Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

Holt’s address is a well-kept secret, but it turns out that as his shiny new PA, I’ll have the privilege of schlepping things to him when he works at home. Which is why his address and the number for his landline are both right there on the Key Information sheet that Lila emailed to me earlier in the day.

Even better, for those occasions when I might have to deliver something when he’s not home, I have the code to his front door.

As far as I’m concerned, that pretty much makes my mission pre-ordained.

Now, I’m standing on the dark street, well out of the circle of light thrown by the single streetlamp. It’s a dead-end, and Holt’s house is at the very end, the front door accessed by a staircase that dips down into the canyon. I take the steps slowly, appreciating the dim illumination built into the railing. I pause at the first landing, realizing the home is built like a treehouse. It sits atop a massive concrete pole buried deep into the hills. The pole—which I assume encloses an elevator, rises up to the stunning, round home at which I’m currently gaping.

It takes me a moment to find the entrance, and by the time my finger is hovering over the doorbell, I think of Jenny and almost lose my nerve. After all, I still haven’t got a clue what really happened to her.

That’s the point. I haven’t got a clue what happened to her .

I’m here to get answers from Holt. Or at least to get closer so I can ask the right questions. And, yes, maybe I’m stepping into the hornet’s nest. And, yes, maybe I’m a fool. But whether he’s involved in something nefarious or not, I can’t make myself believe that Matthew Holt will hurt me.

Which means I’m either very perceptive or far too trusting.

Dammit.

I jam my finger on the glowing yellow button before I can talk myself out of it. Then I push it again and again and again in defense against my lingering urge to bolt.

I’m about to use the key-code when the porch light snaps on. Seconds later, the speaker crackles. “ Aria. ”

The heat in his voice is palpable, and once again, my nerve begins to fade.

“Since we’re very much past working hours, I hope this is a social call.”

I glance up and around until I find the security camera. Then I stare directly at it. “We need to talk.”

I expect a reply—probably something snarky about my timing—and when I don’t get one, I fear he’s gone back to sleep, probably after pushing some button that makes sure he neither sees nor hears anything more from me.

Screw that .

I pull out my phone so I can call up the key code, but before I can get to it, the locks click, the door swings open, and there’s Matthew Holt, disheveled in a way that makes him look both dangerous and wildly sexy.

I hear myself release a breathy little oh as I take in the black tee clinging to his broad, muscular chest. The faded jeans sitting low on his hips. The tousled hair and unshaved jaw.

He doesn’t look like a CEO right now. He looks like trouble. More than that, he looks like delicious, lickable sin, and when I try to speak, I find that my mouth’s desert dry. I swallow, trying to remember why the hell I’m here.

“I’m going to guess you’re not selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I say with what I hope is a saucy smile. “I’m giving it away.”

His brows rise, and I wink before stepping inside a space that can only be described as breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire living room, and the lights from the Valley glitter like stars against the inky blackness. The house feels weightless, perched so high above the world that it seems suspended in air. It’s like the tower of a castle from which Holt looks out over his domain.

“—for free?”

I shake my head, realizing I missed most of what he’d said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked about the valuable commodity you’re giving away for free.” He takes a step back and makes a show of looking me up and down. “Shall I tell you what I’m hoping for?”

“Legal advice,” I say firmly. “I’m not really a lawyer, but with your help, I could play one on TV.”

I see the way his eyes crinkle as he presses his lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. After a moment, he tilts his head in a nod. “It’s a foolish CEO who ignores free legal advice. But the law always seems to go down better with a drink. Can I offer you anything? It’s not yet last call.”

“Maybe not by the clock, but I think that bell has rung for me.” Mostly because I want to keep my wits. But I don’t tell him that part.

“Orange juice, then? Or coffee?”

“Now you’re speaking my language. Coffee would be great.”

“Follow me.”

I have an excellent view of his excellent ass as we move into the kitchen. The man rocks a suit like nobody’s business, but a man with a nice ass in jeans is one of God’s gifts to women.

The kitchen is well-lit and shiny, without any of the stereotypical bachelor clutter. I wonder if he’s neat—in which case he’s a better person than I—or if he has help.

I’m betting on the latter.

As I watch, he pushes some buttons on a fancy machine that either makes coffee or mines Bitcoin. Until the moment he puts the cup of caffeinated goodness in my hand, I figure it could have gone either way.

As for my host, he pours himself a scotch, then hits me with an expression so deadpan I almost have to laugh. “I have a feeling I’ll need it,” he says.

Considering it’s the middle of the night and I barged in without an explanation, he’s playing it pretty damn suave. James Bond, indeed.

“So, legal advice,” he prompts, leading me back to the open area. He gestures for me to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs while he stands, his back against glass, so that he appears to float over the San Fernando Valley’s grid of lights.

“It’s about the gifts,” I say, intentionally crossing my legs. I’m wearing a sundress that buttons up the front, from hem to collar. I haven’t, however, fastened all the buttons, and the skirt falls open to mid-thigh.

