In the boardroom or the bedroom...

She gets what she wants!

Emma has lusted after her steely-eyed boss Max Whitfield for years. When she quits her job she’s finally free to seduce him—leading to a red-hot night of passion on his desk. But a furious Max soon discovers that his company’s been hacked, and all signs point to his irresistible ex-employee. When Emma denies everything, his only option is a very hands-on investigation!

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

TARYN LEIGH TAYLOR likes dinosaurs, bridges and space—both personal and the final frontier variety. She shamelessly indulges in clichés, most notably her Starbucks addiction: grande six-pump, whole milk, no water, chai tea latte—aka ‘the usual’—her shoe hoard (I can stop any time I... Ooh! These are pretty!) and her penchant for falling in lust with fictional men with great abs. She also really loves books, which was what sent her down the crazy path of writing in the first place. Want to be virtual friends? Check out tarynleightaylor.com, Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 and Twitter, @tarynltaylor.

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Forbidden Pleasure

Taryn Leigh Taylor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07135-2

FORBIDDEN PLEASURE

© 2018 Taryn Leigh Taylor

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Xtal—I can’t thank you enough for everything

you do, most notably putting up with me during the

writing process. No jokes this time, just the stone-

cold truth.

And for Jo—Thanks for making this period of great

transition so easy and seamless. It’s been a pleasure

working with you. (Except on the nights our teams face

off against each other and I’m forced to despise you on

principle. But all the rest of the time it’s been great!)

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

EMMA MATHISON WAS ready to get wild.

She reached up and undid the top button of her blouse.

Well, at least as wild as she could get for someone who was still in the office at eight o’clock on a Friday night.

At some point during the last three years, it had become the status quo—dinner at her desk, working until eight or nine, home to bed, and returning bright and early in the morning to do it all again. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d had plans. With a sigh, she leaned forward over the sink, inspecting herself in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

She barely recognized the professional-looking woman in the mirror. Blond chignon, subdued makeup, conservative blouse. The result of years spent focused everywhere but on herself—fighting to keep it together both financially and emotionally as Alzheimer’s stripped her beautiful, vivacious, hard-working mother of her memories, her personality and finally her life.

Emma touched her thumb to the simple silver band she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. Ana Petrović-Mathison’s most prized possession—her wedding ring. The loss was still a gut punch, but she made herself breathe through it. Her mother had worn it as a tribute to a life well-lived. Emma wore it now as a warning that life was short.

Fourteen-hour workdays that barely made a dent in the pile of medical bills. A roster of acquaintances on Facebook, but no real friends. A tiny apartment where no one waited to welcome her home. It scared Emma, the realization that if she suffered the same fate as her mother, if Alzheimer’s came for her one day, she had no memories to lose.

But there was still time to change that, to reclaim the woman she’d been before hospitals and hopelessness and grief had worn her down to a meek, biddable shell of her former self.

Starting now.

She tugged the bobby pins from her hair, shaking it out so it fell in loose waves down her back. Dropping the pins into her secondhand Michael Kors tote, she pulled out a tube of red lipstick. It had been an impulse purchase, the opposite of the pinks and nudes she usually opted for, but like the sexy lingerie hiding beneath her staid blouse and demure pencil skirt, it had been carefully chosen to keep her courage up.

And yeah, she thought, painting her lips ruby red before tucking the lipstick away, maybe the bathroom at Whitfield Industries was not the most auspicious place to launch her emancipation, but if she’d learned one thing over the last three years, it was that life wasn’t perfect.

If you waited for the stars to align, you missed out.

To that end, she readjusted her boobs to get every dollar’s worth of “lift and separate” out of her extravagantly priced bra and gave herself a final once-over.

With a deep breath, Emma stared at the daring, crimson-lipped woman reflecting back at her. The one who was about to go and seduce her boss.

“Time to make some memories,” she told her reflection.

She undid two more buttons on her blouse, grabbed her bag from the edge of the sink and then strode across the tiled floor with visions of the kick-ass, take-no-prisoners life she planned to live from here on out.

Despite her bathroom bravado, her pace slowed the closer she got to her target. Ignoring the sudden rush of nerves, Emma lifted her chin. “Do not chicken out now.” She said the words aloud, half admonishment, half plea. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she forced herself to turn the corner and the object of all her lusty fantasies came into view.

Max Whitfield.

It was often said that the CEO of Whitfield Industries was as handsome as he was controlled. Mostly, Emma had taught herself to ignore it, to focus on work. But tonight, standing outside the glass wall of his office for the last time, she let herself notice everything about him.

He was tirelessly poring over the files on his desk. His charcoal-gray jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up his tanned forearms. He’d loosened his red silk tie enough to pop the top button of his collar. Behind him, the lights of Los Angeles twinkled like fallen stars, but he kept his head down and his back to the million-dollar view. His modern, masculine office was lit only by his desk lamp and his computer screen, his preferred lighting scheme once the sun had set.

Max had always reminded her of a panther—beautiful and predatory and not to be underestimated. It wasn’t just his ebony hair and amber eyes, but the way he moved, lithe and graceful. Purposeful. No wasted movement. The constant threat of danger, even in repose.

He was the kind of man who made a woman wonder—when she unwrapped him, would she find that slick, urbane control went all the way to the core, or did it hide something more dangerous, something desperate to be unleashed?

In her fantasies, she vacillated between the two extremes—sometimes imagining him as a fiery, insatiable lover, sometimes ice-cold and bossy, controlled throughout.

And tonight, she intended to find out which version of Max was real.

She set her tote on his admin assistant’s desk—Sherri had left over an hour ago—and pulled out her employment contract. Here goes nothing. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward.

Max looked up sharply when she knocked, but the tightness in his jaw faded when he recognized her, and he motioned for her to enter. With a glance at his watch, he added, “I didn’t realize it was so late. What can I do for you, Emma?”

