EMMA

"I'm gonna piss on his car."

Phoebe, my BFF, bursts out laughing on the phone. "You're gonna what? Em, I love you to bits, but you wouldn't even remind the bodega guy that you asked for no mustard on your sandwich last weekend. I don't think you have a rebellious bone in your body. You certainly don't have a 'pee-onyour-boss's-car' bone in your body."

I sigh. She's right. I hate it, but she's right. "It's bullshit that Sienna got all the rebellious genes," I mutter. "My whole DNA is wired to be compliant. Even the thought of talking back to him gives me hives."

"Aw, babe, don't sell yourself short. You're a firecracker when you wanna be. You're just sucking it up with Prince Douche Bag because you need this job to keep the kiddos in a good place. Food on the table, roof over their heads, all that. You're a martyr, seriously. They should make statues of you."

I snort and get off the train at my stop. "I'm good without that, thanks. I don't need statues of me. I'd just like to not be treated like I'm a second-class citizen at my place of employment."

"Well, if wishes were fishes, we'd all have something to eat," Phoebe says sagely.

"The hell does that mean?"

I can hear the shrug in her voice. "Beats me. Something my mom used to say. People from Oklahoma are weird; what can I tell ya?"

Phoebe's whole family is Dust Bowl-born and bred. She grew up outside of New York, right across the street from Sienna and me, but she inherited the accent and generations' worth of nonsensical folk wisdom.

"Seems like a pretty reasonable wish, though. It's just insane for him to tell me I'm not dedicated to his job. I'm there from dawn 'til dusk every freaking day. I dream in spreadsheets-did you know that? I literally have dreams about Ruslan's stupid color-coordinated calendar and to-do lists. Even when I'm sleeping, I'm working. It's insane."

"Preaching to the choir, baby girl. But go on; don't let me stop you."

People are looking at me funny as I mount the stairs from the subway station and climb back up to street level, but I don't care. All the things I wish I could tell Ruslan are pouring like word vomit from my lips.

"He's just so freaking smug! Where does he get off on that? Like, do you think he just goes home and looks in the mirror to cackle and twist his mustache like some evil comic book villain? Like, 'Muahaha, another successful day of ruining my secretary's life. Well done, Ruslan, well done indeed.'"

"He has a mustache?"

"Pheebs. Focus."

"Right. Sorry. It's just that I had a very specific mental picture of him, you know? Tall, dark, that sexy, suggestive sort of smile that's like saying You wanna get outta here? without actually saying it... Sixpack abs, forearm veins-oh God, I do love some sexy forearm veins-and like, maybe a hot tattoo somewhere, but in a place where you gotta undress a little bit to see it so it's sorta like-" "Pheebs. Not helpful."

"Right. Sorry."

The problem is just how accurate her description is. I've known since the very beginning of my employment at Bane that Ruslan is an asshole. But I've also known that he's a stupidly attractive one.

I've seen enough glimpses of his tattoos to want to see more. I've seen enough glimpses of that smile -it's rare, but it exists-to want him to turn it in my direction. Just once. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, the answer is a resounding "yes."

Wearily, I thump up the stairs to my apartment. It's odd to be getting home before the sun has set. The kids are still in afterschool for another forty-five minutes and Ben is at a "job fair" (which is what they should officially rename the neighborhood bar), so I have a rare chunk of time to myself.

"Tell me something about you," I request as I unlock the front door.

"You're changing the subject," Phoebe accuses.

"I absolutely am. Indulge me."

She exhales. "Let's see, let's see... Went out with that hotshot chef dude last weekend."

"Oh? You do love forearms, don't you?"

"Guilty as charged. It was a good date, honestly. Oysters, as it turns out, are indeed an aphrodisiac." "I take it you got lucky?"

Phoebe snorts. "He got lucky, you mean. It's not everyone who gets a chance to dine on the sweet nectar of my-"

"Yup," I interrupt hurriedly before she gets going too far gone to be stopped. "I get the picture. Also,

I'm not saying everyone gets to, but by my count, lots of people do. There was the accountant-"

"He helped me do my taxes!"

"The zookeeper..."

"He promised I'd get to see his pet monkey!"

"The therapist, the oil rig worker, the PhD student..."

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm a filthy whorish witch and I should be burned at the stake," she says hastily. "But one, it's the Year of Our Lord 2023, so slut-shaming is no longer socially acceptable. And two, sue me for living a little. I'm young and hot and I want to see what's on offer. You should do the same."

I giggle. She knows I'm not actually shaming her-it's mostly jealousy talking. I haven't been laid in so long that I'm terrified I'm sprouting cobwebs between my thighs.

"I know," I say with yet another weary sigh. "I should. I just... can't, you know? I mean, I don't have time and even if I did, I don't exactly have prospects beating down my door for a chance to take me out on a date."

