Chapter 3
LYRA
Iclose the apartment door behind me with a sigh that rattles through my chest. The deadbolt clunks into place, and for the first time all day, it’s truly quiet, except in my head.
Becca’s working the overnight shift at the hotel again, and the apartment feels hollow without her there to fill the space with chatter about rude patients and front desk gossip. I slip off my shoes and flex my toes against the worn hardwood. The ache from hours of standing settles into my bones.
Without thinking, I look down at my wrist, where I still feel the faint pressure from where that asshole grabbed me.
My skin burns in a way that makes me want to scrub it raw.
He had no right to speak to me the way he did, and he definitely had no right to grab me like that.
My blood begins to boil at the memory, then my thoughts drift to the icy blue eyes of the man who stepped in.
Damien Morozov.
Not just my savior. Potentially my new boss. Or more likely, my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. He is quite high up there.
So it’s definitely not a good idea to think about him like this, to let that light, new-crush feeling float in my chest.
I open the fridge and stare inside, more bored than hungry. My stomach is still tight with leftover adrenaline, and everything in there looks like cardboard right now. I shut the door with a sigh, so full of nervous energy with nowhere to put it.
I head to the tiny living room instead and drop onto the hand-me-down couch we got from Becca’s older sister.
It’s so lumpy it has its own topography.
I sink into it and stare at the blank television screen, not really feeling like turning it on.
I look down at my bag, slumped where I threw it when I walked in the door.
I rummage through it until my fingers close over the already familiar business card.
I pull it out and stare at it in the dim light.
Damien Morozov
CEO, Integrated Solutions
Integrated fucking Solutions. My throat goes tight. How the hell am I supposed to get through my interview tomorrow, knowing he’s in charge? A cold dread washes over me as I wonder whether he’ll sit in on the interview. Is that something CEOs typically do?
I groan, slumping lower into the couch.
I press the card against my lips for a second, then pull it away, embarrassed even though no one can see me. Becca would tease the hell out of me for this.
I shake my head hard and stomp toward the bedroom. I flick on the light and immediately regret the harsh glow. The bed is small and unmade, covers twisted from another night spent tossing and turning over the impending interview.
I toss the card onto the pillow and kick off my skirt, leaving it in a heap. I pull off my blouse, toss it after the skirt, and tug on an old T-shirt instead. I set my phone on the nightstand and climb into bed, pulling my thin blanket up to my chest.
I reach for the card again without thinking and hold it against my collarbone. My fingers stroke the embossed letters.
Damien Morozov.
I close my eyes and picture his face. I see those sharp, aristocratic features. The cold blue eyes that looked right through me. I shift under the blanket, rolling onto my side, curling around the card like it’s something precious.
I tell myself it’s stupid, but the memory won’t let me go.
Suddenly, I’m back in the restaurant, watching as he calmly grabbed the creep’s throat and squeezed.
He was so controlled, so graceful in movements that should have struck me as violent.
A dark part of me was so turned on and wanted to know what it would be like to feel that power directed toward me.
My thighs press together without my permission.
This is ridiculous. I need to get some sleep. I need to be rested and on my A-game for my interview tomorrow.
But my body doesn’t listen.
What Damien did shouldn’t be sexy, but I can’t stop picturing his big, strong hands. I imagine them on my body, feeling, searching, and groping all over me.
My breath hitches.
I let my hand drift lower, hesitating for a second before I slip it under the waistband of my panties.
I bite my lip hard, trying to fight it, but the images keep coming.
Damien leans over me, his voice rough with command.
He tells me with his delicious accent to spread my legs. To behave. To be a good girl.
My hips jerk. My fingers move with slow, teasing strokes. I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending it’s his fingers instead of mine. Long, strong, sure. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly what he’s doing, his confidence radiating through every movement.
My breath comes faster.
I arch slightly, the blanket falling away from my shoulders. I press harder, circling my clit, imagining his voice in my ear. It’s low, calm, dangerous. He tells me I’m his. He tells me not to come until he says so.
A strangled whimper escapes me as my free hand fists in the sheets. I can’t stop this even if I wanted to.
I imagine him watching me with those cold eyes. They warm just enough to show approval.
My legs tense. I can feel the pressure building in my core, hot and urgent. I bite my lip again, but this time to keep from moaning too loudly. A sound breaks free anyway, embarrassingly needy. I speed up, chasing it now.
His voice is in my head again.
“The lady said no.”
Except this time I’m saying “yes.” Yes, oh God, yes. Please, yes. Please!
I come with a shudder, clamping my thighs together, gasping his name in the darkness. My breath hitches and stutters, the aftershocks rolling through me until I finally go limp. I’m sweating and shaking. My fingers are wet with the evidence of my arousal.
I yank my hand away as if it’s guilty, and a heavy pressure fills my chest, as if I’m about to cry. My face is hot enough to burn. I stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering, as I try to come down from the best orgasm I’ve ever given myself.
