Chapter 30
Everett
The elevator chimes. Seventeenth floor. My assistant glances up, nods, returns to her screen. Standard Thursday afternoon. Nothing remarkable about the CEO and his girlfriend arriving together.
Girlfriend. The word sits different in my head now.
I guide Margot into my office, close the door, hit the privacy lock.
She drops her bag on the leather sofa, kicks off her heels, and immediately starts pacing. Energy radiates off her. She's wound tight with success, with schemes executed perfectly, with the high of performance.
"She took the bait." Margot spins to face me, hands spread wide.
I settle into my desk chair, rock it back slightly. "Every detail."
"Mrs. Sutherland practically vibrated with glee when I mentioned troubles.
I swear she was composing the gossip text before I finished my sentence.
" She perches on the arm of the sofa, bare feet dangling.
"So I get to the spa, right? And there's this lovely woman.
Older, elegant. We talked about theater. She gave me her card."
Pride swells in my chest.
"Anyway." Pink touches her cheeks. "Then sweetness and light arrived. Mrs. Sutherland. All smiles and poisoned honey."
I lean back further, hands steepled, watching her. "Tell me everything."
She does. The way Mrs. Sutherland offered unsolicited advice designed to embarrass her. The missteps wrapped in country club etiquette. The obvious setup.
"She told me to bring my phone into the sauna," Margot says, eyes dancing. "Can you imagine? I'd have fried the thing."
"She wanted you to fail."
"Obviously." Margot stands, resumes pacing. "So I smiled. Thanked her. Did the exact opposite of everything she suggested."
"Then after my massage…" She pauses, catches my eye. "We texted."
Heat crawls up my spine. I remember those texts. The flirtation threaded through strategy. Her responses that made me shift in my chair, grateful for the desk hiding my reaction.
"I remember."
"Do you?" Challenge colors her tone. "What did I say?"
"You said the masseuse had nothing on my hands." I look at her. "You said you'd rather have my touch."
Her breathing changes. Shallow. Quick.
"And what did you say?"
"That you'd have it. Later." I meet her gaze across the office. "I meant it."
She clears her throat, returning to safer ground. "Right. So. After the massage, I got dressed and headed to the locker room. Pardon me. The Ladies Lounge. And there she was. Mrs. Sutherland. Primping in front of the mirror like she owned the place."
"Perfect timing."
"Too perfect." Margot grins. "I dropped our little bomb. Then I called Talia, and just above a whisper but loud enough to be overheard , laid out the most beautiful false information you've ever heard. 'Is it a bad sign if executive bonuses are being withheld?'"
Admiration floods through me. She played the part flawlessly. No hesitation. No tells.
"You're a dangerous woman, Margot Bennett."
"I'm an actress when I need to be." She crosses to my desk, leans against the edge. Close enough I catch the lavender from the spa. "You should have seen her face. She tried to pretend she wasn't listening, but her eyes were huge. She practically sprinted out of there to make calls."
I stand, moving around the desk until we're toe to toe. "You were perfect."
"We were perfect." She tilts her head back, meeting my gaze. "This was teamwork."
"It was." I reach up, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek and her breath catches. "You played your part beautifully. Maybe you should quit writing. Take up acting full-time."
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. "Absolutely not. Writing is safer."
Her smile turns playful. "Although..."
"Although?"
"There is some acting I wouldn't mind doing." Her hands settle on my chest, fingers splaying over my shirt. "Some parts I'd like to play."
Heat lances through me. "What kind of parts?"
"The kind that happen behind closed doors." Her voice drops. "With an audience of one."
I look at her for a long moment. Then I take her hand.
"We're not doing this here." I pause. "We're not doing this anywhere that isn't right."
She looks at me . Surprised, then understanding flooding her expression. This matters. This means something.
"Okay," she whispers.
I lead her out of my office, past my assistant's carefully neutral expression, into the elevator. The doors close. We're alone.
In the elevator she leans back against me for exactly three seconds. Then straightens before the doors open.
Lobby. We separate as the doors part.
My car waits at the curb. I open her door, hand her in, close it with careful restraint. Slide behind the wheel and start the engine.
Manhattan traffic crawls. Every red light feels personal. Her hand rests on my thigh, fingers drawing absent patterns that make concentration difficult.
