The Owner’s Temptation (The Black Ledger Billionaires #2)

Chapter 1

T he night is warm, the kind of perfect late-summer evening that makes everything feel a little more alive, a little more electric. The Masquerade glows against the city skyline, its sleek black exterior accented by golden lighting that spills into the night like a beacon for the elite.

It’s exclusive, whispered about, wrapped in the kind of mystery that breeds rumors.

I’m not here for the mystery. I’m here for the free drinks.

Everline Consulting apparently always throws one hell of an Employee Appreciation Party and this year it’s on the rooftop terrace of one of New York’s most exclusive night clubs.

The Masquerade.

The buffet of food is delicious. The bar is… open and the music is feeding my soul.

“God, remind me why we don’t go out more?” Harper leans in, her breath warm against my ear as we sway together on the dance floor. “We are hot . We should be out getting worshipped every weekend.”

I laugh, tossing back the last of my cocktail before setting the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Because we’re broke.”

She scoffs. “Empty bank accounts are temporary. Bad bitches are forever.”

She twirls, her black dress clinging to her toned frame, while I follow, the hem of my form-fitting red mini dress riding up slightly as I move. I don’t bother tugging it down.

Tonight, I want to feel good . Relaxed. And have fun.

It’s not a private party so as the night wears on, more and more patrons find their way up here.

Our gold wristband gives us access to the rooftop VIP area where the drink and food are plentiful, but we’ve not left the dance floor in half an hour.

If I know Harper, she is one hundred percent looking for someone to take home for the night.

But me?

I sigh to myself, ridiculing my own ridiculous inner monologue.

I don’t even know.

Harper smirks as we dance. “So. Word on the street is… this place has a sex club inside.”

“You really shouldn’t believe everything you hear from your hookups.” I roll my eyes, lips quirking in amusement. “They’re just trying to get in your pants.”

“They’re already in my pants,” she shouts over the music. “And they say it’s some Eyes Wide Shut type shit—like, a full-blown secret society.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true!” She scoffs back. “They wear different color masks for different kinks.” She explains. Her eyes alive with excitement. “That’s why this place is called, The Masquerade.”

Now that I think about it, there is absolutely nothing about masks with this place.

The ground level is an indoor dance club called Limbo. This rooftop is just an extension of it.

This is like–a ten-story building.

Now my mind is racing at the possibility this could be true and I feel my face heating up as I consider the possibilities. What people would be… doing in there.

What it would be like to walk through and watch. To be watched.

I shake my head is only to clear the thoughts I’m spiraling down. "You’d sell your soul for a masked orgy, wouldn’t you?"

"Not my soul , just my vagina and my time," she teases, taking another sip of her drink. Then she levels me with a look. "Speaking of time, when are you gonna get back out there and find a piece of ass to satisfy you?

“Look, I was tired of faking orgasms for Ben.” My voice carries a little too much over the music. I think my second cocktail is starting to kick in. “I don’t feel like faking it for a stranger too.”

“Oh honey,” Harper looks at me like I have shit all over my face. “Are you saying Ben–Boring Ben—the prestigious, accomplished, white-collar wonder boy —was bad in bed?”

She puts her hand over her chest dramatically. “Pretends to be shocked.”

“Hey, we were high school sweethearts.” I defend myself of my naivety for the millionth time. “He was my first love. I didn’t know better.”

Just in time a server returns with a fresh drink for me.

“Girl, you still don’t know better.”

“God, tell me about it.” Ben’s idea of foreplay was turning over and asking me if I showered.

Then spicing it up meant going from missionary to doggy style.

But Ben was my childhood friend turned teenage boyfriend. I gave him my virginity, and we kept up our relationship long-distance through college.

We moved to New York together and I was certain we’d be getting married while Ben worked on his career.

Until I caught him fucking one of his coworkers.

Dickhead .

Not only did he leave me unsatisfied in the bedroom, but he also left me with an expensive lease for an apartment I didn’t even want. Now I’m racking up credit card debt and blowing through my small savings to keep the rent paid.

I swear to God, I hate him.

But I’m glad I woke up when I did.

That life–the one where I gave up everything for the man in my life–it’s not me.

It’s not what I want.

“We’re not leaving here until we find you some good dick.” Harper takes it upon herself to begin scouring the crowd of faces. “This is my mission now. It’s my purpose. You will get laid before I leave for my vacation.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Trust me, my dick-dar is always on point.” She ignores me, sipping on her drink through the tiny black straw as her eyes move from person to person. “One look and I can tell if they can eat pussy like a pro or if they lick it like a fucking kitten drinking milk."

I choke on my cocktail, coughing as Harper pats my back like she didn’t just say that .

"Jesus, Harper," I wheeze between laughs. "What the hell?"

She shrugs, completely unfazed. "I’m just saying, some guys lap it up like they’ve been training for the Olympics, and some?" She clicks her tongue, shaking her head in disappointment. "They treat it like a goddamn sippy cup ."

I’m dying . Tears prick my eyes from laughing so hard. "Oh my God, I hate you."

"You love me," she corrects, tossing back the last of her drink. “I need a refill.”