She covered her disappointment at his lack of reaction to her new look with a smile she hoped was more come-hither than professional.

His desk wasn’t ornate—the clean, simple lines of black onyx had always struck Emma as sleek and powerful, like the man who sat behind it. On a usual day, this would be the point where he launched into a rapid-fire series of orders, but tonight he said nothing, regarding her with the infamous poker face that Emma knew hid all manner of secrets.

She was careful not to let her hands shake as she set the contract on top of the files in front of him.

He ignored it, didn’t even glance down. Just stared at her from across the expanse of his desk, hypnotic golden eyes boring into hers with the intensity she’d come to associate with him. Max Whitfield didn’t do anything halfway.

“You didn’t sign it.”

It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t ask how he knew.

Max hadn’t taken his family’s scandal-ridden company from the brink of bankruptcy to a tech juggernaut within the span of five years by not knowing how to read people.

Only then did she realize she’d given herself away and was absently twisting the plain silver band on her middle finger. She dropped her hands and lifted her chin.

“So you’re really going through with this?”

“If by this, you mean quitting, then yes. I’m really going through with this.” Emma pushed a small metal statue of a horse’s head with a mane of flames out of the way so she could perch a hip on the corner of his desk before she crossed her left leg over her right. It was a bold move, not one she’d ever made before, but this was a now-or-never situation—and she was Team Now, all the way. At least until he cocked an eyebrow at the liberty she’d just taken.

Her heart thudded in slow, thick beats as he trailed his imperious gaze down her body and let it linger for a moment too long on her knee, making her excruciatingly aware of how far her dress had slid up her thigh when she’d sat.

God, if having his eyes on her could make her feel this good, she couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

She waited patiently until he’d looked his fill and flicked his attention back to her face.

The raw power of him made Emma’s skin hum with potential, but she faced down the electricity’s source. Max didn’t respect cowards. He lived in a world of high-stakes negotiations where death was preferable to shows of weakness.

“I don’t know what more I can say.”

“That’s easy,” Max countered, leaning back in his chair. “Say you’ll stay.”

The statement hung between them, suspended in air so thick it brushed against her skin and left goose bumps in its wake. They’d always had chemistry. Since the first time they’d laid eyes on one another. And with the same sardonic expression on his face as he wore now, he’d given her the research and development job she’d so brazenly demanded. In the space of a handshake, the sexual awareness bubbling between them had been leashed, muzzled and banished by unspoken agreement to the dungeon of professionalism.

But ever since she’d handed in her notice three weeks ago, and he’d countered with the very generous terms outlined in the unsigned contract she’d just placed on his desk, the sensual beast had awoken, prowling in the shadows, growing bolder, encroaching more often and more forcefully as their time together drew to an end. And tonight, she was going to let it loose.

Emma didn’t move. And this time she would not speak first.

There was a note of respect in his voice when he conceded. “What will it take?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much? Name your price.”

It was as close to begging as she’d ever heard him get. She didn’t like the answering flutter in her chest that made her want to stay. Max had a way of taking control, and she couldn’t afford to let him. Not tonight.

“This isn’t a negotiation. I don’t have a price.”

Max steepled his fingers, looking like every titan of industry in every anti-capitalist movie ever made. “Everyone has a price.”

Her answering laugh was tinged with scorn. “Really, Max? Resorting to tired clichés already? I’d always credited you with more stamina than that.”

The slow grin that dawned across his handsome features stirred something deep and primal in her belly, a silent refutation of her verbal jab that let her know that he could more than provide whatever she needed for as long as she needed it. It was a rare smile for him, not the feral one he used for business, but the charming one that slipped out sometimes when he was genuinely amused.

“What can I say? I have a deep appreciation for the classics.” Max dropped his hands, then sat forward in his chair. “Now, get off my desk. You don’t work here anymore.”

Emma had already followed the command before she realized she’d done it. Dammit. No retreat, she reminded herself, straightening the seams of her black pencil skirt, wishing the slit was a little more daring, achingly aware of the garters beneath. Ignoring the implied dismissal, she crossed her arms over her chest, taking care to enhance her cleavage as she did so. “You’re right. So maybe you should pour me a drink. We can toast the end of our working relationship.”

Oh God. Had she just said that?

He raised a contemplative eyebrow.

It was hard to breathe.

Without a word, he stood in that dangerously graceful way he had and walked over to the sideboard near the window. Her heart gave a funny little lurch at the realization it was the last time she was going to see him.

She allowed her gaze to linger a moment, to fix the height and breadth of him in her mind. The quiet authority of him as, with quick, efficient movements, Max pulled the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured a drink.

Then he poured another, which caused a completely different kind of lurch, this one much, much lower than her heart.

This was going to happen.

Emma’s palms prickled as he grabbed both glasses and joined her in front of his desk. The fact that he stood about a foot closer than he’d ever stood before was not lost on her. She accepted the drink he held out to her, her skin slick against the expensive crystal.

Max regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he raised his glass. “To whatever comes next.”

His voice was deep, rich and more intoxicating than the premium liquor he’d handed her.

She clinked her glass to his and joined him in a sip of his preferred single malt Scotch.

The liquid was smooth and strong as it slipped over her tongue.

“Tell me it’s not Kearney.”

“What?”

“Tell me you’re not leaving to work for that son of a bitch.”

Emma was oddly touched by the surly order that namechecked his most hated rival, the CEO of Cybercore. In Max-speak, that might be as close as she would ever get to “It’s been nice working with you.” Not that she was fishing for compliments.

“Why would you think that?” she asked, taking another sip.

“Because business is war. You have to take what you want. And Liam Kearney has a long history of taking what’s mine.”

Emma choked on her mouthful of Scotch.

Surely he hadn’t meant...

She glanced up at his stern, handsome face, but his eyes were shuttered, focused on the liquid swirling in the glass thanks to a practiced flick of his wrist, like he was lost in an unpleasant memory.

