And when I politely and firmly tell her no, she kind of sort of insinuates that I owe her because she knows Gage was the man I met at Strict last night. And even though I know that you’re never supposed to negotiate with terrorists, and that giving into her can lead to nothing but more demands, I give her the dress.

  I’m still seething about it as I wait in the back of the black town car that’s been sent to take us to Gage’s private residence on Columbus Circle.

  Alanna and Poppy tumble in a moment later, the two of them giggling away about something.

  My mouth drops as I see what Alanna’s wearing.

  Not the dress I’d let her borrow, but a gray number with a boat neck and a black belt that accentuates her tiny waist.

  She looks effortlessly sophisticated and elegant. Poppy looks similarly fabulous, in a black fitted dress and simple heels, her hair swept back in a chignon.

  “Everything okay?” Alanna asks, as if she’s daring me to say something.

  “Everything’s fine.” I smile, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying more.

  “Champagne, miss?” A waiter in black pants and a starched white shirt holds a tray of fluted glasses out to me.

  I take one before I can figure out if I’m allowed to drink here or not. I’m not a big drinker, but I definitely need something to calm my nerves, because this place is intimidating as hell.

  Gage’s apartment is on the top floor of a building on Columbus Circle, with river views and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the entire city. The floors are polished marble, scattered with thick cream rugs that are embossed with a geometric pattern. Abstract art in bold strokes of color hangs on the walls, but the furniture is done in neutrals, all of it low to the ground, as to not disrupt the breathtaking views of Manhattan.

  There’s a piano in the corner and a man sits at it, no doubt hired for the night, playing something slow and soothing, the melody so lovely that it almost – almost –is enough to make me relax.

  All around me, people are in loose groups, talking in low voices. It’s a much younger crowd than I would have expected – everyone here seems to be forty or under. Which actually shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. I had studied that binder all afternoon, committing their pictures and bios to memory.

  Knowing people not that much older than me are here, living in New York, starting companies, is intimidating.

  You don’t need to be intimidated, I tell myself, taking a small sip of champagne. God, it’s good. Sweet and tart and bubbly, way better than any champagne I’ve ever had. These people are here to impress you, I remind myself. They want money from you. Well, they want money from Gage, but you work for Gage now, and it’s your job to give him your opinion on which companies you think he should invest in.

  Everyone here should be kissing my ass. They should be begging me to talk to them.

  As if I’ve manifested this thought to life, a man waves to me from the bar in the corner. There is a bar in Gage’s apartment. Like, a full bar. Curved around in a horseshoe, with leather stools and a bartender standing behind it.

  I make my way across the room to the man who’s waving to me, and sit down next to him.

  “I’d ask you if you want a drink, but I see you already have one.” He gives me an easy smile. His dark hair is cropped short on the sides, but the top is longer, and it flops over his forehead. His suit is black, but his tie is slightly loosened, as if he tried to tie it tightly but couldn’t stand it and finally gave in.

  “I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be drinking,” I say, looking around the room for Gage. I haven’t seen any sign of him, although the apartment seems to be filled with his presence, everything so him, intimidating and polished and perfect.

  “Why not?” the man asks.

  “I’m Chloe Cavanaugh,” I say, holding my hand out to him. “I work for Gage Stratford.”

  “Oh!” he says, smiling. “You must be one of the interns.”

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “And how are you liking the job so far?”

  “I love it,” I say automatically, and he gives me a skeptical look.

  “I’m River McLeod.” He holds his hand out.

  River McLeod. The man whose company, Genovin, had been in the binder this morning, on the page that Gage had ripped out and yelled at Willow about.

  “Oh,” I say, before I can stop myself. Then I take his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Chloe Cavanaugh. And please, don’t feel that you need to watch what you say around me about Gage.” He takes a sip of his drink, something with gin in it. “I know Gage can be demanding.”

  “Yes, well, when it comes to business, Gage is the best. And if you’re the best, you have to run a tight ship.”

  “That’s true.” River smiles and shakes his head. “But Gage was like this even before he started Stratford Investments.”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly interested. “Did you go to college with Mr. Stratford?”

  “No.” River shakes his head and leans against the bar. “He’s my brother.”

  “Wow,” I say, raising my eyebrows. I did not expect that. Was that why Gage was so incensed that River was included in the binder of prospective companies? Because he’s his brother and so of course Gage plans on investing in his company? Gage doesn’t seem like the type to favor nepotism.

  Of course, who knows what type Gage is.

  “What was that like?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “Growing up with Gage?” River takes another sip of his drink, and something in his expression changes. It’s like a shadow has fallen over our conversation, and where he was friendly before, now he’s slightly more closed off.

  He takes the olive out of his drink and pops it into his mouth, almost like he’s stalling. “You know,” he says finally. “Two boys in the house is always interesting.”

  I wonder what he means by that, and deciding whether I should change the subject or push him for more details, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Chloe,” Willow’s voice is in my ear. “Mr. Stratford would like to see you in the library.”

