the talking for once. Forget what's right and wrong for one more night, yeah? I thought I did the right thing when we cut our little agreement last week. Thought I could honor it. Thought I wouldn't lose my mind to the urge pounding in my balls every time I lay eyes on you. I thought fucking wrong. Kiss me, moscato.”

I don't give her a choice. Her lips soften a second after they're mine.

It's even better than I remember.

She's sugary innocence dipped in lust. Heart and soul asking the flesh for reassurance. Raw, reluctant need seeking the perfect excuse to break its chain.

Her tongue melts under mine. I own her mouth the same way I've dreamed of having her body again since our frantic nights together.

When her hand reaches up, brushing my beard, I taste her moan. Know I'll have her again. Know I'll self-combust if I don't have her sweet pussy all over me by the end of the night.

Certainty should be a relief. All it does is make my dick throb harder, impatient as ever.

“Mr. Shaw!” I pull myself off her and spin around, ready to smash the wine bottle over the head of whatever little idiot has decided to interrupt us. “It's past closing time, and word on the street is, the health inspector's coming for a surprise visit tomorrow. Terribly sorry about cutting in like this.”

It's Emilio, the owner. Bekah looks down with a flush, a hundred times more embarrassed than I am about the old Italian walking in on us just when we were heating up.

Annoyed or not, I can't blame a man for looking after his business.

“We were just on our way out,” I say, forcing a smile, grabbing her hand. I'm happy I went easy on the wine so I don't have to worry about waiting to drive, or finding a ride.

“If you'd like, sir, I'll refund you half for the intrusion.”

“Keep the change, Emilio. Good luck with your inspection.”

I lead her out. We don't say anything until we're both in the car.

Her eyes say she's re-thinking everything that's happened tonight. The fear and doubt burbles up again when she looks at me, ready to utter a word about how it's later than she thought, and she'd better turn in.

“I know another place,” I say, cutting her off at the pass. “Tell me about South America. I love a good travel story.”

* * *

“You own this place?” she says later, doing a double take. The glittery neon sign going up the side of the building breaks the pleasant trance she's been in, telling me about her travels for charity.

“It's investing 101. Diversification,” I say, smiling as I kill the car and step out, circling around to help her out the passenger side. “I've had Club B.I.G. for five years. Doesn't add a whole lot to my bottom line, all things considered, but it's a nice place to wow the younger kids who come to me for business.”

“Sir!” The bouncer recognizes me instantly behind the tight rope. He almost salutes, just like I'm the damned President, something I've told him at least half a dozen times before to drop.

I slip him a wad of bills before we enter. Inside, it's dark, colors oscillating softly. Neon blues and dense pinks alternate on the walls, illuminating a couple dozen dance addicts on the floor this Monday night. I take her straight to my private booth, ordering a couple drinks first. There's a curtain to separate us from all the commotion.

“Do I dare ask what the B.I.G. stands for? I mean, I think I can guess, but you don't seem like the type who needs to compensate in...other areas of your life.” She looks down at my crotch.

I grin, shaking my head. “The idiot who owned it before me called it Big. I made it an acronym. This club is all about what's beautiful, intense, and guilty. In other words, pleasure, moscato. I hear it's amazing. You ought to try it sometime.” My hand goes to her leg.

She's so fucking warm, aching to resume where we left off at Emilio's. I have to be careful here. If I get too carried away, I will fuck her back here in this booth, something I've never done before with the handful of girls I've brought here.

It's not my style. I don't want to wind up like a hundred other club owners in this city, glorified pimps, kinksters, and exhibitionists.

If diversification has always been my first rule, then don't shit where you eat has always been number two.

“You're still worried?” I ask, moving my hand up her thigh, feeling her cling to me.

She shakes her head. Fierce denial I quietly approve. It means she's starting to believe we can fuck without complications getting in the way. The waiter comes by just in time with our drinks, two whiskey sours, something a little stronger than the wine earlier this evening to take the edge off her rotten day.