Her voice was soft when she finally spoke, and despite her better judgment, held the reverence of a vow. “I’m not going to work for that son of a bitch.”

Emma was vindicated by the twitch of his lips that betrayed, if not outright relief, at least mild amusement, though she wasn’t sure if it was at the solemnness of her response or at himself for stooping to ask the question. “Drink your Scotch, Emma.”

It sounded almost like a warning. She stared at the contents of her glass. “We’ve never had a drink together before.” The words were unnecessary, obvious, but she couldn’t stop them anymore than she could stop her gaze from lifting to his.

If she hadn’t spent the last three years working with him, day in and day out, she might have missed the tick in his jaw, the subtle darkening of his eyes.

“You’ve never not worked for me before,” he countered, raising the glass to his lips.

Heat flared in her belly, incinerating the oxygen and making it hard to breathe. Her skin buzzed at the change in the atmosphere.

She fortified herself with another sip of the amber liquid that was as heady and intoxicating as the look in his eyes. Warmth tingled through her.

“And that...changes things?” she asked, testing the waters.

Max tossed back the rest of his drink and set the heavy crystal on his desk with undue precision. She felt him breathe, as though he’d stolen all the air from around her for a moment, before it came back in a rush.

“Change is inevitable.”

The urge to give into the pull of him, the magnetism, was overwhelming.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Emma stepped closer, raised up on her tiptoes, leveraging every inch from the platforms of her discount Louboutins.

Their breath mingled as she brushed her lips softly against his.

The sweet shock of what she’d done made her knees weak, and she steadied herself with her right palm against his chest. The hard muscle leaped beneath her fingers, like he was bracing himself for whatever came next. Emboldened by his reaction and warmed by the afterburn of the best Scotch the world had to offer, Emma leaned closer and pressed her mouth to his again, lingering this time to sample the delicious heat flickering between them.

She kept her eyes closed as she settled back into her black heels, cementing the feel of his lips beneath hers, the tingle of contact racing through her veins, even as she pulled her hand back from his chest. When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, controlled and handsome as ever, his face devoid of any particular expression. The way he looked at the negotiation table.

She let herself smile anyway. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. You’re right. Taking what you want is incredibly...satisfying.”

He stepped even closer, and Emma’s head swam from his proximity as she lifted her chin to maintain eye contact.

“Are you?” The question, delivered without emotion, caught her off guard.

“Am I what?”

“Are you satisfied? Because I’m not.”

She didn’t even realize that she was still holding the highball glass in her left hand until he tugged it from her numb fingers and set it on the edge of his desk. The muted thud barely registered on her consciousness as something wicked sparked in the amber gaze that held her rapt. “What’s happening right now has always been...”

She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move.

Time slipped by to the heavy thud of her pulse and her mind spun, desperate to fill in the blank.

Inappropriate?

Illogical?

Insane?

Max slid his hands in his pockets, the outward picture of relaxed male elegance, but when he spoke, his tone was low and rough.

“Inevitable.”

CHAPTER TWO

INEVITABLE.

The word reverberated through her entire body, confirmation that Max wanted her.

She wanted him, too. All of him. All of this.

He was standing there, his eyes lit with challenge, hers for the taking. And all she had to do was reach out.

With trembling fingers, Emma grasped his tie, tugging until she’d released the silk from its Windsor knot. For the first time since this had started, she broke eye contact, dropping her gaze to the tanned column of his throat as she unfastened the first button.

Her fingers grew defter as she worked her way down the placket of his shirt, eyes hungrily following the swath of skin left in the wake of the gaping fabric—his collarbones, the smattering of dark hair across his broad chest, the ridged perfection of his abs and the intriguing trail of hair that narrowed before it disappeared behind the square buckle of his black belt.

She tugged his shirttails free from the waistband of his pants, then dropped her hands to her sides, beholding the perfection of him. Of the moment. This was it, she realized. Her first memory. And she didn’t want to forget a single detail.

Max pulled his right hand from his pocket and reached toward her. With a deftness that she found intensely erotic, he traced his finger along her skin, from her exposed collarbone down to her cleavage, the light touch singing her nerve endings.

Her whole world narrowed to the sweet friction of skin on skin and her breasts swelled against the confines of the black lace cups of her bra. She gasped at the instantaneous reaction and something wicked kindled in her belly as he began a methodical assault on her buttons, popping them open one by one until he’d reached the waistband of her skirt. He regarded his handiwork for a moment, the thin band of skin revealed by her open shirt, before unpocketing his other hand. Her breath caught in her chest as he grabbed the edges of her blouse, spreading them apart so she was exposed from neck to navel.

Max grasped her hips, then pulled her to him. The air temperature spiked from tropical to volcanic as her breasts made contact with his chest, heat rolling off him in waves. So damn hot. Her nipples puckered painfully against the scratchy black lace, and she sucked air into her lungs on a gasp. He smelled like sex and man and hard liquor, and the heady combination had her halfway to wherever he wanted to take her.

As if he could sense it, Max’s fingers flexed against her hips before his big hands traced the side seams of her skirt. His leisurely exploration made her restless, antsy, but before she could do something about it, Max fisted the material and began the trip back up her thighs, bringing her skirt along for the ride, higher, higher, and Emma thought she might die from the slow, sweet torture of anticipation.

Cool air swirled around her legs, wringing a moan from her. Oh God, just a little more.

It took a second before she realized his hands had stopped moving, that he’d taken a step back. Her eyes fluttered open and she was startled by the hungry look on his face. Emma followed his gaze, realizing he’d revealed the black garter belt that held up her nude stockings.

His face was dark and his voice was rough. “You’re full of surprises tonight, Ms. Mathison.”

She swayed toward him as heat pooled between her legs. He always called her Emma, but this fit the fantasy that was playing out right now, and it was so perfect, so deliciously naughty, that she thought she might come.

“Yes, sir.”

