Chapter 5
Ezra
There was a specific kind of torture in watching Amara Vane try to study corporate finance. It was like watching a hummingbird try to solve a Rubik's cube. It was frantic, colorful, beautiful to look at, and utterly devoid of efficiency.
We had been at it for four days. The "New Normal."
The arrangement was simple on paper: I managed her life, she played the part of the doting consort in public, and in private, she submitted to the academic rigor necessary to save her degree.
In reality, the arrangement was a slow-motion car crash that I couldn’t look away from.
“I don’t understand why ‘Amortization’ sounds like a disease,” Amara groaned.
She was lying on her stomach on the Persian rug in my living room, her legs kicking idly in the air.
She was wearing a pair of tiny silk shorts and one of my oversized grey t-shirts that slipped off her shoulder every time she moved.
The sight of her bare thigh against the dark wool of the rug was doing things to my blood pressure that my cardiologist would frown upon.
“It’s not a disease,” I said, not looking up from my laptop.
I was sitting on the sofa, attempting to review the quarterly projections for Sterling Enterprises, but my eyes kept drifting to the curve of her calf.
“It’s the process of spreading out a loan into a series of fixed payments.
It’s structure, Amara. It’s predictable. You should like it.”
“I hate it,” she mumbled, burying her face in the textbook. “I like chaos. I like fabric that moves. I like unexpected draping. This… this is just math wearing a suit.”
“Math wearing a suit is currently paying for your silk and leather,” I reminded her dryly.
She lifted her head, blowing a strand of platinum hair out of her eyes.
She shot me a glare that was fifty percent annoyance and fifty percent playfulness.
That was the problem. We were getting comfortable.
The terror she had initially felt toward me had evaporated, replaced by a bratty familiarity that tested every ounce of my self-control.
“You’re a tyrant,” she said. “A rich, bossy tyrant who probably color-codes his socks.”
“My socks are all black,” I said. “It’s efficient.”
“It’s boring,” she countered. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. The movement caused the t-shirt to ride up, exposing a strip of creamy, pale skin at her waist.
I tightened my grip on the tablet I was holding.
“Ezra?”
“What?”
“I’m bored.”
“Boredom is a symptom of a lack of discipline.”
“Boredom is a symptom of reading about ‘Fiscal Liability’ for three hours straight,” she argued. She sat up, crossing her legs. “Can we take a break? Please? My brain is melting. It’s going to drip out of my ears and stain your precious rug.”
I finally set the tablet down. I looked at her.
She was vibrant. Even in my sterile, monochrome apartment, she was a splash of color. Her lips were pink, chewed raw from concentration. Her eyes were bright. She was alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
“What do you propose?” I asked. “We have an hour of study time left on the schedule.”
“Let’s do something else,” she said, crawling toward the sofa. She moved with a feline grace, closing the distance between us until she was resting her chin on the cushion next to my knee. “Teach me something else. Something useful.”
“Finance is useful.”
“Something fun,” she whined. “You’re the Captain. You must know some… I don’t know, party tricks? How to open a beer bottle with your teeth? How to intimidate a referee?”
I looked down at her. She was teasing me. She was flirting.
And she had no idea how dangerous that was.
“I don’t do party tricks,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “And intimidation isn’t a trick. It’s a byproduct of competence.”
She rolled her eyes. “God, you’re stiff. Do you ever relax? Do you ever just… let go?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded.
Do I let go? No. If I let go, the anger comes out. If I let go, the hunger comes out. If I let go, I would devour her right here on the floor and ruin the delicate truce we had built.
“Relaxing is for people who don’t have an empire to run,” I said stiffly.
She scoffed. She reached out and poked my knee. Just a tap of her finger against my jeans.
“I bet I can make you relax,” she whispered. A mischievous glint entered her eyes.
“Amara,” I warned.
“I bet,” she continued, ignoring my tone, “that if I tried hard enough, I could make the Great Ezra Sterling crack a smile. Or maybe even… lose focus.”
She was challenging me. The Brat was poking the bear.
I felt a dark, possessive heat coil in my gut. She thought she was safe because of the deal. She thought she was safe because I had been a gentleman for four days.
She was wrong.
“You think you can distract me?” I asked softly.
“I think I’m pretty distracting,” she said, tossing her hair. “Mads certainly thought so at the party.”
Mads.
The name was a spark in a powder keg.