“I don't know, Grant.” She lifts her glass, taking a long sip.

My fingers caress her softly, reading the story her skin tells me in its warmth, its energy, its need. “Actually, you do. I think you wore that beautiful blue dress hoping I'd notice. We both know it wasn't for Pepe Le Pew.”

“Spare me!” She rolls her eyes. “It was Tay's idea. She told me a girl shouldn't go on a let-him-down easy date without a parachute to bring in someone else in case he gets clingy.”

“Curious advice for a friend,” I say, hiding my smile in my beard. “Guess Tay just wants me to work harder. If you'd run off to someone else in the bar looking for protection, I'd have had to steal you away from two unworthy jackasses.”

Laughing, her hands go to my chest. Playful resistance. Familiar and sweet.

I could listen to her airy, happy sounds all night, but my lips don't have the patience. My next kiss comes in hot, silencing her sweet and playful side with a more carnal urge.

I haven't touched more than a sip off my whiskey sour. Good thing, too, because this moscato taking my tongue on hers is a goddamned drug.

I still don't understand it. The more I have her, the more I want. The closer I am to fucking her brains out for the dozenth time, the more I need to do it a hundred. When her hands slide down my face and push through my beard, I think how naked, how sad they look without a rock that would bind her to me forever.

And, fuck, I've officially lost it. This is how Grant Shaw goes down? This?!

A raging, confused, sex-crazed mess. Slayed by the first woman he's ever met who isn't just obsessed with his thick pierced cock and the billions in the bank? A woman who's too young, too rich, and too damned complicated to ever make this right.

Wrong? Damned straight. Knowing she's forbidden makes me want her more.

My hand moves through her hair, collecting a fistful of soft chestnut waves, and I bury her in ten more hard kisses before I move to her throat. My other hand won't stay idle. It goes up her dress, finds her panties soaked, and flicks them aside.

Her eyes pop, roll, and dance in their sockets when I shove two fingers in her pussy. She loses another delicate moan in my ear while I'm kissing at her throat, my mouth roaming her perfect, palm-sized tits, her nipples almost as hungry as her clit to feel my tongue all over them again.

No turning back now, even if I hadn't shot down restraint since the second I decided to follow her out of the office. We're in for another penny with this crazy, beautiful thing, and I'm looking for a whole fucking pound.

She twists under me as I move between her legs, laying her down on the soft leather surface beneath us. A low growl escapes my throat as I shove her thighs apart, inhaling her scent, wondering how fast I can shred her panties with my teeth before I bring her off so hard, she drenches the rest of what she's wearing.

I've trained more than a few squirters in my time. There's potential in her. Just thinking about her sweet pussy gushing all over my balls almost makes me lose a load in my pants.

“Yes. Grant!” She whispers my name, shrill and satisfying, as soon as I bite down on the lace between her legs. My hands lift her ass. Soon, her panties are around her ankles, leaving her steaming, sweet little cunt wide open for my tongue. “Oh! Oh, God.”

Sick, crude bastard that I am, I like to imagine she's decided to use the G-word for me. As if sir wasn't enough to make my balls seethe.

I give her my tongue, sinking it deep, again and again. Her hips thrash in the leather seat as pleasure comes. Too much, too soon, but I don't fucking care.

She'll come for me again. She'll be dynamite. Convulsing beneath my tongue, surrendering the husky screams I've demanded since our last night in my bed, one indecent lick at a time. I'll make her mine, slave to nothing else. She'll forget the heaping price we'll both pay if her father finds out what we're doing in the office behind his back.

Hell, it hasn't even happened in the office yet. Sweet lunacy hits when I think I might seriously have her on my desk one day, legs wrapped around me, sending my fancy pens and paperweights crashing to the floor. We'll shake the whole goddamned city with our animal lust.

My fingers dig into her sweet ass tighter while my tongue fucks her to heaven. She's squirming, twitching, writhing just for me.

No mercy until she lets go.