"You would if you put yourself out there, babe," Phoebe says in her soft voice. "I know it's hard. I know you miss Sienna. I know you've got the kids to think about and Ben to ignore. But just... try, okay? Promise me you'll try. If there's anyone in your life who you could see yourself trying with, it's worth taking a shot. Tomorrow's never guaranteed, love. You and I know that better than anyone. So you owe it to yourself-and to all the people who love and depend on you-to be happy."

I drop my purse on my kitchen table and plop down on the armchair. Something wet crunches under me, which turns out to be a half-eaten Taco Bell burrito. Ben's handiwork, no doubt, along with the rest of the mess in the house that I literally just cleaned yesterday.

Grimacing, I extricate the taco and lob it into the nearby trash can. "You're right. I'll try."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yeah. Pinky swear."

"Okay," says Phoebe, sounding satisfied. "I've gotta go to Hot Girl Yoga. I love you with the whitehot intensity of a thousand suns. Give the little ones my love, too. Ta-ta."

Then she hangs up.

I let my hand fall into my lap. The phone slides into the gap between cushion and armrest, but I let it stay wedged there.

It's silent without my best friend's voice in my ear. Weirdly silent. I can't even remember the last time there was this little chaos in my vicinity. And if I close my eyes and ignore the mess, it's even more blissful.

For a moment, at least.

Then a face pops up on the black screen of my mind's eye.

It's Ruslan because, like I told Pheebs, he haunts me even when I'm off the clock. He's smiling that smile she described. That come-to-bed-and-let-me-show-you-what-I-can-do-to-you smile. The camera of my imagination pulls back and floats down.

Imaginary Ruslan is wearing an ivory white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone. Enough to see a dusting of dark chest hair and the edge of a tattoo I can't quite make out. He flexes his forearms in front of him. Those knuckles crack, louder than I expected, and I let out a surprised little gasp.

I like when you make that noise, he croons. Shall I see if I can make you do it again?

I'm nodding before I'm even realizing what I'm doing. "Make me moan," I plead.

I'm also touching the inside of my knee before I realize what I'm doing. But it's not my hands that are doing it-or at least, it doesn't feel like it's my hands. It's Ruslan's hands, huge and powerful, palming my thigh and drifting up under the edge of my pencil skirt.

You've been a naughty assistant, he growls, breath minty in my face where it mingles with the woodsy spice of his cologne. There's a faint laugh on the edge of his voice, like he knows that this whole thing is crazy but he's just going with it because it's hotter than it is ridiculous. You've been so very, very bad. Step into my office and shut the door.

The rest of the world disappears like I just followed his orders. Gone is my messy apartment and the lingering smell of burrito cheese. Ruslan is all I smell now.

That cologne.

That breath.

Beneath it, that musk that sets my nerve endings on fire.

"Are you going to punish me, Ruslan?" I whisper.

You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd love it if I bent you over my desk and unzipped that skirt until it puddled around your ankles. You'd love it if I spread my palm along your bare ass in a tender stroke before I raised it up and spanked you hard enough to make you yelp again. You'd go fucking crazy if I let my fingers wander down to knock your thighs apart and drag one slow, teasing fingertip through your wetness. You'd love all that, wouldn't you, Ms. Carson?

I'm chewing my lower lip frantically. My own hand dances up and touches the edge of my panties, then dips below and pushes them aside. I'm throbbing wet. Aching wet. The whisper of airconditioned breeze on my pussy is almost enough to send me over the edge.

But that's the problem, Ms. Carson. You'd love it way, way too much. What kind of punishment would it be if you enjoyed every second of it? I have a better idea.

I'm on the literal edge of my seat, grinding and bucking against my fingers. Imaginary Ruslan has me eating out of the palm of his hand. I'd do anything for him. Say anything. Be anything.

"Yes, sir," I rasp. "You're right, sir. What did you have in mind?"

I'm going to start with what I just described. Bend you, tease you, spank you. Then I'm going to press you face-first flat against my desk while I drop down behind you and put my tongue where my fingers just were. I'm going to lap up every drop of you. At first, it'll be just the tip of my tongue. Just a fluttery light kiss to your pussy lips. I'll graze your clit and you'll push back against me, searching for more. But I'll pin you right back to the desk and snarl, Don't you dare fucking move unless I tell you to. And what will you say to that?

"I won't move, sir," I croak desperately. "I'll do exactly what you want me to do. I'll stay there while you eat me."

That's a good answer, Ms. Carson. It's the only way you'll get me to keep going. But if you're a good girl, if you listen and obey, then I will keep going. My kisses between your thighs will turn into long drags of my tongue over you. Then I'll spread the lips of your pussy apart and go deeper. I'll push a finger between your folds, then another, and crook them to stroke against the deepest parts of you, the parts where just touching them makes you twitch like a live wire. I'll go faster and faster, pistoning in and out of you, while I devour your wetness, until your legs are trembling and those moans are loud music in my ears. How does that sound?