I’ve slipped out of the red pumps I’d worn into the house, and I see his eyes drift from my silk-covered toes all the way up to my crossed thighs and the hint of black garter peeking out from the floral print dress.

“Black today,” I say. “White yesterday.”

He lifts a brow. “Makes you wonder what color tomorrow will be. Or is that the trouble? You don’t like the color? Hardly seems grounds for legal action.”

I sip my coffee, more to hide my amusement than for the hit of caffeine. “I guess men like you don’t have time for a broad view of the world. I bet you only watch the entertainment news and financial channels.”

“You’re suggesting I’m not well-rounded?”

I uncross my legs and lean forward, my elbows on my knees. It’s a position that I know offers a nice little peek at the girls, high and plump in the lacy bra he sent, and pushed so close together he could probably fuck my cleavage and get off.

Then again, maybe that was the idea.

“I’m suggesting you may not be familiar with some concerns that are front and center at most companies.”

“Oh?” He shifts, as if getting more comfortable against the window.

“Sexual harassment. It’s been in the news. You may have heard of it.”

I’m already having a hard time fighting my smile, so when he shakes his head slowly and murmurs, “Not ringing a bell,” I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh. And, okay, I know it’s not funny. If the bastard were actually harassing me—in a way other than making me wait far too long—I’d report him so fast it would make his head spin.

But this? What we’re playing at? It’s far more dangerous than a federal crime.

“Harassment,” he repeats, then pushes away from the glass. He moves across the room, a man with as much control over his body as he has over his empire. When he’s right in front of me, he stops, and it’s only when the room seems to dim that I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.

He extends his hand, and I take it, letting him help me to my feet. He’s only a head taller than me, but he overshadows me, making me feel small and vulnerable in a way that I like. I want to be overpowered. Claimed . And as he slowly unbuttons my dress, I squeeze my legs together, already wet. Already desperate for him.

When all the buttons are open, he pushes the dress off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He steps closer, then strokes his fingers down my arm before he leans in and whispers, “Sweetheart, the only way I’m harassing you is by not fucking you.”

He’s so damn right about that.

He eases back and looks me up and down, the inspection making me more aware of my body than I’ve ever been. “Beautiful,” he whispers, and my breath hitches as he traces a fingertip over the swell of my breast, then along the edge of the bra before continuing down my side—over my ribs, along the curve of my waist, and then along the band of these barely-there panties.

His eyes meet mine as he hooks a finger in the band, then tugs me forward before removing the finger and extending that hand to me. I take it, then let him lead me to a bedroom. It isn’t his. It has too much of a designer feel to it. The master bedroom, I’m certain, has an elegant masculinity. And not even the hint of a designer touch.

All thoughts of art and paint colors are shoved out of my head when he pushes me onto the bed. My body is on fire, and in that moment, I know that I will do anything he asks of me, a point I prove when he tells me to, “Lie back. Spread your legs. Close your eyes.”

I let myself slip into the dark world of sensation, relishing the feel of his fingertip easing up my leg. The curve of my calf, the inside of my thigh. The soft crease between my thigh and my sex. Then along the edge of the thong, lower and lower until he’s right where I want him. Until I’m silently begging him to push the minuscule bit of material aside and slide inside me. Fingers, tongue, cock. I want them all. I want to feel every sensation he can give me.

I want him to light me on fire.

“Please,” I whisper, then break the rules by opening my eyes. I meet his, and they are so full of need and desire and lust, that I almost come right then.

He’s still fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, his body twisted so that he can lean over me, one hand on the mattress for support as the other gently grazes the soft area between my thigh and my sex.

I whimper. I’m so ready. And from the way he’s seated, I can see the bulge of his cock, hard behind the denim.

He’s ready, too.

“Please,” I repeat, the word filled with a lifetime of need.

He gives me a slow smile, then slides down the bed and kisses me just below my belly button. Then another, just a bit lower. And another until he reaches the band of the thong.

“Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

“Tell me.”

He shakes his head. “More than you can imagine. And for longer than you’ve known.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts his hand and cups my pussy over the thong. I arch up, awash in a storm of sensation.

Then his hand is gone and he’s standing as my body tingles with anticipation. I watch, expecting him to strip. Instead, he takes the sheet and pulls it gently over me. “Get some sleep, Aria.”

I sit bolt upright, need morphing into anger. And disappointment. “Wait. What?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Anticipation, sweetheart. All the best things are worth waiting for.”

“I—” But he’s gone, the door closed behind him. I start to throw the sheet aside, but something stops me. I think about his touch. About how much I want him. About this delicious confirmation that he wants me, too.

And, yes, about the fact that it’s the middle of the night.

Next time, I think. Next time you better take me to the moon, or else …

But I don’t manage to finish the threat, because exhaustion sweeps over me, and my last thought before falling headlong into sleep is that I haven’t helped Jenny at all.