Sweeping my tongue across her pussy, I master it more with every lick. I devour her. My teeth pull her fragile clit in and hold on tight, spanking her bud with the tip of my tongue again and again.

“Grant, Grant!” She's screaming. Bekah's muscles tense so hard her legs wobble before she drops the final word. Everything I want to hear. A breathless, crazed sigh.

“Coming!”

For me, dear moscato, I think to myself. Come so fucking hard you break.

I pin her down and lick with wild abandon, guiding her release.

I create her O. I taste it. I own it.

Same way I'll rule every inch of her, long and hard and hellbent into the night.

Break. I tongue the word into her tender flesh, again every time her legs clench tight to my head and she cries out.

Truth is, I'm done with the chase. I want her tamed, thinking less, and fucking more.

I taste her tight cunt long after her legs have stopped twitching. Honey sweetness floods my mouth until my jaw goes numb. When I come up for air, it's my turn to gasp, growling as I replenish the oxygen in my lungs.

No exaggeration, I almost blacked out on divine pussy overload.

Her body is addiction incarnate, a vicious experience, a distraction from the very air I breathe. That's my Bekah: so perfect, intense, and mysterious I'll die before I stop obsessing.

Call it unhealthy. Call it mad. I know the rest of the world will, if it ever finds out, about one second before it comes down on our heads like an angry tsunami.

Does the risk make this sweeter? Don't know, but I'll be damned if it'll make me stop.

“You could've taken a break,” she says, mischief in her eyes.

I pull myself up next to her with one hand on the table, falling back, tasting the last of her on my mustache “No. You taste too good, moscato.” She's staring at me like she doesn't believe a word I'm saying. “Do I have to prove it?”

Yeah, I think I do. I grab the back of her head and pull her into me. My mouth consumes hers, harder than before. Moving between her legs, I push them open with my knee. Make her taste the sweetness coating my lips, teasing her tongue with mine, swallowing her whimper.

I'm about to reach down and unbuckle my belt. I'm dying to have the pussy I just tasted wrapped around me again, wringing the come from my balls, but only after I've sent her into orbit a few more times.

Consider rule number two officially amended: I will fuck where I eat, as long as it's Bekah on the menu.

I'm about to get these damned pants off, but before I get my fingers on the belt buckle, I hear the worst sound in the world. “Well, well, well, so it is you. Mr. Fuck and Run Shaw himself. Thought I saw you come swaggering in.” A woman's voice, strained in high-pitched, whiney surprise.

I spin around, my eyes bugging out of my head, rage flooding my veins. Apparently, I can buy a lot, but simple privacy is beyond my reach.

It's Mina. Paler and scarier than I remember, her bangs cut short and black, a perfect match for the skin-tight dress barely containing her cantaloupe sized tits. Fake, I found out quickly, one fine night.

“Grant?” Bekah flashes me a wounded look.

T-minus two seconds before the crazy bitch pushes through the curtain she's holding open, and crashes into us. “You despicable little hussy! You're nothing to even look at, and here you are with your tongue shoved down the throat of a man who's too good for you. My man! Why her, Grant? Tell me, now!”

Berserk. No other word describes how she flies between us, pushing her way into the middle, screaming so loud half the club must've heard the commotion by now.

Bad business optics are the least of my worries. There's also the worst blue balls in the world I'm nursing, and the urge to knock her out cold when she does the unthinkable.

She slaps Bekah. My girl tumbles backward, stunned, horrified by the drunken lunatic screaming in her face.

“How fucking much did he pay you, hooker? How much?!”

“Hooker? I'm his assistant! Stop!” Bekah holds her hand up.

Mina pauses, but not because she's decided to listen to reason. The assistant thing hits her right between the eyes. I never give her a chance to recover, grabbing both her wrists, tugging her into me, away from Bekah, who's scrambling to her feet.

“You've had your fun, sticking your psycho nose where it doesn't belong.” I bare my teeth, twisting her head so she looks at me. “Leave, Mina. I gave you the club pass to find a new man, not to come here and spy on me.”