"It sounds so fucking good, sir." I'm pumping in and out of myself. "Please do that. Please, please."

You're going to be right there. Right on the edge. You can feel it, can't you? The biggest orgasm of your life is right there for the fucking taking. All I have to do is lick you in a certain way while I do my fingers just like this and you're going to come for me like my special little princess, aren't you? I know it. You know it. We're both just waiting for the right moment. And it's coming, I promise you that. That moment is coming closer and closer and closer and closer and I'm licking and fingering and you're moaning and spasming and we're almostrightfuckingthere and then...

"And then what?" I scream. "And then what?"

And then I'm going to stop. I'm going to stand up and back away. I'm going to leave you there, a dripping, ruined fucking mess, as a reminder that, just like your heart and your mind and your body and your soul and your free time and your hopes and dreams... that just like all of that, your orgasms belong to me.

I come harder than I've ever come in my life, even as my lips form the most heart-wrenching "Nooo!" I've ever heard before.

It's like getting hit by a bus, if the bus was aimed directly at my clit and was also a trash compactor squeezing me from the inside out while lighting me on fire and then freezing me to ice from head to toe.

Imaginary Ruslan is every bit the cruel bastard that real Ruslan is. He said he'd keep my orgasms to himself, but I feel like I stole this one from him. The euphoria of it rips through me in one endless lightning bolt after the next, until finally, what feels like an hour later, I come back to something like normal consciousness with drool on my lips and my fingers wet and sticky with my own desire.

I stand on legs that are just as shaky as he said they'd be. My throat hurts from moaning and I'm sore as all get-out. As I stand, my phone clatters to the floor.

I reach down to pick it up-

And freeze in horror.

Ruslan's name is lighting up my screen.

And the call is active.

The reality of what is happening clicks in my gut immediately, but it takes a few delayed moments before my head comes to terms with it.

For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, I've been on a call with Ruslan Oryolov.

For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, I've been masturbating to the absolute filthiest fantasy I've ever had, starring Ruslan Oryolov.

For seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, my phone has been recording every last moan and gasp and breath and twitch I made while I begged for his mercy and pleaded for him to make me come.

Did Ruslan hear the whole damn thing?

RUSLAN

"Nosebleeds?"

"Minor blip. Nothing to worry about. We had a few bleeders in every trial." My lead chemist drags his feet over to the pristine white lab table where sets of test tubes sit in neat arrays, each brimming with a white liquid. He hems and haws, flipping through his notebooks like the answers to my irritation will be found in there.

Fucking scientists. They're brilliant.

They're also a pain in my goddamn ass.

I clear my throat. "Sergey, humor me here. What is Venera?"

His hooded eyes blink in confusion. He knows I know the answer, because Venera is the billiondollar bet that will secure the future of the Oryolov Bratva; what he doesn't know is why I'm asking.

"It's, uh...it's an aphrodisiac with mildly hallucinogenic properties."

"Good job pretending I'm stupid. Keep it up. An aphrodisiac would be...?"

His blinks get faster and faster until I'm starting to worry he might malfunction. "I-it's an erotic ststimulant. Designed to induce st-strong s-sexual urges."

"Excellent. Now, do nosebleeds strike you as particularly erotic, Sergey?"

He glances at his three labcoat-wearing proteges. They're standing in a neat line, inadvertently mimicking the test tube samples of Venera.

"No, sir."

"'No' is correct," I snarl. "Nosebleeds are not erotic. Therefore, it's not a 'minor blip.' It's a fucking problem. What I want to know is, Is it fixable?"

He gulps loud enough for me to hear him over the dull thunder of the lab equipment churning all around us. "I will try, sir."

I fix him with the infamous Oryolov glare that makes grown men want to piss their pants when they try to meet it. "Don't try. Do it."

Sergey has a mind for science, but he doesn't see the bigger picture. That's also by design-because if he had any inkling of how much is riding on this drug launch, he'd curl up into the fetal position and never come out.

I've spread out billions of dollars in research and development, in bribes to cops and sign-on salaries to new drug dealers, in territory negotiations and raw material suppliers and this, that, and the other, all to pave the way for Venera to hit the streets and take over this city like a fucking storm.

Venera is my future.

Venera is my legacy.

Venera is how we win.

A grunt behind Sergey alerts me to the stick-thin lab tech waiting at attention just behind him. His eyes are watery and timid and his lab coat is stained at the hem.

The moment my gaze lands on him, Sergey waddles aside like a well-trained seal. He's seen enough of my temper to know it's best to stay out of reach.

I saunter closer to the man who cleared his throat. "And you are...?"

His eyes twitch. Left and right. Left and right. "Mattias," he says at last.

"Do you have something you want to say to me, Mattias?"

