EMMA

"Auntie Em! Auntie Em, wake up."

I come to with a start. The sun is slanting in through the blinds and I have absolutely no freaking idea what planet I'm on. I feel a sharp line of pain on my cheek. It takes me a long moment to realize that it's because I have a shoelace plastered to my skin. I peel it off with a wince and look up to see Josh standing over me.

"Auntie Em, it's 7:45. We're late for school."

"Shit!"

I leap to my feet-and promptly fall right back on my ass, because my legs are completely numb from sleeping in such a weird fetal position, curled up at the foot of Josh's desk like a dead cockroach.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. I get the girls up and dressed in the least coordinated outfits in the history of shitty parenting. I hurl random food into their lunchboxes with no regard for nutritional value. And then we're all sprinting out the door.

Ben, needless to say, doesn't so much as lift a finger to help.

I get the evil eye from the receptionist at the kids' school when I drop them off well into first period, but she can shove her judgment up her ass. I just pop a kiss on each of their foreheads and then turn to haul ass to Bane.

I get another evil eye from the lobby receptionist there, too, but I don't quite realize why until I'm in the elevator up to the thirtieth floor and I catch sight of my reflection in the polished bronze.

I look like an absolute shitshow. My hair is a rat's nest on my head and my blouse is on backwards. The fashionable one-shoulder cutout is framing my frayed bra strap instead of a tasteful slice of bare arm.

Wet street dogs are more put-together than I am.

It's way too late to go back now, though. I can already imagine Ruslan's eyebrow. It's probably halfway up his scalp by now. His voice is going to be absolutely frigid when he hears me come stumbling in. Something like:

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Wait. That wasn't my imagination. That was actually his voice.

I open my eyes and turn around to realize that the elevator doors have opened-and who should be standing there but my beloved, benevolent boss?

Sure enough, his eyebrow is locked and loaded and that cruelly sharp jaw of his clenched so tight that I wonder idly if he has a good dentist on speed dial.

I open my mouth to defend myself, but what is there even to say? "I'm sorry," I blurt. "I fell asleep after-It was a long night and-I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He doesn't so much as blink. "I expect you to dress appropriately for your job, Ms. Carson," he growls. "Not do the walk of shame through my building."

I frown. "The walk of-? Hold on. No, that's not what this is. I didn't-"

"You're wearing yesterday's skirt and flaunting your undergarments like you think you can seduce your way out of being-" He checks his watch. "-two and a half hours late. I'm not sure if you think I'm stupid or easy. I'm also not sure which of those two would offend me more."

One word snags my attention. "Seduce?" I parrot stupidly.

Out of nowhere, thoughts of what it would look like to seduce Ruslan Oryolov come prancing through my head.

Wrapping his tie around my fist and bringing that smirking snarl down to my lips for a taste.

Lying back on his desk, pencil skirt hiked above my hips, while he shoves my panties to the side and devours me like his last meal.

On my knees on his office carpet as he stands over me and-

"Ms. Carson, I'm not interested in your explanations. Go do your job. Before I find someone else to do it for you."

With that, he brushes past me and gets on the elevator. I turn and look dumbly at him as the doors close on his face. The last thing I see is the arrogant slant of his mouth.

Then that, too, disappears.

My cheeks are burning red for the rest of the day. Luckily, I have an extra cardigan at my desk, so I'm able to cover up the worst of my wardrobe malfunction.

But my phone keeps pinging all day long with messages from Ruslan. Do this. Send that. Fax this. Email that. He's as unbearable as ever. Everything from the expiration date on his coffee creamer to the status of the conference room chairs he's so anal about merits yet another scathing comment from him. And after yesterday's nightmare, I'm running on fumes.

My only saving grace is that he has a gala tonight, so he's scheduled to leave the office at 5:00 P.M. sharp. I'm counting down the last ten seconds until the clock strikes five like I'm a Times Square partier on New Year's Eve.

"Seven... Six... Five... Four... Three... Two... One..."

Ping. Another text. I groan and look down to see the devil's name pop up on my phone.

RUSLAN: My office. Now.

Goddammit. I was so close.

Sighing, I get up and slink inside.

"Shut the door," he orders. It's dark in here. The curtains are sealed tight and the temperature is Arctic. He's a mass of shadows behind his desk, huge and fragrant. The only thing I can see is the sharp light of his amber eyes.

"Sit." A shadowy hand points at the chair across from his desk.

I perch at the edge of the seat in question. My nerves are buzzing and frayed. I'm so, so tired. But I can't show him that. Matter of fact, I refuse to show him that.

I won't give the smug bastard the satisfaction of thinking he's outlasted me.

"I asked you yesterday if I had your full attention," he begins. "I'm not so sure I do. So let me say this: if your priorities lie anywhere other than this company, then I will find a new assistant. I'm not a nice man, Ms. Carson. So believe me when I tell you that this is not the kind of place where you get three strikes before something bad happens. You mess up once-you're gone. Am I making myself clear?" I swallow. "Yes, sir."

He nods. "Good. Be here on time tomorrow. Dress like you intend to keep your job. Now, if you'll excuse me... there's the door."

He looks down at his phone and poof, it's like I don't exist anymore.

But I. Am. Pissed.

He doesn't know what I'm going through. He doesn't know Ben is snoring and farting in my living room, or that three little kids are waiting on me to pick them up from after-school care. He doesn't know that I buried my sister or that I'm barely keeping my head above water. He doesn't know anything.

"No." I blurt it before I can think better of it. "No. No. I'm not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I'm a-I mean, fuck you, I'm a person! I have a life and hobbies and people who depend on me. I'm real! So I'd appreciate it very much if you'd pull your smug head out of your smug asshole and treat me with some damn respect for once."

Ruslan blinks.

Blinks.

Blinks.

"Is there something else, Ms. Carson?"

That's when I realize that my whole little tirade took place entirely in my head. It wasn't real. All imagined. Just a pleasant little detour to a fantasy land where I give him my two cents and then some.

I swallow past the nasty taste in my throat and stand. "No, sir," I say quietly. "Nothing at all."

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 façade 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.