Damn.

When she looks like that, it’s almost a crime that Kat is writing about sex, when she’d make a killing as a porn star. That’s the kind of body—and face—that belongs in front of a camera; not behind a keyboard.

Her full ass wiggles deliciously in the tight casing of her pencil skirt, her gait exaggerated by the heels she’s wearing.

I’d love to get my hands on those swaying hips and yank her back onto my hard cock. I’d pull her blonde ponytail so she’d have to arch her spine. I can almost see her creamy ass cheeks jiggling as they bounce off my thighs to the rhythm of my thrusts.

And to think I never would’ve found out about her dirty side if it weren’t for her little story…

“I’ll be here if you need more help with your story,” I say before the door shuts with a click. I smile, and it widens into a grin, which turns into a chuckle. I burst out laughing to myself as I think about how crazy life is sometimes.

My hot, young, prim-and-proper assistant has a filthy mind. Who’d have thought that underneath that demure, professional façade is a dirty, dirty girl?

I’m glad I got here before she could get her USB stick back. Now I know she thinks my eyes are “sparkling pools of blue” and my hair is “a thick, lush forest inviting her to get lost in it.”

I don’t usually like the flowery language of romance novels, but this is an exception.

I cast a glance at the mouse under my palm and grin. So Kat’s jealous of the wheel of the mouse, huh? Interesting.

I run the pad of my index finger lightly over the rubbery surface of the wheel, imagining it’s Kat’s clit I’m playing with.

What does she look like when she’s coming? Does she furrow her brow? Part those red, juicy lips? Moan out my name?

Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to find out…

My cock strains against the front of my pants.

If Kat had looked under the desk, she would’ve seen how unbelievably hard I was.

I imagine myself grabbing the hair on the back of her skull and pulling her onto her knees so she could suck my cock under my desk.

I wonder if she suspects that I’ve had those fantasies about her since she started working here last month. I didn't just come up with those “suggestions” on the spot. There’s no end to the kinky, depraved shit I want to do to her.

I can tell she likes my fantasies from the way she completely lost her composure.

Katherine York. My new assistant who, despite being only twenty-one, always behaves professionally and wrangles my schedule beautifully.

I’d hoped, of course, that her smoking-hot body was not wasted on a frigid prude, but to find out that she has a lively imagination—involving me, no less… it almost makes me angry.

See, the sad joke is, the very reason why I know her in the first place—because she’s my assistant—is also the reason why I can’t fuck her.

I don’t shit where I eat.

There are many girls out there I can sleep with. And they won't cause my business to implode due to sexual harassment charges.

Maybe that's a little paranoid. Maybe sleeping with my own employee will only make the atmosphere at the office unpleasant when the whole affair inevitably ends.

But I’ve worked too hard on this company to let my dick destroy it.

One too many high-profile CEOs have been entangled in sexual harassment cases, and I have no intention of joining their ranks.

There are women who throw themselves at me whenever I show up at corporate functions and social events held by my wealthy clients. I’ve made a name for myself and apparently that’s an aphrodisiac because those women don’t even know me, and they wouldn’t be so keen if I were just an average white-collar worker.

But even those girls are trouble. An investment banker friend of mine got roped into paying child support by some gold digger with a penchant for poking holes in condoms.

I used to enjoy having a little fun with those girls, but these days? I’d rather DIY it than take the risk.

If I were really aching for a woman’s body in bed with me, I’d hire an escort—not that I’ve ever done it. I like some degree of intimacy in my sexual encounters, so I’ve never been interested in that.  

I don’t judge men who do hire escorts, though.

Escorts are some of the most honest women out there. They tell you exactly how much they want, you give them that amount, and they leave you alone after that. Easy peasy.

Wall Street doesn’t bat an eye at men who hire escorts.

So many of them spend almost all their waking hours at the office, so it’s no wonder they have trouble connecting with their partners.

As far these men are concerned, they’re doing it for their wives and girlfriends. Their women don’t have to spread their legs, and they still get to enjoy the benefits of their relationships, like money, status, and keeping the kids together.

Escorts cost less money than mistresses in the long run. They draw less attention, too.

As for me, I don't have time to acquire mistresses. I’m more interested in making money for my clients so they can acquire mistresses if they want to.

I only have one ex-wife and she gives me enough trouble. I don't need more women fucking up my life.

I pick up the landline phone and speed-dial the legal department. “Hello Jeff, anything I should know this morning?”

“If you're talking about the contract with McAdams, we’re still waiting to hear from them,” Jeff says from his desk two floors below me.

“Damn it.”

Before I can hang up, Jeff speaks up. “I have heard from Melanie, though. She's willing to take less if—”

“I don't care what she wants,” I cut Jeff off. “She's not getting another cent from me.”

“Heath, be reasonable. It's going to cost less money and take less time if you just accept your ex-wife's offer, or at least, negotiate.”

“I told you, Jeff, I don't care what it costs. She's not getting another cent from me,” I repeat.

“Okay,” Jeff says, in a tone that says he disapproves.

I fume quietly as I hang up.

He's really not in a position to judge, seeing as he's just my lawyer and I didn't ask him for his personal opinion. It annoys me sometimes that I need to disclose details of my personal life to keep everything running smoothly, but I guess that’s just one of the little inconveniences of being rich. Nobody's going to feel sorry for me for that.

My smartphone beeps.

Only my parents and a handful of important contacts know this number, so it’s probably important. As I read the text message, blood drains from my body.

I quickly grab my keys and walk out of my office.

“Heath, where are you going?” Kat gets up from her desk and follows me, scurrying to meet my pace. “Mr. Mikhailov is almost here.”

“Reschedule it,” I say, mashing the elevator button.

“I can't. He’s flying to Australia tonight,” Kat says.

“Cancel it.”