Now, his jaw twitches, too. "We need to focus on correcting all the side effects, sir. Not just the ones that will affect your bottom line."

I almost want to laugh. Not very many people have the balls to challenge me to my face.

In my peripheral vision, I catch my second-in-command, Kirill, straightening up. He senses danger. So do the other two lab aides. Like Sergey, they distance themselves from the upstart immediately.

"Seems like you disapprove of my decisions, Mattias."

He holds his soft chin up high. "Maybe I do."

My glare doesn't seem to have much of an effect on him, but the slow smile that curls over my mouth certainly does. Fear flits across his eyes and he takes a half-step back.

"I'm going to offer you one chance to step back in line."

His jaw clicks in place. "I-"

"Too slow."

I pull out a gun and shoot the mudak right between his squinty eyes.

Cue screams. Cue chaos. Cue bloodshed. All the usual music.

The other aides go scrambling in every direction, hurling themselves under the lab table and behind flimsy wire shelves. Sergey is the only one who remains standing, but judging from his sheet-white complexion, it's a shock reaction to the fact that one of his underlings is lying on the floor with a hole where his face once was.

When I turn to Sergey, he springs back, nearly upending the table with all the Venera samples. "SSir..."

"Calm the fuck down, everyone." Kirill's tone is equal parts impatience and amusement as he addresses the terrified room. "That smug motherfucker had a target on his forehead the moment he decided to sell sensitive intel to our competitors."

Sergei's eyes bug out. "Mattias did what?"

The lab techs have glommed onto the workbenches that hug the walls of the lab, chins wobbling like toddlers who've shit their pants.

Good. They'll work harder after this. Fear is an extremely effective motivator.

"Did any of you know about this?" I ask them.

I know they didn't. I've had full-scale background checks done on each of them. I know where their mothers live, where they hide their money, where their childhood pets are buried. I know things about them they've forgotten about themselves. Now that Mattias is dead, the whole crew is squeaky clean, but I need to make sure they stay that way. I can't afford another breach like this one.

"N-no...!"

"I swear, sir. I had no idea."

"We would never."

"Please..."

"Enough!" I barely raise my voice, but both of the stuttering scientists clamp their mouths shut. "Let this be a warning. Traitors will be shown no mercy. I will be judge, jury, and executioner and I'm not exactly impartial. Is that understood?"

I'm met with a desperate silence. Heads bob frantically. Satisfied, I snap my fingers and signal over two of my men. "Take out the trash. I'm sure Sergey doesn't appreciate us contaminating his floors with that traitor's blood."

Sergey looks as though the cleanliness of his floors is the very last thing on his mind. The color still hasn't returned to his face.

"The launch will take place soon. I need everything to go smoothly."

"Of c-course, sir."

"Bane Corp. exists to protect the movements of this Bratva. Without my fa�ade as a respectable CEO, I can't run my empire or protect the people under its wings. You understand that, don't you, Sergey?"

He dips his chin so low that he's in danger of snapping his neck. "Yes, sir."

"One mole is forgivable, but a second would raise questions about your competency to pick your own personnel."

"Pakhan, I swear-"

I hold up my hand to shut him down. "I'm not interested in excuses. I want fucking results. Now, get back to work and get this drug back on track. We're running up against the clock here."

Sergey nods once more, then disappears into the chemical storage room on the right. I chuckle-he'd rather be cooped up with cyanide than with me.

Good choice.

Kirill watches Sergey's clumsy lope until the poor bastard is gone. "Do you think he's up to the challenge?"

"He better be. I don't have the patience for any more delays."

"Patience has never been high on your list of virtues, brother."

Smirking, Kirill and I head out of the lab, shedding our protective lab coats along the way. More lab rats part like the Red Sea as we step aboveground, into the belly of the sprawling facility I purchased to birth this drug into the world. It cost me a pretty penny, but this investment is about to earn us a colossal return-if we can perfect Venera before its launch date a few weeks from now.

"I want eyes in that lab twenty-four-seven," I instruct Kirill. "I want every single chemist on this project to be monitored around the clock. Disloyalty won't be tolerated."

Kirill starts tapping at the screen on his phone. "Got it, boss. I'll get a team on them ASAP."

I frown when I notice the voicemail alert on my screen. It's a name that really pisses me off. What the fuck does she want at this hour?

"Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds," I mutter. "Fuck me."

"Something wrong?"

"I may need to get myself a new assistant."

"What for? You have a great one. And, added bonus, she's easy on the eyes."

Kirill may have a point-I just don't like the fact that he's made it.

Correction: I don't like the fact that he's noticed her in order to make it.

In my mind's eye, I see a flash of her as she was this morning. Not her usual put-together self, but another version entirely. Nervous, flustered, unkempt. I keep seeing the shoulder of her bra strap, the way her breast peeked out of the cup just enough to give me an eyeful of cleavage.

