Sneak Peak
My new boss is my dad's best friend. I just resigned because I'm in love with him.
Graham Pierce attended our family functions for years. Now he signs my paychecks.
He's cold. Controlled. Seventeen years older and completely certain he knows what's best for me.
Then a man from the company we just acquired corners me at a retreat. Graham steps in like a thunderstorm. Something between us detonates.We agree on a secret.
No emotions.
No complications.
It lasts about twelve minutes.
He softens in the dark in ways he'd never allow in daylight. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth protecting. I stop pretending I don't want him, or that what we have feels like anything less than everything.
If my father finds out, Graham could lose more than just his best friend. His reputation, the authority, his company. And I could lose them both.
***
Prologue: Mila
"Tell me to walk away," I demand, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.
His lashes flicker. For a second, I think he will. I see the words forming behind his eyes, the old script he's recited to himself for months. This is wrong. She's Tom's daughter. She works for you. You don't get to want her.
But then his gaze drops to my mouth, and something darkens in his expression. His jaw tightens. His throat works. He doesn't say it.
I rise onto my toes, my free hand finding his shoulder for balance, and I kiss him.
For one endless second, he doesn't move. His lips are still beneath mine, warm but unmoving, like he's frozen in shock. I can taste the whiskey he had at dinner, the faintest hint of mint from his toothpaste, the salt of his skin. My breath hitches. God, he's going to pull back. He's going to—
Then he shatters.
One hand slides into my hair, gripping just tight enough to make my scalp tingle, while the other finds the small of my back and presses me flush against him with a force that steals my breath.
And oh God, I can feel all of him now. The hard planes of his chest against my breasts, the ridged muscles of his abdomen taut beneath his shirt, the thick, insistent pressure of his cock straining against his slacks.
My dress is too thin, my skin too sensitive, and every inch of me is suddenly awake. Hyperaware of the way his body fits against mine, the way his heat seeps into me and pools low in my belly. The way his breath comes faster now, rough and uneven, as if he's already losing the battle with himself.
His kiss deepens, hungrier. One hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back at an angle that makes me feel entirely owned, and I let him. God help me, I want him to.
"Inside," he growls against my lips. Not a request. An order. His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, as if he's already half-lost to this and we haven't even started.
"Inside," I agree, breathless.
He doesn't let go of me. Not even when I turn toward the service corridor that runs along the east wing of the resort.
His fingers stay tangled in mine, his thumb tracing slow, distracting circles over my knuckles as we move through the dim hallway, the overhead lights muted gold, the only sounds our footsteps and the ragged edge of our breathing and the distant thrum of the resort settling into night around us.
The elevator is empty. The moment the doors slide shut, he's on me.
He spins me, pressing my back against the mirrored wall, and his mouth crashes down on mine again.
Hungry and relentless, with none of the restraint he's been holding onto for months.
I can feel it unraveling in him. I can feel exactly what I do to him, hard and urgent against my hip, and the knowledge sends heat flooding straight to my core.
His hands are everywhere. One grips my hip hard enough to bruise, angling me exactly where he wants me, while the other slides up to palm my breast through the fabric of my dress.
His thumb drags over my nipple until it aches, until I'm straining against the thin barrier of silk wishing it didn't exist. I gasp into his kiss, my fingers clawing at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders with frantic urgency, needing to feel more of him beneath my hands.
He doesn't stop. His lips trail down my throat, hot and open-mouthed, unhurried despite the desperation crackling between us.
I tilt my head back against the cool mirror, my eyes fluttering shut, my fingers threading into his hair as he sucks at the pulse point beneath my ear.
I can feel my heartbeat there, frantic and exposed against his mouth.
"Graham—" His name comes out as a whimper, embarrassingly needy, and he groans in response.
A low, rough sound that vibrates against my skin and travels all the way down my spine.
His teeth graze my throat just enough to make me shudder, just enough to make my hips roll against him involuntarily.
He makes a sound at that. A warning. Or maybe a promise.
His hands find my waist, sliding down to map the curve of my hips through the dress, then lower, and lower still.
His palms smooth over the swell of my ass, gripping, squeezing, pulling me harder against him until I can feel exactly how much he wants me and there's no pretending otherwise.
I make a sound I've never made before. Something small and helpless that I'd be embarrassed about if his breath didn't catch in response as if it's the best thing he's ever heard.
Then his fingers find the hem of my dress.
He doesn't rush. That's what undoes me. He drags the fabric up slowly, deliberately, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of my outer thigh inch by inch.
Watching my face the whole time as though he's been thinking about exactly this for a long time and he's not going to waste a single second of it.
The cool air of the elevator hits my skin as the dress rides higher, and I shiver despite the heat pooling between my thighs.
His hand slides inward.
"Graham." His name comes out wrecked. A warning. A plea. I don't know which.
"I know," he murmurs against my temple, and his fingers find the thin fabric of my underwear, tracing the edge of it with a patience that borders on cruelty.
His grip is possessive, almost reverent, as if he's memorizing every line of me.
As if he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his hold. Maybe he is. Maybe so am I.
The elevator hums beneath us, the numbers ticking upward, and I don't care where we're going.
I don't care about anything but the way his touch sets every nerve ending I have on fire.
The way his breath hitches when I arch into him.
The way he presses closer when I drag my nails slowly down the front of his chest. He catches my wrist, holds it, and looks at me with eyes gone dark and depthless.
"You have no idea what you've started," he says. It's quiet. Certain.
I hold his gaze. "Then show me."
The doors slide open.