  It takes me what seems like forever but is probably only five minutes to make my way through the winding labyrinth that is the penthouse apartment. This place is HUGE.

  Willow gave me directions to the library, but she was talking fast, the whole time hustling me away from the bar and down a hallway.

  When I finally find it, the door is open, and I spot Gage inside, standing by the windows, gazing out. He’s in profile, illuminated only by the lights of the city, which are spread out in a glittering blanket through the glass below him.

  My heart thrums against my ribs and my stomach flips.

  God, he is gorgeous.

  His shoulders are broad, the set of his jaw straight and powerful. He wears black tailored pants that hug his firm ass, and a dark grey button-down shirt. His suit coat is nowhere to be found.

  He turns to me, as if he can sense me staring.

  His eyes fall on me, and my skin prickles, heat spreading over me like a brushfire.

  “Did you get lost, Ms. Cavanaugh?” he asks snidely, as if I was told to meet him five feet away, instead of navigating a penthouse apartment that is brand new to me and has so many hallways and rooms it could be a freakin’ maze.

  My first instinct is to make an excuse, to blame it on Willow and her less-than stellar directions, but I know that will only encourage him, so I decide not to dignify his comment with a response.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” I ask instead.

  Damn. His eyes blaze at the ‘sir’ and I swallow. A second chance, a new start, and I should probably just call him Mr. Stratford. ‘Sir’ implies a certain kind of submission, the kind that makes me remember his hands on my ass, the sharp sting of the spanking he gave me, the way my panties clung to me because I was so wet.

  “Close the door.”

  I do it, taking a second as I’m facing away from him to take a deep breath.

  “I thought that during our conversation earlier, I made myself clear that any further disobedience would not be tolerated.”

  “Sir?” Dammit! Stop calling him sir!

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” He takes a step toward me, his large frame commanding.

  “No.” I twist my hands in front of me, then stop myself, not wanting to show any weakness. “But I’m not clear on what this alleged transgression is.”

  “River McLeod.”

  “Your stepbrother?”

  He bristles at the words. “What else did he tell you?” he demands.

  “Nothing. He was sitting at the bar and he struck up a conversation with me. I didn’t know who he was.”

  “I don’t want excuses, Ms. Cavanaugh. I just want you to follow my rules.”

  “I don’t remember you saying that we weren’t to speak to Mr. McLeod.”

  “I don’t want excuses,” he repeats. “You knew Mr. McLeod was removed from the list of prospective companies you were supposed to be familiar with. There are fifty other people at this party.”

  Now I’m pissed.

  “Really?” I ask. “Because it seems like you do want excuses. Excuses to fire me.”

  His eyes blaze. “I’d be very careful how you speak to me.”

  But it’s too late. I’m on a roll now. I’d been foolish to think that he was going to give me a second chance, foolish to think that this was ever going to end in any way except for me losing my job.

  He crossed a line with me that he can’t take back, and now he will look for any slight infraction, and perceived screw-up, to get rid of me. Why would I want to prolong that kind of torture?

  “If you want to fire me, then fire me.”

  “I don’t want to fire you, Ms. Cavanaugh. I want you to follow the rules.”

  “How can I? When you keep changing them?”

  “You still have a smart mouth.”

  “And you’re still an asshole.” I regret the words as soon as I say them – he’s still my boss, after all. But I don’t apologize.

  His eyes blaze like an inferno and he takes a step toward me. “Is this what you want?” he demands. “To push me to my breaking point?”

  “What? No.” I shake my head. Now I’m confused. Is he talking about his breaking point when it comes to firing me? Or is he talking about something else? Because the way he’s looking at me is almost exactly the way he was looking at me the other night in the club, they way he looked at me earlier in the conference room, right before he spanked me.

  He’s moved closer to me now, and our eyes lock. I catch the clean scent of his cologne, and my knees start to go slightly weak, but I steel my resolve, determined not to let him see the effect he’s having on me.

  “You need to watch your mouth,” he says. “If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  I scoff. “Are you responsible for spanking me earlier?” I demand. “Because if not, I’m not sure who it was with their hand on my bare ass.”

  And that’s it. The moment he goes from having control of his emotions to losing control completely. He reaches for me, his big hands gripping my wrists, making me feel small.

  My stomach flips nervously. Shit. What was I thinking? This man is my boss. He has billions of dollars, and he’s basically in charge of my entire future. Four years of undergrad and two semesters of an MBA, and this internship is the only standing between me and my degree.

  Not to mention that a positive reference from Gage Stratford would be a huge help in getting me a job anywhere I want.

  “Mr. Stratford,” I start.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t do do-overs.”

  His hands tighten around my wrists and then he’s pushing me up against the door, caging me with his body, leaving me trapped with no where to go.

  “I should fire you,” he growls.

  “Probably,” I say, just because I know he’ll hate me talking back to him. “But if you did that, then –”

  He places a hand over my mouth, cutting me off. Panic seizes me as I realize how vulnerable I am. He’s much bigger than me, much more powerful.