His head jerked up at that, eyes flaring with an emotion that Emma couldn’t identify, but whatever it was, it was the first time she’d ever seen him lose that steely edge of control that was part of his legend. The jolt of it was like a lightning bolt to her core.

Whatever silly game they’d been playing was over.

In one fluid motion, he hiked her skirt up over her hips, then backed her up against his desk. The hard edge of it dug into her thighs.

Emma’s teeth scored her bottom lip in anticipation, and his deep chuckle ignited something warm and twisty in her gut. “Not yet,” he told her, but the promise of soon echoed in the timber of his voice. She sucked in a breath as his fingers traced the black elastic of her garters down to the clasp.

“These are so fucking sexy.”

He was pretty fucking sexy himself, she decided as he traced the lacy edge of her stockings from front to back before his big hands gripped her thighs and boosted her onto the smooth onyx surface. It was cool against her bare skin, but her shiver had more to do with the man in front of her filling up the space between her parted knees.

She’d always known Max Whitfield was a force to be reckoned with when he had a goal within his sights, but now that she was the goal, the true depth of his focus was staggering. When he looked at her, the world narrowed to the heat in his eyes and the pounding of her pulse.

He leaned close, planting a hand on the desk on either side of her hips. Eagerness fizzed in her chest and time slowed as he wet his lips. She braced herself for impact, but it was futile. There was no preparing for Max.

He pounced like the predator she’d likened him to, devouring her mouth with such singular determination that she had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling back. Finally having her hands on him was a revelation. He was hard muscle and leashed power and it felt so damn good to touch him. To taste him.

He kissed like a man who knew what he wanted, teasing her until she welcomed the invasion of his tongue, then retreating only to start the entire process over, lowering her back onto the desk until she was almost horizontal.

Emma was so focused on his kiss that she didn’t realize he’d shifted his position until his hand slipped between her legs. The brush of his thumb against the wet lace of her underwear was like the zap of a live wire, sizzling through her, and Max swore into her mouth when her hips bucked at the intimate touch.

He pulled back so quickly every part of her cried out at the loss of his touch.

She levered herself up onto her elbows.

Please. More, she wanted to say, but when she looked up at him, he was breathing hard, staring at her with such speculative intensity that she couldn’t form words.

He just stood there, raking his eyes down her body. There was something so deliciously raw about being sprawled back on her elbows on his desk, her blouse spread open, her skirt pushed up around her waist, her knees spread apart and her fancy underwear on display for him.

“Don’t move.”

The order made her breath come faster, and she obeyed as he rounded the desk.

She spared a moment to be thankful that she’d let the saleswoman talk her into the garter belt when she’d splurged on the sexy undies, but then Max stepped back into view, his eyes full of promise and a condom packet in his hand, and suddenly she cared less about what was under her clothes and more about what was under his.

Her eyes widened as he unbuckled his belt.

Undid his pants.

Pulled himself free of his underwear.

Oh God. Yes, please.

The sight of his hand on his cock made her wet. He was so starkly beautiful, hard and masculine, and her body was vibrating for him. She pushed herself up to a sitting position as he sheathed himself with the condom, desperate to be closer to him.

His eyes cut to hers, pinning her to the spot. “I thought I told you not to move.”

Emma burst into flames. She must have. Spontaneous combustion was the only explanation for the wave of heat that washed over her.

Then he grabbed her by the backs of her knees and jerked her hips to the edge of the desk, and she went molten.

Emma couldn’t get enough of him. He’d been a fantasy for so long, but the reality of him surpassed everything she’d ever known. The perfect mix of heat and ice.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, slipped her hands under his shirt so she could feel the smooth expanse of his skin and let Max do what he did best: take control.

* * *

Fuck.

Things were under control until the goddamn garters. Until she called him sir. Now the woman in his arms wasn’t a pleasant diversion but an all-consuming need.

Max prided himself on being disciplined, but Emma was undoing him with nothing more than a garter belt and eyes so expressive that he could read her soul. Right now, though, it was her body that had his attention.

Her high heels digging into the backs of his legs, her hands kneading his shoulders. A scrap of black lace was all that stood between him and the kind of physical gratification that drowned out all the issues that were pounding like a nail gun in his brain—lawsuits and tech glitches and launches and the bullshit that came with righting a sinking tech company. He wanted to bury himself in her and forget the rest.

Max ran his knuckles up the inside of her thigh, stopping short of those pretty, lacy panties that had him riding the edge of anticipation.

He was so fucking turned on, galvanized by the erotic turn the evening had taken. Despite the overwhelming ache in his balls, the desperation in his muscles, he held back. Stayed perfectly, agonizingly still. Just for a minute. Just to be sure he was in control of himself. Just until she was frustrated enough that her eyes flicked from dazed pleasure to “is this happening, or what?”

Only then did he give her what they both wanted.

In one fluid movement, he slipped her underwear aside and thrust deep, his thumb riding her clit. She moaned, raking his skin with her nails, and everything faded into pure, raw sensation. The slick, scorching friction of their joining was all exactly what he needed right now. Her breath was hot on his neck. She smelled like booze and sex, and he was ravenous for her.

Max removed his hand from between them, bracing it on the desk so he could tip her back farther. She tightened her legs around him as he sped his hips, short-stroking until she was wild beneath him. She was close. Restless and panting, clutching him to her, her lace-covered breasts scraped against his sensitized chest, driving him mad.

And Max was so goddamn ready to feel her come apart in his arms.

He shoved the fingers of his free hand into her hair, cradling her head as he laid her back, kissing her hard. He reached down, hooking his right elbow under her knee, and braced his forearm on the desk, opening her. The change in angle made her gasp, allowed him to pull out almost completely before pumping into her with slow, deep thrusts designed to push her over the edge.

“Come for me, Emma,” he ordered, or maybe he begged. It didn’t matter, not when he was drunk on her whiskey-flavored tongue and the pressure of her impending climax as her muscles drew tight with anticipation. Fuck yes. “Just like that. I want to feel you squeezing my cock.”