“I want you. Want to be more than just another girl you dropped as soon as you got bored.”

I've dealt with more than a few scorned women over the years. Normally, I show sympathy for their tears, their outbursts, when they throw themselves at my feet. They always swear they're the one, we're meant to be, and Lord, they'll prove it, if I just give them another chance.

It's a sad, sorry sight. I hate having to drag them out, or hail a cab and have them ferried away.

This is different. It's not another drunken, desperate late night confession. Mina just pissed me off royal. My eyes are glued to the only woman here who matters. Bekah isn't paralyzed by shock anymore. She's looking at me, her arms crossed, her jade eyes angry, aimed in my direction.

“Who is she?” she says, each word dripping venom.

“My very crazy, very short-term assistant,” I say, cringing as I remember the first, and until now, only time I ever came close to breaching my second rule. Technically, she wasn't an employee when we hooked up.

I never made a move until after her temp contract ran out. After she left the office. After she spent weeks walking over reports to my desk, always making sure she bent down low to give me a clear sight of everything in her low cut, totally inappropriate blouses.

I'm only human. It didn't count. Neither did those underwhelming, comically oversized tits, more like having my dick between two airbags than anything real.

“There's a reason I needed a new intern,” I say. “Last one didn't work out too well. We did it once, and only once, a couple weeks after she left Neolithic. Months passed. I moved on. I forgot. Sent her packing with extra severance and a club pass, hoping she'd find another sucker to text a hundred and thirty seven times before I blocked her number. Nina filled me in on more crazy brewing in my voicemail. I went no contact. Never looked back, Bekah, not even once.”

“I waited for you!” Mina bawls, twisting in my arms. I tighten my grip. “Every week. Every night. Hoping you'd finally show up here...”

“You wasted your time. We're over. Never even got off the ground.”

Bekah starts walking. She's heard enough. Damn it, I don't have a third hand to grab her, and I can't risk letting go of this crazy bitch before security gets here.

“Bekah, wait!”

She stops in front of us, just at the edge of the booth, and raises her right hand. My eyebrows fly up when she slaps Mina across the cheek. It's a resounding clap. “Whoa, hold up, this isn't how we do this, moscato. Let me call security and I'll –“

She shuts me up with an equally quick, blistering slap across my cheek. Stings like a bastard, but it's not half as bad as seeing the tears brimming in the soft green eyes I lit just minutes ago.

“Don't bother. I'm out. I'm not going to play your game and wind up just as burned. Maybe worse. We both know what's on the line.”

I do, and it makes me feel like the biggest asshole in the world. This can't go up in smoke. “Bekah!”

I call her name three more times before it's clear she isn't turning around. When the waitress shows up a second later and almost drops her tray when she sees what's happened, I don't bother waiting for her to fetch the bouncers.

It's a struggle marching the blubbering, cursing mess in my arms over to them, but I do it anyway. Then I chase down my car and blow the club, pounding the leather wheel as I wind down the deserted streets. The cool summer rain picked up while we were in Club B.I.G., but it's no relief.

I fucked up bad.

Tomorrow, walking into the office will feel like going before a firing squad. Fifty-fifty chance I wind up with a kill shot lodged in my heart. One hundred percent chance I take some kind of bullet.

Maybe there'll be a resignation notice on my desk from Nina, telling me Bekah quit. Then a damned good chance the merger gets blown, too, if her prick father finds out what sent her fleeing Neolithic in tears.

If she stays, then it means the obsession continues, an unbroken fever with its cure out of reach, possibly forever. Every hour, every day, watching through the glass in my office as she works, pretending the wall of tension between us isn't pure hell.

Raw obsession, burning without end, until she either speaks to me again, or I decide I've had enough of this shit and throw my Eames chair right through the glass divide.

How haunted can a man be?

How unlucky?

How thoroughly, completely, inescapably fucked?