I moved before I made the conscious decision to do so. I leaned forward and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up from the floor. She squeaked in surprise, tumbling onto the sofa next to me.
I didn't let go. I pinned her wrist against the back of the couch, looming over her.
“Mads has the attention span of a goldfish and the standards of a desperation hire,” I growled. “Distracting him is not an accomplishment. Distracting me… that’s a different sport entirely.”
Her eyes went wide. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. She wasn't scared. I knew the look of fear. This was anticipation.
“Is that a challenge, Sir?” she breathed.
The title snapped the last thread of my restraint.
“You want to play a game, Amara?” I asked. “Fine. We’ll play a game.”
I released her wrist and stood up. I walked to the heavy oak desk in the corner of the room, grabbed her textbook, and walked back.
“Get up,” I commanded.
She blinked, confused, but she scrambled off the sofa.
“Stand there,” I pointed to the space in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights of Blackwood were twinkling below us, a sea of white and gold in the darkness. We were forty stories up. No one could see in. But the feeling of exposure was palpable.
She walked to the window, her reflection ghosting against the glass. She turned to face me, hugging her arms around herself.
“What are we doing?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“We’re testing your focus,” I said. I walked toward her, stopping when I was inches away. “And we’re testing mine.”
I opened the textbook to the chapter she had been struggling with.
“‘The definition of a secured transaction is an agreement in which the borrower pledges an asset as collateral for the loan,’” I read aloud. I snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the sofa.
“Tell me, Amara. What is the collateral in our arrangement?”
She swallowed hard, looking up at me. “My… my obedience.”
“Correct.”
I reached out and ran the back of my knuckles down her cheek. Her skin was soft, hot to the touch. She leaned into the touch instinctively, her eyes fluttering shut.
“So here is the new lesson plan,” I murmured. “I am going to touch you. And you are going to recite the three conditions required for a security interest to attach to collateral.”
Her eyes snapped open. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I stepped closer, my hips bumping against hers. I forced her back until her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the window.
“If you get it right,” I whispered, leaning down to brush my lips against her ear, “I stop. If you get it wrong… or if you lose your words… I don’t stop.”
“Ezra,” she gasped. “We can’t… I mean, we agreed—”
“We agreed on a Protocol,” I interrupted. “You said you were bored. You said you wanted to learn something fun. This is how you learn focus under pressure.”
I placed my hands on her waist. The fabric of the t-shirt was soft, but underneath, I could feel the heat of her skin. I could feel the tension in her muscles.
“Three conditions,” I said. “Go.”
She stared at me, her mind clearly blanking.
“I… uh…”
My hands slid down her hips. I gripped her thighs and lifted her effortlessly, placing her on the wide marble sill of the window. Her legs parted naturally, wrapping around my waist.
“Condition one,” I prompted.
My hand slid under the hem of the t-shirt. I rested my palm flat against her stomach. Her muscles contracted sharply under my touch.
“Value,” she stuttered. “Value must be… given.”
“Good,” I praised. My voice was rough. “Value must be given. Like money. Or credit. Or pleasure.”
I moved my hand higher, my thumb brushing the underside of her breast. She wasn't wearing a bra. I knew she wasn't. I had known it the moment she walked out of the bedroom.
She let out a shaky breath, her head falling back against the glass.
“Condition… condition two,” she whispered.
My hand cupped her breast. It was soft, heavy, perfect. Her nipple hardened instantly against my palm, peaking through the cotton. I thumbed it, circling the sensitive nub, and she let out a moan that went straight to my groin.
“Focus, Amara,” I growled against her neck. I bit lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there. “Condition two.”
“The… the debtor…” She gasped as I squeezed gently. “The debtor must have rights… in the collateral.”
“Very good,” I murmured. I kissed the spot I had just bitten, soothing the sting. “You have rights to your body. But right now… you’re letting me borrow it.”
I moved my other hand. I slid it down her thigh, under the silk shorts.
Her skin was scalding. She was wet. I could smell it—the sweet, arousal-heavy scent of her desire. It mixed with the sandalwood of my apartment and created a drug I was instantly addicted to.
“Condition three,” I demanded.
My fingers brushed the lace of her panties. She bucked her hips, a desperate, involuntary movement seeking friction.
“I can’t,” she whimpered. “Ezra, please…”
“Condition three,” I repeated. I slid my hand inside her panties.
She was soaked. Slick. Ready.