She cried out as his words pushed her over the edge and with a groaning curse, Max gave into instinct, his chest crushing her breasts as he buried himself deep and took what he’d wanted since she’d sat on his desk, all womanly curves and dawning confidence. Pleasure exploded through his veins and he came fast and hard, his hips jerking with the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm.

It took a moment to steady his breath in the aftermath, and another moment after that before he stood, freeing her leg and helping her up to a sitting position.

She didn’t look at him, and Max didn’t like that it bothered him.

Frowning, he watched Emma stand, turning modestly as she adjusted things, tugged her skirt back into place, dealt with the buttons on her blouse.

Max disposed of the condom and fastened his pants but didn’t bother rebuttoning his shirt or grabbing his tie from the floor beside his desk. Instead, he kept a wary eye on her body language, preparing himself for whatever awaited him when she turned around.

His decisions tonight had been deliberate—he didn’t do anything without considering all the implications. But the passion that had flared between them had been...unexpected. And technically, she’d quit before anything had happened. They were both adults. The rationalization did nothing to stem his sudden unease. For the first time that evening, he wondered if he’d been right to take things as far as he had. Was she thinking the same thing?

He was expecting recriminations in those expressive blue eyes, or worse, hero worship. But when she finally turned to face him, what he saw almost dropped him to his knees. With sex-tousled hair, a misbuttoned blouse and her skirt slightly askew, Emma Mathison looked radiant and satisfied and deliciously well-fucked.

“Thanks for everything, Max.” The words were husky and low, and he felt them in his groin, even before she added, “It’s been a pleasure.”

With her head high, her shoulders squared and a Mona Lisa smile tilting the corner of her kiss-stung lips, she walked out of his office, grabbed her purse from Sherri’s desk on her way to the elevator. And she didn’t look back once.

Double fuck.

Max reached for her unfinished Scotch, then downed it in one swallow.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d underestimated someone.

CHAPTER THREE

FOCUS AND DECISIVE ACTION...that was the difference between losing and winning, the difference between winning and winning big. Timing was everything. It was a lesson Max Whitfield knew better than most. He had no time for visits from the ghost-of-sexual-encounters-past.

So why the hell was he sitting there, half-hard, remembering things best forgotten?

Remembering her.

That mouth. So prim, even when it was painted scarlet.

Fuck, the things he’d wanted her to do with that mouth. Down on her knees, calling him sir with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes.

Now he couldn’t look at his desk without remembering the press of the black garter belt against the pale skin of her thighs, without hearing the gasps that escaped her lips, as though she was surprised by the heat between them. He wasn’t surprised. Hell, he was consumed, and he’d barely gotten his hands on her.

He exhaled at his lapse in judgment.

Taking her on his desk has been a mistake.

“Am I boring you, Whitfield?”

Max’s gaze snapped to the man in the chair across from him.

Wes Brennan. Founder and CEO of Soteria Security. World-class asshole.

A brilliant asshole, obviously, but an asshole just the same.

“Not at all. I believe you were telling me about the massive breach in security you failed to prevent.”

Max took an inordinate amount of pleasure at the flat, cold look that invaded Brennan’s eyes.

“That spyware was caught in less than twelve hours. That’s worth every zero you pay Soteria.” Brennan always distanced himself from the company.

“It had goddamn better be. I want this handled.”

If this got out, it would ruin him. Whitfield Industries was on the brink of reinvention. Five years after Max had ousted his corrupt father and begun to erase the era of scandal and questionable morals that had dogged the company during Charles Whitfield’s reign, he was on the verge of reestablishing his grandfather’s company as a leader in the world of financial services. He couldn’t afford any screwups, and he certainly couldn’t afford any bad press.

“Handling things is what Soteria does,” Brennan assured him, like Max had insulted his honor or something.

Not that he gave a shit. The only thing Max could afford to care about right now was results.

A flash of movement in his peripheral vision tugged Max’s attention to the glass door with his name on it.

“What’s so important that you need me here on a Saturday afternoon?” Vivienne Grant breezed into his office, her red skirt suit almost as impeccable as her confidence.

Max allowed himself a glance at Brennan and was vindicated by the momentary crack in the man’s cool facade before it was swallowed up behind bored hostility. The stiff formality that invaded the room whenever Vivienne and Brennan were present was unmistakable. He didn’t know what had gone on between his chief counsel and the cybersecurity specialist, and as long as it didn’t affect his business, he didn’t particularly give a damn. Still, he allowed himself a moment to revel in Brennan’s discomfort.

“I believe the two of you are acquainted?”

His unnecessary introduction put a hitch in Vivienne’s self-assured stride, but she recovered nicely, bestowing a coolly regal nod at the other occupant of the room as she took a seat in the chair farthest from him. “Wes.”

“Vivienne.”

Max ignored the chill in the room. “Excellent. Now that we’re all here, let’s discuss our next steps.”

“As I was saying, the security breach is internal. I don’t think—”

Vivienne’s head snapped up at Brennan’s words, her eyes locking with Max’s. “What internal breach? Do you have a suspect in mind? What the hell is going on?”

Max leaned back in his chair, forcing the relaxed pose, even though every nerve in his body was coiled tight. “We’re waiting for answers.”

“I might have a couple.”

The voice at the door stole the attention in the room.

Jesse Hastings was Soteria Security’s second in command. More personable than his business partner, Hastings was the de facto face of the company and his geniality was responsible for scoring the majority of Soteria’s clients. But he really shone when you put him behind the keyboard, so when he’d insisted on helping Brennan handle this clusterfuck personally, Max had agreed. With any luck, having both of Soteria’s big dogs on the case would see it resolved quickly and quietly.

“I’m just not sure you’re going to like them,” Hastings continued, leaning a broad shoulder against the doorjamb. “Are we waiting for Kaylee?”