It was unprofessional. Lazy. Annoying. Distracting.

And tempting.

Way too fucking tempting.

"She's been dropping the ball recently."

"Enough said. Just give her a good tongue lashing and she'll pick that ball right back up."

I wince. The mention of tongues has me wondering just how much damage I could do to her with mine.

I imagine myself throwing her onto my desk just so that I can push her skirt up and see what those pencil skirts are hiding. It'd be so easy. She'd gasp and moan so fucking deliciously, I can already tell. I'm hard at the mere thought. Although some of that is just pent-up tension. I've piled a hell of a workload on myself, so it's been a long time since I've been with a woman.

"If she's called to give me some bullshit excuse about why she can't come in tomorrow, I'm kicking her to the curb."

"Your choice," says Kirill with a shrugged shoulder.

I walk over to my SUV while Kirill texts some last-minute instructions to my vors carrying out Bratva business across the five boroughs. The chauffeur opens the door and I climb into the backseat. Reluctantly, I start listening to Emma's voicemail, which I'm sure is going to be an unnecessary harangue of half-baked excuses and furtive apologies.

I stop short when a series of muffled sounds hits my ear. No coherent words seem to be forthcoming. Is this some sort of prank? A joke? No-what it is is a waste of my time. I'm just about to cut off the message and text my HR manager to open up a new job posting...

When I hear a single breathy moan.

Is this what I think it is?

Her voice comes through a second later. Heated, aroused, filled with a desperate urgency. It takes me a moment to realize what she's saying.

She moans a name-my name. And just like that, I'm hooked. 5

RUSLAN

"Are you going to punish me, Ruslan?"

Never have I wanted something so bad. My knuckles are white with tension as I grip the phone to my ear, hungry for every last moan and sigh and gasp that pops out of that dirty little mouth of hers.

My cock strains against the fabric of my pants, desperate to be freed. But I have a dozen men spread out across the upper floors of the chem facility and Kirill is walking towards the car, curiosity etched across his brow.

"Yes, sir. You're right, sir. What did you have in mind?"

Jolts of electricity race through my core hearing her play out this little fantasy. I can only imagine what watching her would do to me.

In the eighteen months Ms. Carson has been working for me, I haven't gotten so much as a hint of impropriety. Maybe this is my fault. Maybe that dig about her half-assed attempt at seducing me this morning unleashed the siren.

Or maybe this was a mistake. There's a chance she's unaware that she even sent me the voicemail. It is an unforgivable seven-and-a-half minutes long. And maybe thoughts of what I could do to her are just that distracting.

She groans deeply. Sounds of skin meeting skin. I can actually hear how wet she is.

"What's going on?"

I rearrange my expression and pause the voicemail. "Nothing. I'll have Boris drop you off first."

Kirill arches a brow but he doesn't push me as he clambers into the backseat. The surging possessiveness racing through me is not unfamiliar. I'm a possessive man and I don't like sharing my things. But that rule has never really applied to women.

Placing ownership on any woman just gives her a claim over me. That's been an inconvenience I've managed to avoid so far in my life. I'm not in any hurry to change things.

The whole way to Kirill's place, my knee keeps bouncing impatiently.

"You sure you're okay, brother?" he asks.

"Just preoccupied with the launch," I lie easily.

The moment we drop Kirill off at the entrance to his apartment building, I have my phone back in my hand and I'm reopening Emma's voice mail. I press play.

"Fuck me," I mutter.

The woman puts on a show tailor-made for me. Every time she refers to me as "sir" in that soft whimper, my cock jumps needily. The little hitches in her breathing mirror my own.

By the time we get to my downtown penthouse, I'm wondering if my dick will ever go down. Not that I've made much of an attempt to help.

"Thanks, Boris. See you tomorrow at six."

"Got it, boss."

I take the elevator up to the thirty-fifth floor after punching in my private access code. The doors open directly into my penthouse.

I'm a busy man, so it helps me to compartmentalize my life. That goes for my properties, too. Some are for business, others for pleasure-and this one on Madison Avenue, the grandest of my skyrise real estate, is just for me.

I come here when I'm craving peace and quiet, when I want to be completely alone with my thoughts.

Or with my assistant's filthy fucking fantasies.

There's no peace and quiet to be found here tonight. The only thing swimming around in my head is Ms. Carson. Her pert little mouth. Those innocent almond eyes. The way her ass moves when it's sheathed in a silk dress.

I'm not blind-I noticed her the moment she stepped into my office for the final interview. Her attractiveness wasn't the reason I hired her, though. In fact, I'd hired her despite her looks. No man needs to have constant temptation walking around in high heels and a red lip.

But her credentials and experience were all above board and I was sick of the revolving door of morons that darkened my doorstep with their ineptitude and emotional baggage. The assistant who preceded Emma quit, right before she burst into tears and called me a "psychopath in Hermes." I had Kirill get that printed on my business cards.