I shouldn’t have done it. Yet even now, the thought of him won’t let go.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket back up around me. I place his card on the nightstand carefully, like it’s a precious memento I don’t want to lose. I close my eyes, and sleep takes me at once.
When my alarm goes off in the morning, I fumble for the snooze button before I remember that it’s not an option today. My interview. I can’t be late, and in this industry, even on time is late.
I stretch and feel the slight pull in my lower back where I arched into my hand last night. A wave of guilt washes over me before I force myself to move past it and get up.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately step on the skirt I dropped last night, nearly twisting my ankle. I hop on one foot, cursing under my breath.
I scoop up the clothes and dump them in the hamper before shuffling toward the bathroom. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and cringe. My hair is a wreck, and my eyes are smudged with last night’s mascara. I was too keyed up to even think about taking it off.
After a cool shower to make sure I’m awake, I start the process of taming my curls. It takes longer than usual because my hands are shaking.
I straighten up, rolling my shoulders, trying to look confident even in my underwear.
Then I march back to my bedroom and pull my new suit off the hanger.
Becca and I spent an entire afternoon shopping for it after I got the call to interview.
We went to three different stores. She insisted I try on every color and cut until we found the one that made me look like the kind of woman who deserves it.
It’s slate gray and dark enough to complement my pale features. My hair and eyes stand out wildly against the dark color. The blouse is a simple white, with a slight ruffle at the front that peeks through the blazer.
I slip into it carefully, adjusting the jacket, smoothing the skirt before stepping into the new heels Becca insisted I buy. They’re only an inch and a half, since I’m hopeless in pumps, but they’re comfortable, and they make me feel like a badass boss babe.
My reflection in the mirror is confident and poised. I look like someone who deserves this job. Now I just have to act like it and kill it at the interview.
I’m just double-checking the contents of my purse when I hear the rattle of keys in the front door. Becca stumbles in, dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that’s surrendered to gravity.
“Whoa,” she says, giving me a once-over. “Look at you.”
I smooth my skirt, self-conscious. “This is definitely the look, right?”
She sets her keys in the little dish on the table, shrugs off her jacket, and comes closer, narrowing her eyes as she takes in every detail.
“It’s perfect,” she declares, finally nodding. “You look polished and smart, like you know who you are and what you’re doing. You’re a badass boss bitch.”
“That was my thought exactly!” I say, laughing.
“Good,” she says firmly. “Own it. If you look like you know what you’re doing, they’ll believe you do.”
I grin despite myself. She steps back, eyes twinkling even though she’s clearly dead on her feet.
“Seriously, though. You look amazing.”
“Looks like you had as rough a night as I did,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Oh?” she asks, looking more curious. “What happened to you last night?”
“It’s stupid,” I lie, even though I know she’ll see through that. “Just some asshole who got a little grabby. And another customer stepped in and pulled him off me.”
She smirks. “Was he hot?”
“The asshole?” I stall.
She shoots me a knowing look. “The customer who stepped in,” she says, point-blank. “You’re blushing, so he must have been a dreamboat.”
“Fine,” I mutter through my fingers. “He was hot as hell.”
She cackles. “I knew it! Did you get his number at least?”
I pause for a second, wondering if I should tell her the truth. But it’s Becca. If I don’t tell her, she’ll pry it out of me one way or another. I reach into my bag and pull out his card.
“Sort of,” I say, handing it to her.
She stares at it for a moment, confused, and I can see the gears turning in her brain. The moment understanding dawns, her face lights up, and she bursts out laughing.
“Shut up,” I whine. “It’s not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she corrects. “You finally meet a hot guy in the wild, and he’s probably going to be your boss.”
I let out a mortified groan. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, at least you already made an impression.” She laughs. “Knock ’em dead.”
I check my phone and realize I’m going to be late if I don’t leave soon. I give her a quick hug, and she wishes me luck one more time as I walk out the door.
Once I’m in the cab, I keep checking my bag to make sure I have everything. Resumé. Portfolio. Breath mints. No matter how many times I confirm they’re all there, I still panic and worry I’ve forgotten something. My knee bounces the entire way.
When I get to Integrated Solutions, I check in at the front desk, my voice cracking slightly. The security guard doesn’t even blink as he issues me a visitor badge and directs me to the elevator.
I ride it to the top floor alone, watching my reflection in the mirror-polished doors. When I step into the reception area, the receptionist smiles at me politely.
“Lyra Taylor?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
She gestures. “He’s ready for you.”
Part of me hopes he is Damian. The other part is hoping it isn’t because it fears I might spontaneously explode.
My legs feel like lead. I smooth my suit jacket one last time and follow her down the hall, every step echoing. My palms sweat and my heart hammers.
All I can think is, please don’t let me have blown this before I even walk through the door.