The reference to his absent PR director soured his mood further. She hadn’t picked up her fucking phone. If his little sister wasn’t so damn good at her job, he’d have fired her when he’d purged the company of the bulk of his father’s hires. “She’ll be briefed first thing Monday morning. What have you got?”

“It’s definitely a contained breach, but whoever’s behind this is good. The information’s been fragmented and rerouted through hell and back. It’s going to take a while to piece together what’s been leaked. But I can tell you that all the activity is localized to one computer.”

Hastings raised his eyebrows, waiting until he received Max’s nod to continue.

“Emma Mathison’s.”

Max was careful to keep his expression neutral, but his hand clenched involuntarily. Vivienne and Hastings didn’t notice, but Max’s jaw tightened when Brennan’s eyebrow lifted with cool interest.

Smug prick.

Vivienne’s face was pale when she turned back to Max. “You really think Emma sold you out? That seems...out of character. I mean, has she been acting strangely?”

Besides quitting while she lounged on his desk?

Besides her secret, self-satisfied smiles?

Besides fucking him into oblivion in thigh-highs and garters on his goddamn desk?

“She didn’t sign her contract extension.”

Hastings frowned at that.

“Did she say why?” Vivienne asked. “Was it something to do with her mother? She was in the hospital a while ago. Emma didn’t say much about it, but she seemed worried.”

His lead counsel had the kind of mind that liked to connect all the dots, but Max didn’t have time for conjecture right now. He needed facts. “While I’m touched by your concern for Emma’s family’s well-being, let’s try to stick to the salient points.”

“Well, I’m not sure you’re going to like those either,” Jesse countered, his expression marred with concern. He walked toward them.

“I ran a couple of checks,” he explained, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he took the empty seat between Vivienne and Wes. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar deposit in her primary bank account, and one Emma Marija Mathison is booked on a plane that’s leaving the country on Monday.”

Max’s jaw tensed. “Where?”

Jesse raked a hand through his hair, and Max could tell by the stalling maneuver that he was not going to like the answer.

“Croatia.”

Son of a bitch. No US extradition laws in Croatia.

“Do we think she acted alone?” Vivienne was still looking for the next dot.

“The spyware is no joke,” Hastings told her. “I’m going to need some time to figure out what she got and who she got it to.” He glanced at Brennan. “If Wes hadn’t tweaked our monitoring program, we might not have caught this at all.”

Vivienne exhaled, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “So we’ve got nothing right now except that the spyware was on her computer? Any surveillance footage?”

Jesse shook his head. “Scrambled. I’ll work as fast as I can to figure out what she got, but the encryption is top-notch. It’s going to take more time than we have. Her flight leaves Monday morning, and we can’t afford to let her leave the country, that’s for damn sure.”

“I can file charges,” Vivienne said. “Something to stall her, but I’ll need—”

Max cut her off. “No charges.”

Two sets of eyes snapped toward him with surprise. Brennan remained annoyingly apathetic and glanced at his watch.

“We’re two weeks out from the launch of a crypto currency payment system that will change the way America does business.” Max leaned back in his chair. “Now is not the time to ring the alarms.”

Vivienne frowned, as she tucked her hair behind her left ear. She darted a glance at the security guys, though Max got the impression it was more directed at Brennan than Hastings. “A massive internal security breach happens on Emma’s computer, and you’re just going to let her get away with it?”

Max narrowed his eyes at the accusation, and Vivienne took a deep breath, dropping her gaze, chastened at the realization that she’d pushed him too far. Brennan’s shoulders stiffened, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Incidents involving Emma Mathison had commanded his full attention twice in as many days. And while he’d infinitely preferred last night’s naked encounter over this afternoon’s occurrence, letting this trend continue on any level was not acceptable.

“I want answers on Monday morning,” he snapped at Brennan, waiting for the man’s curt nod before skipping past Hastings, straight to Vivienne. “You’re working alone on this. Wait for my instructions, and don’t bring anyone else into the loop. No associates, no paralegals, no one.”

“Understood.”

“What about Emma? The plane ticket?” Hastings asked. “Did you want me to—”

“I want you to do your job,” Max said coolly, vindicated when Hastings paled at the reprimand. Max turned his attention to the sheaf of papers on the corner of his desk. “I’ll take care of Emma.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MAX BANGED ON the door with more force than he’d intended.

He’d been offended by the shabby Villa Apartments that were listed as Emma’s home address on her employment record. Now that he was inside the ancient building, his opinion sank even lower.

He paid her well. Better than well. There was no reason she should be living in this shithole. Which, Max realized, lent credence to Jesse Hastings’s insinuations of guilt.

Despite regular paychecks from him, she obviously needed money for something, and desperation led people to do uncharacteristic things. His chest tightened at the realization that Emma Mathison wasn’t finished surprising him.

Life would have been much easier if he’d kept his hands off her in the first place. He’d managed it for the last three years. Which meant fuck all, since it had taken less than five minutes after she’d resigned before he’d dragged her into his arms. It had seemed a smart play at the time.

Well, perhaps smart was overstating it, but it was low risk.

She’d quit, so she wasn’t technically an employee.

This SecurePay launch had him working every waking hour. He barely had time to shower some days, let alone maintain any sort of relationship with a woman, no matter how casual. Not that what had happened between him and Emma had anything to do with a relationship. It was more like an experiment. A curiosity that needed sating.

Confirmation that their chemistry was as combustible as he’d always expected it would be. And now he was paying for that lapse in judgment.

Max heard shuffling behind the inconsequential piece of wood that was acting as a barrier between her and the outside world, but he didn’t understand how something that barely blocked sound was supposed to keep her safe from intruders. Especially since the peephole was nothing more than a quarter-sized hole covered in ratty duct tape. Which was practically inviting thieves inside in this neighborhood. His left hand tightened on the sheaf of papers he held.