So when Emma stepped into the role, despite a few freshman kinks, it was like a breath of fresh air. She was smart, competent, and she didn't complain.

Not that I didn't know exactly when she was pissed off or frustrated with me. Her blue eyes have this way of darkening and there is a vein in her forehead that twitches anytime I order her around or give her a task she considers beneath her.

It's been my way of keeping her busy and far away-so that she didn't end up beneath me.

Of course, now, I don't have to imagine what she'd sound like if I were to pin her to the wall and run my fingers between her thighs.

I've listened to that damn voicemail twice already. Any more replays and I'm in danger of doing something stupid.

Like masturbating while I think about all the different ways I'd ravage her body.

Undressing, I walk to the leather recliner set up in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.. I manage to resist my phone for a full three minutes before picking it back up once again.

This time, when I start playing the voicemail, I put it on speaker.

Her moans fill what was supposed to be a blissful Zen silence. My cock braces against my pants, but I refuse to touch myself. I'm happy with the idea that I'm the star of her spank bank material, but I certainly don't want her in mine.

But the way she cries out my name as she touches herself... Fucking hell, it's the most erotic thing I've heard in my entire goddamn life. That and the sound of her fingers making contact with her pussy. The slippery wetness thrums just underneath her moans, getting faster and faster as she delves deeper into the fantasy.

"It sounds so fucking good, sir. Please do that. Please, please."

"Blyat'!" I pause the voicemail mid-moan.

I need to fucking delete it. That's the right move; I know that. But even as my finger hovers over the delete button, I can't bring myself to pull the trigger.

I should fucking punish her for this. Impaling her on my cock seems like a pretty fitting punishment right about now.

I fast forward almost to the end of the message and press play again. She's well past moaning now. She's practically screaming. I can easily imagine her tight little body shuddering as the orgasm rips through her. It gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction to know that I'm responsible for that orgasm, no matter how indirectly.

Her breathing flutters a little and then it hitches up again just at the very end. A thump. A shocked gasp. Muffled static-then, two seconds later, the message ends.

I'm willing to bet that my prim and proper little secretary had no intention of sending me that voice message. Hell, she probably had no idea she even called me in the first place.

What an irreversible mistake.

I wonder what else that mouth is capable of.

Leaving my phone on the recliner, I head to the en suite bathroom in the master. I strip off my boxers and get into the shower, cranking the water as cold as possible. I force myself to freeze beneath the hailstorm for ten long minutes, until my erection finally gives up the fight and eases.

There's no way I can avoid addressing this little slip-up tomorrow morning. Which leaves me with only two options: fire her or fuck her.

My cock likes the second option a little too much. "Down, boy," I growl, unwilling to endure another fifteen-minute ice bath.

Ignoring my bed, I sit down at the sleek black desk. The light from my personal laptop illuminates the room with an eerie silver glow. A quick search is all it takes to find Emma's file in my employee database. Her photo gleams at the top of the page. Innocent-looking. White blouse, red lipstick, a selfconscious smile.

But it's impossible to look at her and see her the same way anymore.

Not when I know how it sounds when she comes undone.

Each file includes a full background check on all my employees. Everyone has skeletons in their closet; I just prefer to know how many before I put them on the payroll.

As it turns out, Emma Carson was practically a Girl Scout up until about three and a half years ago, when she abruptly inherited a ton of debt. I give the file a quick scan. The debt is innocent enough, just run-of-the-mill life bullshit. Mortgage. Student loans. Inflation. Funeral home. The kind of shit normal people have to deal with if they don't have rich spouses or rich daddies.

But it gives me an idea.

After all, there's nothing sexier than the air-tight boundaries of a mutually beneficial arrangement. It's like Sergey's lab-nothing can go wrong if you keep it contained. Bottle dangerous shit up in a test tube and it becomes a tool, a weapon, a product.

It's when you let the chemistry explode on its own that shit goes wrong.

I pick up my phone once again and scroll through the contacts. My lawyer Isay's voice is cracked with sleep when he picks up. "Boss?"

I don't bother apologizing for waking him up. I pay my people enough to be able to demand twentyfour-hour attention whenever I need it.

"I need you to draw up a contract for me. Immediately."

EMMA

"It's over. My life as I know it is over. R.I.P. to me."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Pheebs!"

She chuckles while I stare at my reflection in the mirror and try not to throw up. My phone is lying on the bathroom counter on speakerphone, mostly because my palms have been sweating since I saw the meeting invite in my calendar for today.

9:00 A.M. - 09:07:32 A.M.: Emma Carson 1-on-1 with Ruslan Oryolov.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. Anyway, rewind, take a deep breath, then tell me what's going on in your big girl voice. Unburden yourself. Take all the time you need. Just make it quick because I have a 9 o'clock appointment."

