Chapter 4
The 6 a.m. alarm blares precisely as scheduled, jolting Max awake. He swings his legs off the bed, ignoring the temptation to hit snooze. Rising without delay gives him a head start, forcing productivity to smother the immediate urge to crawl back beneath the sheets.
The steady hum of the treadmill fills his private gym as he powers through his run, his gaze drifting from the morning briefing scrolling across the screen to the expansive balcony and the cityscape beyond. He misses the view of nature. Sweat beads along his brow as he refocuses on the numbers, projections, and updates flashing past. He has trained himself to pair exertion with efficiency, his body working while his mind sharpens.
The urge to return to bed evaporates completely.
Beads of sweat glisten as he pushes his limits.
Max increases his pace, chasing the six-minute mile as hunger sharpens his focus. His breakfast waits in the refrigerator, perfectly portioned and ready to be warmed. Every gram measured, every calorie approved by his team of doctors and trainers. He can almost smell it, rich and savory, just out of reach. The seconds stretch. His lungs burn. His muscles tighten.
Yet amid the physical strain, a persistent thought nags at the edges of his mind.
Images of the annoyingly stubborn waitress have been intruding since last Friday.
It perplexes him why she occupies any space in his thoughts at all. He dismisses it as nothing. Just a dry spell, the result of too many boardrooms, too many red-eye flights, and too much control.
But the pounding music returns in flashes.
The club.
The stripper on Will’s lap.
And then the infuriating woman on her knees in front of that idiot, Paul Richardson…
And those legs. God, those legs.
Those beautiful eyes.
That mouth. Reckless and foul, daring to curse him.
It had all been too much. He’d lost himself in the moment.
Fuck. I really need some pussy and get this all out of my system.
No woman had ever dared speak to him that way. The fact that she had infuriates him on a level he doesn’t quite understand. She, a literal nobody, had talked back, insulted him more than once, even shoved words into his mouth. And the final insult? Throwing his money back at him. She’d looked at him like he was scum.
He’d dropped her off at the damn bus stop and waited nearby until it came. Almost laughable, that pride of hers. She would rather walk barefoot onto a bus than let him call her a cab.
His jaw clenches.
She had looked at him as if she were better, as though money meant nothing to her. But she was no one special. Everyone could be bought. She was no exception.
What he wants most, right now, is to make her regret that night.
He slows to a stop as he finishes his final lap.
Six minutes and eighteen seconds.
“Damn.”
Groaning, he hops off the machine, the satisfying ache already settling into his muscles.
In the shower, he relishes the cold water streaming down his back, cooling the heat radiating from his body. The steady cascade from the rain shower fills the space, its rhythm soothing as he lathers body wash over his skin. His gaze drifts to the built-in bench, and suddenly, he imagines the petite waitress sitting there, completely naked, watching him.
He closes his eyes and exhales.
He hates that he can’t stop thinking about her. Most people would agree she’d been the most gorgeous woman there that night. Big tits, a small waist, and a perfectly round ass.
Too bad her personality needs serious work.
His hand slides down to grip his cock as he begins to stroke himself, imagining what lies beneath the cheap fabric she wore that night.
He pictures her on her knees, eyes wet with tears as he fucks her mouth—the same mouth that dared to curse him. He wants her to choke on his cock, her hands pushing weakly against his thighs in a pathetic attempt to breathe.
Then, inexplicably, his thoughts soften.
He imagines her smiling up at him instead, shy and sweet, hazel eyes glowing with curiosity. The warmth of that image lingers, clashing with the cold water pouring over his skin.
He gives his manhood a final tight squeeze, feeling it further hardening in his hand. He groans.
He wishes he could bend her over and fuck her until her pride shatters. She needs a lesson, a harsh reminder of exactly where she belongs in this world. Her errant ass keeps running through his mind, and it’s driving him mad.
It’s only Wednesday, and he’s already struggling to focus. He isn’t sure how he’ll make it through the rest of the week.
Later that day, in his private office, Max shifts in his leather chair as he opens the folder his personal assistant, Sydney, has placed neatly on his desk. She remains standing, watching him, making no move to excuse herself.
He frowns and looks up.
She meets his gaze, calm and unflinching, more like a disapproving matron than the subordinate she is meant to be. He knows this is odd. He knows she’s questioning why he had her investigate a waitress who’s a complete nobody in their world. Still, he won’t be able to focus on anything else until his curiosity is satisfied.
Rolling his eyes, he looks back down at the folder.
“You may leave now, Sydney.”
Professional and diligent as she is, Sydney could use a reminder about boundaries. But Max is too eager to bother with discipline at the moment. He’ll need someone more discreet for future tasks, someone who won’t go running to his father if pressured or bribed.
Once the door clicks shut behind her, he begins to read.
Lila Rose Thorne.
26.
Born and raised in some backwater town he’s never heard of.
Her social media presence is sparse. Few photos, and the ones that exist are tame. In a world obsessed with oversharing, he finds her privacy appealing.
A natural brunette. As his eyes scan through image after image, he notes that she has always kept her hair long. He’s always liked long hair, and hers looked particularly good tied back in a simple ponytail that night at the club. Heat coils low in his gut as he imagines it wrapped around his fist while he thrusts into her from behind—fingers tightening, yanking her back against him with every movement.
The last photo stops him cold.
She’s posing with a man—an ex, presumably, since her profile lists her as single. His arms are wrapped around her waist as they stand beneath a large tree. She wears a modest white lace dress with long sleeves, clutching a pitiful bouquet of wilting red roses.
He’s smiling at the camera.
So is she.
But her eyes aren’t on the lens. They’re fixed on him, bright with adoration, as if she’s utterly starstruck.
A surge of displeasure coils in Max’s chest as he studies the image, an unexpected flash of possessiveness and jealousy coursing through him.