  His other hand skims down the side of my body, over the edge of my breast, down until he gets to the curve of my hip.

  “Relax,” he murmurs.

  My heart is pounding and the grip of his hand on my hip loosens just a tiny bit. His eyes are on mine, and he quirks an eyebrow at me, almost as if asking my permission for what he’s about to do.

  Before I have a chance to figure out if denying him permission would even stop him from doing what he wants, or if I even want to deny him permission, he’s playing with the tie of my wrap dress, wrapping it around his finger slowly.

  “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet, Ms. Cavanaugh,” he says.

  “No, sir,” I whisper, the words slipping out of my mouth again before I can stop them.

  He’s still holding the piece of fabric that holds my wrap dress together, and he gives it a gentle tug until my dress starts to open just a little bit. I gasp at his brazenness.

  “Do you know what a safe word is, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “Yes.” Of course I know what a safe word is. All of the articles about my sister’s death went into the mechanics of a BDSM relationship, talking about how usually there was a safe word used to stop everything, to make things come to a stop. It implied that the man who killed my sister hadn’t listened when she used her safe word.

  “Choose one.”

  “Fired,” I say smartly.

  A small smile tugs at the sides of his mouth.

  He runs his thumb over my bottom lip, his touch feather light, and I shiver as warmth spreads over my skin.

  “Smart mouth,” he murmurs. “Do you know what I’d like to do to shut you up?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  “Push you to your knees. Shove my cock into your mouth until your eyes water and you’re choking on my dick.”

  His words should be shocking – and they are. But they’re also incredibly erotic.

  “Imagine it,” he demands. “Imagine being on your knees, my cock in your mouth, punishing you.”

  I imagine it – his hands on the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair, tugging hard as he pushes his cock into me.

  “Do you like sucking cock, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it.”

  I think about lying. I should lie. But I have a feeling he’d somehow find out about it, and when he did, whatever kind of consequences he had planned would be way worse for me.

  “I’ve never…” I swallow. “I mean, I’ve never done that.”

  Surprise flashes over his handsome features, and for a second, I enjoy the fact that I’ve shocked this seemingly impenetrable man. But then doubt crosses his face, and his grip on my dress loosens slightly.

  “Are you a virgin, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  Heat flushes my cheeks, and I close my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Look at me when you’re answering a question.”

  I open my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, what?” he prompts.

  “Yes, sir, I’m a virgin.” The fact is humiliating, and saying the words out loud is even more humiliating, especially to this beautiful, sexy, rich man who has been with the world’s most beautiful women and has experience galore.

  He stills, and so do I.

  The room goes silent that all I can hear is the sound of my own heart beating, the steady sound of Gage’s breathing.

  It’s like we’re balanced on a precipice. I know he’s deciding what to do next, how far he should go with this. It’s wrong for a million different reasons – he’s my boss, he knows about what happened with my sister, and now I’ve told him that I’m a virgin. He would be crazy to do anything with me, and I would be crazy to do anything with him.

  But even as my head is telling me this, my heart and my body don’t care. I’m wired with anticipation and attraction, both of them so intense that it’s like I can see them in the air around us, like it’s an alive, tangible thing.

  He steps back, and for a moment, I’m afraid that that’s it, that he’s really going to fire me, or at least tell me that this has to end now, that we can’t do this. At this point, I’m not sure which would be worse.

  But instead, he steps back, his hand tightening around the fabric of my dress.

  He tips my chin, up, his eyes blazing fire.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says roughly. “I won’t be responsible for what happens after that.” He waits a beat, giving me a chance to tell him to stop, to safe word, to put an end to this.

  But I don’t want to.

  My heart is beating against my ribs, the blood rushing through my body, every nerve ending at attention.

  His mouth crushes against mine, surprisingly gentle at first, but then he deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing past the seam of my lips. I’ve had kisses before, but nothing like this.

  This kiss I feel through my entire body, like fireworks going off in beautiful, exploding patterns. It’s like a day at the beach and your birthday and the last day of school and ice cream and just… it’s indescribable.

  The whole time, he’s playing with the sash of my dress, pulling it little by little, distracting me with the brush of his tongue against mine, the skill of his lips as my knees seem to get weaker and weaker.

  When he finally pulls away, I’m breathless, panting, close to begging for more.

  His eyes are on mine, steady and sure, and when he pulls the last part of the sash of my dress away, I gasp, my hand clamping down on his, stopping him.

  He grins devilishly. “Has a man ever seen you naked before, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  My cheeks redden as I shake my head.

  “Out loud.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir, what?”

  “No, sir, a man has never seen me naked before.”

  “Take your hand off my wrist, Ms. Cavanaugh. And then press your hands against the door behind you.”

  I remove my hand from his wrist. Luckily, my dress is still covering everything, even though now the two sides of the fabric are much looser, hanging on me like a robe instead of a dress.

 

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