"You're not helping," I growl.
"I'm not trying to help." Her smile is pure sin. "I'm trying to make you as desperate as I am."
"Mission accomplished."
We pull up to the townhouse. I'm out of the car before the engine stops. Around to her door. Hand extended.
She takes it. Steps out. She's radiant with success and want and trust. She chose this. Chose me.
I unlock the front door. She steps inside. She watches me, color high in her cheeks. "Which floor?"
"Top." I gesture to the stairs. "After you."
She climbs. I follow. Watch the sway of her hips, the line of her spine, the way she glances back to make sure I'm still there.
As if I could be anywhere else.
She reaches the top landing, pauses at my door.
I reach past her, push it open.
I kiss her forehead. Her temple. The corner of her mouth. "I want you. Here. In this room. In this moment. Completely."
Her eyes shine. "Then have me."
I kiss her, deep and claiming. My hands map the curves of her body through her clothes — her waist, hips, the fullness of her breasts. She arches into my touch, gasping against my mouth.
"Too many clothes," she breathes.
I step back. Start unbuttoning my shirt. She watches, eyes tracking each revealed inch of skin. When I shrug it off, her hands are there immediately, her palms flat against my chest, tracing muscle and bone.
"Your turn," I say.
She reaches for the hem of her sweater. Pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. Beige lace underneath. Simple. Devastating.
My breath stops.
"Margot…"
"Don't talk." She reaches for my belt. "Not yet. Just touch me."
I do.
My hands span her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs. She shivers. I kiss down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. Her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me close.
I unhook her bra. Let it fall. Cup her breasts in my hands, thumbs circling her nipples until she whimpers.
"Everett, please…"
"Patience." I guide her backward toward the bed. The backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sits. I kneel before her, hands on the button of her pants.
She lifts her hips. I slide the fabric down, taking her underwear with it. She's bare before me. Flushed and wanting and perfect.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"I'm memorizing." I press a kiss to her inner thigh. "Every inch."
Her head falls back as I taste her. Hands gripping the sheets. She's responsive, vocal, guiding me with sounds and subtle shifts of her hips. I keep learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her say my name like a prayer.
When she shatters, I'm there to catch her. Hold her through the aftershocks. Feel her pulse racing under my lips.
She pulls me up, kisses me deep. "Bed. Now."
I shed the rest of my clothes. Join her on the mattress. She wraps herself around me, all arms, legs, heat and softness and strength.
"I want you," she says. Clear. Direct. "All of you."
"You have me." The words come from somewhere deeper than intention. "You've had me for weeks."
Her eyes widen.
I reach for the nightstand. Protection. She takes it from my hands, tears it open, rolls it down my length with torturous care.
Then she's guiding me inside. Slow. Deliberate. We both groan as I fill her.
"Okay?" I grit out.
"Better than okay." She rocks her hips. "Move."
I do.
The rhythm builds between us, our give and take, push and pull, the slide of skin on skin. She meets me stroke for stroke, nails digging into my shoulders, ankles locked along my legs.
Sweat beads on my spine. My muscles burn. The pleasure coils tighter, hotter, threatening to consume me.
"Margot…" Her name breaks on my lips.
"I'm close," she gasps. "Don't stop."
I reach between us. Find the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out. Circle it with my thumb in time with my thrusts.
She comes undone. Clenching around me, my name on her lips, her whole body arching off the bed.
I follow her. Release crashing through me in waves. Everything narrows to this moment of her. Her body, her breath, her hands holding me close.
Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets. Her head rests on my chest. My fingers trace lazy patterns on her shoulder.
The city hums outside. Inside, we're listening to each other's breath.
"That was…" She stops. Tries again. "I don't have words."
I kiss the top of her head. "Nor me."
She laughs, the sound soft and satisfied. "You're usually so articulate."
"You break my concentration."
"Good." She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "I like you a little broken."
"I like you a little dangerous." I tuck hair behind her ear.
"I have something to ask you," I say.
"Now? While I'm naked in your bed?"
"Especially now." I sit up, bringing her with me. "There's talk the final merger meeting will be on Hartman's turf. Europe. Still being defined."
"Yes."
I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Would you consider joining me?"