I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet now, the same way that Reagan does when she needs to pee really bad. "Yeah, so do I. With him."

"Ah. Oh, wait-oh."

I first called Phoebe last night right after realizing what I'd done. Her reaction was a dizzying mixture of pride and horror. I believe her exact words were, "Sure, it's mortifying, but I'm glad you got your rocks off. Knew you had it in you."

She's a little more reassuring now that things are escalating out of control. "That doesn't necessarily mean he heard the voicemail, Em. Maybe this is just a standard, no-big-deal, super-boring-businessstuff Thursday morning meeting."

"It's scheduled for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Precisely."

"Hm." There's a beat of silence. "Doesn't look good, does it?"

"Seriously? That's all you've got for me? I'm gonna lose my job, Phoebe!"

"You don't know that for sure. Just take a deep breath and go in there, see what he wants. Play it cool, y'know?"

"And what if what he wants is to kick my ass to the curb with a recommendation letter that claims I'm a dirty whore with mediocre phone sex skills?"

"I mean, there's probably a market for that." I groan as Phoebe's laughter fades into a serious tone. "Listen, boo: whatever happens, you're a strong, smart, confident woman and you're gonna land on your feet. And until you do, I've got your back."

Her words mean everything to me, but I know that Phoebe doesn't have much margin for error in her life, either. She struggles just as hard as I do. If she is able to help, it still wouldn't put a dent in all the bills and loans looming over me.

"Thanks for the pep talk. I've gotta go to my doom now."

"Keep your pecker up!"

I blink. "Huh?"

"Oklahoma talk. It means, like, 'break a leg,' but for Midwesterners."

If I weren't worried about losing my job and ending up homeless on the street with three kids, I'd laugh. Instead, I say one more miserable goodbye, then spend a solid three minutes dry-heaving into one of the empty bathroom stalls.

Once I've sufficiently bruised my stomach lining, I slink out of the bathroom and waste the remaining two minutes before the meeting standing outside of Ruslan's door, watching the clock steal my life away one second at a time.

"You okay, Emma?" asks Katie Miller, another of the executive assistants on this floor, as she passes by.

"Dandy," I mumble. "Just waiting for the noose."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I like your earrings. Have a good day."

She raises her brow a smidge. I'm not usually so dismissive, but I can't concentrate on small talk right now. Not when I'm T-minus thirty seconds away from the end of my career.

Dear God, I know I don't pray to you often. Or, well, ever. But please help me out today and I'll definitely consider starting on a more semi-regular basis.

Great. Now, I'm bargaining with God. New low, Emma. New low.

I take a deep breath and walk into his office. The shades are tight, snuffing out all the light of the Manhattan morning beyond. It's like a bear cave in here-and the grizzly in question is sitting at his desk, scrolling through his phone. He doesn't acknowledge me until I'm standing in front of his desk.

"Sit."

The moment my rear end is parked, he puts his phone down and looks at me. Just looks at me.

In the eighteen months that I've worked for him, he's never once given me the benefit of his full attention. Even during our morning meetings, he's either on his phone, flipping through files, or typing away on his laptop. I used to be annoyed about it. I'm only now realizing I should have been grateful.

Should I say something?

Maybe he wants me to break the silence. Maybe I'm supposed to give him an explanation, an apology, something. But the more the silence stretches on, the less I'm capable of breaking it.

I decide once again that those amber eyes of his should be outlawed.

"I heard the voicemail," he says at last.

I can't place his tone. Amusement? Anger? Disbelief?

"Do you have anything to say, Ms. Carson?"

I launch into the apology I spent most of last night practicing in the mirror. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Oryolov. I have no idea what I was thinking. The whole thing was an accident; I didn't realize I'd dialed you. I was so tired and out of it and... I can assure you that it will never happen again. I swear."

My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but I try to keep my voice steady. I can't sound too desperate, although that's exactly what I am.

"Tell me, Ms. Carson: what would you do in my place?"

"I would give the plucky, hard-working assistant another chance, maybe?" It's a long shot, but I figure, what the hell? I just wish I'd asked it without my voice rising to an Alvin and the Chipmunks pipsqueak at the end.

His mouth twitches with the promise of a smile, but it's gone as quick as it came. "I know what you sound like when you orgasm, Emma. Is that the soundtrack you want running through all our interactions from now on?"

Flushing the brightest of reds, I shake my head. "If we could maybe just forget this whole thing-" "The way I see it, there are only two options here."

I hold my breath.

"One, I fire you."

There it is. I knew it. I'm done for. I'm going to need to call the welfare office and see what-

"Or two... I give you exactly what you want."

I almost choke on my own saliva. What little is left in my gaping mouth. "W-what?"

Silently, Ruslan offers me the blue folder lying in front of him. I pick it up with shaky hands and open the cover. It takes me a few long moments to figure out what on earth I'm looking at.