She sways her hips, hands lifted over her head with her empty glass as she cuts a path through the crowd toward the VIP area.

One man turns to her, his hand on her hip as he dances with her while she passes.

I swear, I don’t understand how she does that.

Just walks through a crowd and draws eyes to her.

I mean she’s beautiful. Long brunette hair and olive skin but I’m beautiful too dammit.

We’re complete opposites, my long auburn hair and bright blue eyes probably makes me look like an innocent little bunny rabbit compared to the vixen stare she is giving this guys.

Harper keeps on walking, looking back at me with a smile and wagging her eyebrows.

The bouncer waves us through the roped entry to the VIP lounge and we stroll up to the bar.

“So, did that guy,–”

“Not even fucking close.” She cuts me off, giving a nod to the bartender and holding up her empty glass. “That man is a two-pump chump. Guarantee it.”

I shake my head, looking back in the crowd and trying to find him again.

Poor guy.

Harper is like a Venus Flytrap. Ready to sink her jaws into any man, chew him up and spit him out.

She claps her hands, turning around and leaning her back against the bar. “Okay, what are we in the mood for tonight, Sienna? Some chow-time in the bathroom?”

“Good lord.” I look around seeing if anyone is listening.

“Someone to finger you in the rideshare on the way home?” She lists the option off like she’s picking toppings for her sub-sandwich. “I’m personally looking for a cute face to ride.”

“Harper!”

“What?” She shrugs as the bartender puts her new drink down, sliding it to her with a wink. “You know, a strong jaw, some stubble for a little extra–umph.” She keeps her eyes on the bartender and nudges me with her elbow. “Please tell me Boring Ben at lease let you ride his tongue once or twice.”

I wince, taking my tiny straw between my teeth.

Harper wears a look of utter disbelief. “I’m terrified for you actually.”

“Can I be honest with you?” I look around again, making sure we’re alone. She leans in toward me.

“Oh girl spill it. The tea is piping hot, I can tell.”

I’m already blushing. I can feel my face getting hotter.

Just as I’m about to open my mouth, the words get stuck. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t said anything.

“Oh, no you don’t. You can’t back out now. Give it to me.” She takes a long pull from her new cocktail. Her eyes focused on me like I’m about to tell her the secret to world peace.

“Ben never actually…” I’m not sure how to finish it but Harper seems to have caught on.

“Oh, you sweet summer child.” She gives me a slow, pitiful shake of her head. “We are officially on booty-call duty for you. A man to stick his tongue as deep in your snatch as possible.”

“Oh, my God.” I give myself an actual facepalm, running my hand down slowly.

“And for the record, I want to stab Boring-Ben in his mediocre little dick.”

I laugh, turning around with Harper to watch the dance floor too.

She starts calling out prospects, then immediately telling me why they do not make the cut.

I don’t hear her, though, because I’m focusing every ounce of my attention on the man walking into the VIP lounge.

Tall. Dark. Dangerous.

A tailored navy suit clings to his powerful frame, broad shoulders commanding the space like he owns the air itself. His sharp, steel-gray eyes scan the room with cool disinterest—until they land on me.

And then, for a single breathless second, the world stops .

I forget my name. I forget how to function as a human being. My skin feels too tight, my heart hammers in my ribs like it’s trying to break out.

Holy fuck .

"See?" Harper is still talking, completely unaware that my soul just left my body. "That guy right there? That’s the kind of jaw I’m talking about. Just the right amount of stubble to grind against—probably phenomenal at eating pussy."

I whip my head toward her, panic crashing into me like a freight train.

Because she’s pointing .

At him .

Her eyes trail over him approvingly, dragging down the length of his broad frame, taking in the way his crisp navy button-down stretches across thick, powerful shoulders.

And he’s watching .

His gaze locks onto mine—sharp, assessing, dangerous .

A flicker of amusement dances across his face as he takes slow, measured steps toward the bar.

Harper leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "We should ask him to prove it ."

I swear to God, I’m going to die .

I shoot her a look of pure betrayal, but she only grins as the mystery man passes us, completely unbothered by our existence.

Instead, he stops at the far end of the bar, shrugging off his suit jacket in one smooth motion.

And oh my God .

Underneath, the black fabric of his button-down clings to the kind of body that shouldn’t be legal. He’s tall—easily over six feet—lean but built , the movement of corded muscle evident even beneath the expensive fabric.

Then, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, he rolls up the sleeves, revealing tattooed forearms .

I don’t even know what the tattoos are —all I know is that my brain has officially short-circuited and I want to run my tongue up those tattoos.

Harper, of course, notices.

"Jesus, Sienna, you’re drooling ," she mutters under her breath, shoving her fresh cocktail into my hands. "Guard this. I have to pee, and when I get back…" She starts backing toward the bathrooms, pointing at me. "You’re talking to him."

I will die first.

She disappears into the crowd before I can protest, leaving me standing there, gripping her drink like a lifeline.

It’s not that I don’t like sex. I do.

I love sex. At least, I like the idea of sex.

My partner was a piece of shit. Selfish in the way he never tried to make me orgasm.

Degrading in the way he made me feel down on myself for wanting more–other things.