His musings were cut short by the slide of a chain, followed by the snick of a lock disengaging. The door swung open and there she was.

Last night’s seductress was gone. In her place was a fresh-faced ingenue with impossibly wide eyes who looked like she’d stepped out of a laughably wholesome 1960s film.

His gaze slid the length of her body, from the top of her shiny blond ponytail, past her fuzzy white sweater, barely-there jean shorts and down the length of her legs until he reached the tips of her toes, painted bubble-gum pink. Max’s thoughts, however, were anything but virtuous.

Every part of him that she’d touched the night before flared with heat, begging for an encore. He still wanted her. Despite everything he’d found out today. Despite the mounting evidence against her. The heat stirring in his veins iced over at the reminder, and he braced his shoulders against the onslaught of lust. He would not underestimate her again.

“Max?”

Surprised. A little breathless. But no fear. No guilt.

“What are you doing here?”

He ignored the question, shifting his focus over Emma’s left shoulder at the bare, scarred walls of the old apartment. A couple of cardboard boxes were stacked in the middle of the mostly empty room. “If you needed a raise this badly, you should have told me.”

Her forehead creased with puzzlement. “What? Oh.” Her laugh was tinged with embarrassment. “It’s a rental,” she explained, moving out of his way as he stepped past her, onto the threadbare brown carpet. “I never spent much time here anyway.”

Max thought back to the long hours she’d put in at the office. He’d always respected her work ethic. He gestured to the boxes. “Going somewhere?”

She nodded, closing the shoddy excuse for a door, but even as he searched her face for guile, there was none.

“On vacation, actually. Thought I’d see how the other half lives.” Her smile faded at his lack of reaction, and he watched in fascination as her body language grew wary, matching his mood. She’d always been good at reading a room.

“I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, heading toward the outdated kitchenette.

Max foiled her attempted retreat by following her, but he stopped at the nearest side of the counter, allowing her to take cover on the far side of it. “Turns out you’re going to have to reschedule that vacation. Something’s come up.” He tossed her contract extension on the counter between them. It landed with a heavy thud. “Sign this.”

That got her attention. She stiffened, a slight frown marring her forehead as she recognized the document. “What is this?”

“Exactly what you think it is,” he confirmed.

“I have a flight to Dubrovnik booked for Monday.”

“Postpone it.”

“I can’t afford—” She stopped herself. Took a deep breath. Then restarted, the way she sometimes did in their project meetings when one of the board members wasn’t taking her ideas seriously. It was the most herself Emma had been since she’d opened the door to him. Well, the most like the Emma he’d thought she was. Ever since Friday night, he wasn’t sure he knew her at all.

“I am not postponing anything. I’ve sold almost everything I own to pay for this trip—my furniture, my clothes, my car. The lease on this place is up on Tuesday, my plane ticket is nonrefundable. I’m going to Croatia on Monday, and you have no say in the matter.”

“Unfortunately, that’s no longer the case. This morning, Soteria Security discovered a spyware program running on your computer.”

She froze at the implicit accusation.

“It was loaded manually and discovered the day after your contract expired. The day after you formally rejected a generous extension of employment. The shallowest of security checks shows that you received an anomalous lump-sum payment of ten thousand dollars and used it to buy an open-ended plane ticket to a country with no extradition policy.”

She paled with each charge, bracing her hands on the counter like she might faint. Or throw up. And despite himself, he wanted to believe in her innocence.

“Do you understand how this looks?”

“What exactly are you accusing me of?” Her voice was small, but she was heartbreakingly brave as she met his eyes.

Why he felt like he’d fallen from grace right then did not bear contemplating.

Max tipped his chin at the contract. “I’m merely offering you a way out of this. Until this security breach is resolved to my satisfaction, you will resume your role as chief analyst of research and development. We will erase everything that happened since you walked into my office and quit.”

She flinched at that, and though he hadn’t been referring to their hot and sweaty desk-fuck, he didn’t correct her misunderstanding. It was best for everyone if they went back to their normal working relationship.

“Report to Vivienne Grant’s office when you arrive on Monday morning. She can draw up an amendment to ensure you’re reimbursed for the wasted plane ticket. And you can let her know if there are any further concerns we’ve failed to address here today. Now, sign the contract.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He would not be swayed by the wounded look in her eyes. He made sure his shrug was dismissive. “It’s nothing personal, Emma. It’s—”

“Business?” she scoffed, her magnificent eyes glinting sharply, like daggers. “Spare me the trite maxims. Just take your bullshit contract and go.”

Max took the centering breath of a sniper setting up a kill shot. “I have millions of dollars and the future of my company invested in the launch of SecurePay. The timing on this is crucial. If the media finds out we’ve been hacked, the project is dead in the water.” Even the prospect of failure, after everything he’d sacrificed over the last five years to bring SecurePay to market, was like a hot poker to his ribs. It was enough to crack his usual icy veneer. “So until this situation has been neutralized and contained, I will do whatever it takes to ensure this launch goes off without a hitch. And that doesn’t include key members of my team fleeing the country in the wake of a goddamn internal security breach!”

Her lips trembled, but she lifted her chin in a magnificent show of bravado. “I don’t work for you anymore, Mr. Whitfield.” His name sounded toxic on her lips. “Keep your money. I don’t want it. I’m leaving Monday morning, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Max respected the rally, the way her dawning anger brought a flush to her cheeks and put the spark back in her eyes.

It was too little, too late, but she didn’t seem to realize that yet. He felt honor bound to make his imminent victory clear. He didn’t want any misunderstandings between them.

“People who’ve been accused of corporate espionage usually have a hard time boarding commercial flights. Or so I’ve heard.”

Her mouth fell open at the threat. “You wouldn’t.”

He kept his gaze level, implacable, until she realized the truth. That he could. And he would. It was best that she understood that from the get-go.

“You bastard.”

Max accepted the epithet with a tip of his chin as he pulled a pen from his inside breast pocket and held it out to her. “Sign the contract, Emma.”