A... contract?

I read through the first page, feeling a strange sensation bubble up in my chest. Then, since I'm clearly misunderstanding something, I read through the first page again. And again. And again. Only then do I look up. "Is this a joke?"

He doesn't blink. "I never joke."

"It's just that, it seems like, from what I read, um-"

"I will offer you money and security in exchange for live encores of the little performance you sent me last night. In addition to meeting my other needs."

"And by 'needs,' you mean...sex?"

He tilts his chin down and regards me solemnly. "How explicit would you like me to be, Ms. Carson?"

What.

"So this-" I raise the blue folder in my hand. "-is a sugar daddy contract?"

His brow furrows. "I'd prefer to call it a 'Friend With Benefits' contract."

"But we're not friends."

He smirks. "Fair enough. No, we're not."

There's a throbbing in my head that reminds me of the first time I got drunk. Sienna and I had snuck into Dad's study the eve of my sixteenth birthday and stolen a 1984 Chateau Latour. We passed it back and forth, taking turns sipping from the bottle like it was cheap bagged wine until the whole thing was gone.

For a moment, I think about what Sienna would say if she were here. Would she be outraged or intrigued? Would she slap the smug asshole and storm out?

Or would she grin and say, Double the price and I'm in.

What would you do, Si?

And then it hits me, a bolt of lightning straight to the chest, almost like she's speaking to me herself. I miss her so much, it hurts. But she left little bits of herself behind, in all three of her children. The same kids I'm working my ass off to protect.

That right there is the answer.

Sienna would have done whatever was best for her children.

So I don't slap him. I don't storm out. I sit there and stare at my arrogant, asshole boss who always gets exactly what he wants.

And what he wants... is me.

I meet Ruslan's steely gaze. "What happens if I say no?"

He shrugs as though this is just another job interview for him and he has a thousand other candidates lined up behind me. "If you say no, I'll let you go with a generous severance package, a glowing recommendation, and no mention of the phone call."

It's a relief, but it doesn't come close to comforting me.

"But if you say yes..." His eyes turn a dark, liquid gold. "It will definitely be worth your while. I have many skills, Ms. Carson, and they're not limited to business."

My cheeks feel like they're on fire. I'm sure he sees it.

He leans against his leather wingback. "It's entirely up to you."

I stare at the contract in my lap. It's not a small decision by any stretch of the imagination. "Can I have some time to think about this?"

"You can have today off. I expect your answer by tomorrow."

He's not really giving me a whole lot of time, but I think we both know more time will only confuse me. Maybe it's better this way.

I start to stand when he says, "One more thing, Ms. Carson."

So I freeze, ass hovering over the seat. "Yes?"

"This stays between the two of us." His expression turns deadly. I've seen that look on his face in the boardroom, right before he pounces on some poor fool who was stupid enough to question him. "If you tell a soul about the contract, the deal is off. No protection, no recommendations, no pension- and I have every means to utterly destroy your chances of employment in any capacity ever again. Am I making myself clear?"

I gulp hard. "Crystal."

"Good. Then you're excused."

It's the normal goodbye routine. He picks up his phone, his gaze drops, and just like that, I go back to being a nobody. No one would guess that a few moments ago, he was propositioning me for sex. For contracted sex.

I have a lot to process.

I grab my stuff and race out of the building, trying to remember the last time I had a day off. It still doesn't feel like a free day; it feels like a weight sitting squarely on my chest. A weight that gets heavier and heavier with every passing minute.

I take the subway over to Central Park and find a bench in a shady corner. I pull out the contract folder and stare at the cover, gathering up the strength to start reading. Then, with a sigh, I dive in.

Twenty minutes later, I have a growing headache and a pro-con list that's pulling me at both ends.

Pro: The money is amazing. I'd be able to actually take care of the kids without worrying so damn much every second of every day.

Con: I would be exchanging sex for money.

Pro: I'll be able to pay off the loans faster.

Con: Ruslan Oryolov is an influential man with possible mob connections. All rumors, but in my opinion, there's no smoke without fire.

Pro: He also happens to be a very, very, very attractive influential man with possible mob connections.

Con: He's an asshole.

Pro: He's an asshole who's probably great in bed.

I close the contract after staring at the Non-Disclosure section of the agreement for what feels like an eternity.

If rumors of Ruslan's supposed mob ties are to be believed, I would be exposing the kids to danger. It just feels like too big a risk. Which is why, when I put the contract back in my bag and get to my feet, I feel like I've made my decision.

It's too crazy, too reckless, too insane of a deal for me to agree to. I can't compromise myself that way and I can't let this decision bleed into the kids' lives. Isn't it more important that they're safe?

Okay. Done. Decision made. Goodbye forever, Ruslan Oryolov.

So why don't I feel right about it?