Once, I wanted to blow him in a dark movie theatre. There was hardly anyone there and certainly no one around us.

You would have thought I asked him to let me castrate him, grill his dick on a bar-be-que and serve it to our fellow movie-watchers.

I exhale sharply, shaking off the weird flutter in my chest, and turn toward the bar—only to feel the mood instantly sour.

Because fucking Steve, my dickhead of a manager, in all his corporate mediocrity, waltzes into the VIP lounge with a damn Bud Light in his hand.

All this top-shelf liquor, and he goes with a basic-ass beer. Figures.

He spots me almost immediately and beelines straight for me, his smarmy grin making my stomach turn.

The closer he gets, the more my stomach clenches. I already know where this is going.

"Enjoying the party?" he asks, sliding up beside me like he belongs here. His tone is easy, conversational—too casual.

He’s trying to make this look natural.

It’s not.

I take a deliberate step back, but he mirrors it immediately, maintaining the space like he owns it.

I school my face into polite indifference, nodding. "Yeah, it’s nice."

He hums, taking a sip of his beer, eyes scanning the VIP lounge like he’s just another guy hanging out —like he isn’t actively hemming me in with his presence.

"You know," he muses, his voice taking on that fake we’re-both-in-on-the-joke tone, "I’ve been meaning to talk to you outside the office. Things at Everline are… shifting. Some positions are opening up."

His eyes flick back to mine, just for a second. Calculating.

"I think you’d be a great fit for something more ," he adds, voice dipping suggestively, his eyes doing the same.

I know exactly what he’s doing.

The bait is to make it sound like an opportunity.

The hook, however, implies there’s a favor attached.

The unspoken? If you play along, maybe I can make things easier for you.

I can’t prove he’s outright suggesting anything sleazy, but the implication is heavy enough to make my skin crawl.

I keep my expression neutral, giving the world’s most noncommittal nod. "I’m sure a lot of people would be interested but Everline is not exactly where my career ambitions live."

Steve chuckles, shaking his head like I just said something adorable .

And then—he steps closer.

Too close.

I feel his body heat and on instinct slide down the bar, trying to keep that distance between us.

The scent of cheap aftershave and beer wafts over me, as his fingers trail down my bare arm—slow, deliberate, testing. “I can see us–”

Oh hell no.

A chill races down my spine, and every muscle in my body locks up.

“Don’t touch me.”

I jerk my arm away so fast that the drink in my hand sloshes over my fingers—splashing against the front of his tan dress pants.

A dark stain spreads across his crotch.

"What the fuck, Sienna?!"

The outrage in his voice would be hilarious if I weren’t so pissed .

I roll my eyes and look across the dance floor, searching for the bathrooms so I can just go find Harper.

Steve exhales sharply, running a hand down his wet pants, trying to casually wipe at the stain. He lets out a forced chuckle, but it’s tight, clipped. Like he’s tolerating me.

"Relax, would you?" he says, voice edged with frustration now. "It’s a party. You should enjoy yourself."

He takes another step toward me, setting his bottle on the bar top.

I step back again, but this time—a barstool is behind me, blocking my retreat.

Steve notices.

His lips curl slightly, that pathetic little smirk reappearing like he’s decided I’m only playing hard-to-get.

"Better yet…" he leans in, voice lowering like we’re sharing some private secret. " Maybe we should enjoy ourselves—privately."

His eyes drag over my mouth.

"You know, I look at that smart mouth of yours every damn day, and I’ve wondered what it would feel like on my co?—"

I don’t let him finish.

Taking a step back, the stool slides out of my path and I throw the rest of Harper’s cocktail in his fucking face .

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that," I snap, my voice steady even though my blood is boiling.

Steve freezes, drenched in whiskey and humiliation.

A few nearby patrons glance over as Steve stands there, face red, jaw ticking as he calculates his next move. From the side of my vision, the bartender stands up straight. I can tell he’s watching us and expect a bouncer at any second to kick me out.

I can see it in Steve’s eyes—the fury, the loss of control , the way he’s struggling to mask it.

He steps forward and I flinch in instinct.

"Consider yourself fired, bitch."

Then out of nowhere, a large, tan hand clamping around the back of Steve’s neck.

Everything happens fast.

One second, Steve is standing there, gloating.

The next—h is face meets the fucking bar.

A sickening crunch echoes through night air as his nose breaks.

I jump back, eyes widening as Steve crumples to the floor, completely unconscious.

My mouth falls open.

My best friend, ten feet away, is frozen mid-step as she finally returns from the bathroom.

Tall, Dark, and Tattooed stands there like nothing just happened , adjusting the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves, exuding pure dominance.

Patrons glance over, but no one reacts.

Like this isn’t unusual here.

Like he owns this place.

“I–” I have no fucking idea what to say.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a sleek, metal cardholder. Smoothly, he slides out a single black card, then extends it between two fingers.

His voice is even. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Orientation is Monday."

I blink.

"Excuse me?"

He runs his grey eyes to Steve–still passed out on the ground–as if that should answer my question.

"You need a job," he says simply, then flicks his gaze down my body.

"And you're already wearing the right color."

And just like that?—

He’s gone .