She shot him a mutinous glare as she snatched the pen from his fingers, and his respect notched up again for her ability to know when she was beat. She slashed her signature across the page in black ink and shoved the contract and the pen in his direction.

Despite the heat of the movement, her eyes were ice-cold when they met his. “Get out.”

Always gracious in victory, Max returned the pen to the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then picked up the papers and left.

CHAPTER FIVE

IF MAX WANTED a war, she’d give him one.

Emma’s jaw was locked for battle as she strode out of Vivienne Grant’s office and headed straight for the elevator. She managed a distracted smile of thanks at the man who held the door open, so she could shepherd herself and the suitcase of all her worldly possessions inside. It was born out of instinctual courtesy, not sincerity, though. Right now, smiling was the last thing she wanted to do.

Her simmering rage was evident in the jab of her thumb against the button that would take her to the top floor, where that pompous, dictatorial, gorgeous asshole she worked for was probably sitting in his swanky office, plotting new ways to infuriate her. She readjusted the straps of her leather tote against her shoulder as the silver door slid shut.

To add to her sour mood, the elevator stopped to acquire and drop off passengers on each of the four floors between Legal and her destination, dragging out the inevitable.

Emma straightened the placket of her black silk blouse and plucked a piece of fuzz off her pencil skirt. Her sex clothes, as she’d ignominiously dubbed them.

She wasn’t kidding when she’d told Max she’d purged her closet of office-appropriate attire. And that morning, when she’d been getting dressed while cursing his name, she’d liked the idea of taunting him with the outfit. It was the reason she hadn’t pinned the slit in her skirt closed...or worn a bra. Small acts of rebellion designed to put him on notice. He might have forced her to come back, but he wasn’t getting the mild-mannered, desperate-to-please employee she’d once been.

Now that her meeting with his bulldog of a lawyer was over, though, Emma realized the joke was on her. She might not have signed the farcical document that had been presented that morning, but she had signed the contract Max had tossed on her kitchen counter Saturday night. And Emma got the impression that Vivienne had taken an almost sadistic pleasure in laying out the terms that she’d so rashly agreed to with that hastily scrawled signature.

Emma strode out of the elevator before the door was fully open, her heels clicking against the marble tiles as she headed for her desk. Maybe one of her coworkers would loan her a damn sweater before she had to meet with—

“Emma.”

Speak of the devil...

Her name sounded like a curse on Max’s lips, sharp and angry, and though it jacked up her pulse, she was careful not to show it. She stopped and slid him a disdainful glance, vindicated that his deep voice sounded tight when he added, “May I see you in my office?”

It wasn’t really a question, and Emma knew it, so she hesitated just long enough to annoy him. Not that she could tell if it worked. He was already back on lock-down, his handsome features an implacable mask. But it didn’t matter. She was annoyed enough for the both of them.

“Of course. I’m just going to drop my purse and suitcase off at my desk, and I’ll—”

“Now.” Steel edged the word, brooking no opposition.

Pasting an amused smile on her lips, she shot Max’s fascinated executive assistant an eyeroll. “This one’s in a mood,” she said, thumbing in Max’s direction before stepping past him into the glass-walled office.

“See that we’re not disturbed,” he told Sherri, closing the door behind them.

Emma plunked herself in the closest of the visitor’s chairs, bristling with coiled energy. Max, blasé as ever, took his time as he made his way to the other side of the desk. He sat, and with the push of a hidden button on the underside of the black onyx desktop, the entire expanse of glass between them and the rest of the office frosted for privacy. And then they were all alone, her itching for a fight, him cold and unaffected.

“You wanted me?”

Her double entendre landed like a gauntlet, and the scattered haze of sexual tension that was lingering in the room courtesy of their Friday night tryst coalesced into a lightning bolt of awareness arcing between them.

“What I want,” he informed her, the bite in his voice frigid against her heated skin, “is to know what the hell you think you’re doing?”

So, not completely unaffected after all.

Emma crossed her legs, enjoying the tiny victory, and the slit of her skirt parted to midthigh. Max’s sightline dipped to her leg.

“Reporting for duty, Mr. Whitfield. As per your orders.”

He raked his gaze up her body, pausing meaningfully on the peaked outline of her nipples against the black satin of her blouse, a condition made worse by his attention, before continuing up to her throat, her lips and finally meeting her eyes. Max arched an eyebrow, the gesture thick with innuendo.

“And what duty did you think you’d be reporting for, exactly?”

Smug prick.

Her smile was a big ‘screw you’ drenched in high-fructose corn syrup. “Oh, now that I’m back, I’m open to whatever position you had in mind. Sir.”

The slow, feral grin that slid across his face escalated the sexual arms race they were engaged in. “Don’t call me sir unless you mean it, Emma.” He leaned back in his chair. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to make promises you don’t intend to keep?”

“Who says I don’t intend to keep them?”

“Do you? Is that why you’re wearing this delightfully indecent outfit?”

It was Emma’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “It’s the same thing I had on Friday night. You didn’t seem to have a problem with it then.”

He ran his knuckles along his jaw. “As I recall, you were wearing a bra on Friday night. In the future, stick to the dress code.”

The warning made her smile. “Here’s a fun fact: there’s actually no mention of undergarments in the entire policy.”

She stood then, walked over to the window to give him a moment to wonder what else she may or may not be wearing, in case he had the inclination to do so. “But feel free to send me home if you feel like I’m not living up to the hallowed reputation of Whitfield Industries.”

“I get the impression that you’re trying to upset me.”

“And why would I do that?” She tried to sound offhand as he got to his feet and joined her by the window.

“I’m not going to dissolve the contract, Emma.” The words were soft. Matter-of-fact. Final. “I have too much at stake. SecurePay is going to launch next week, on time, and you are going to help me make sure it does. You signed the employment contract. If you don’t want the perks you were offered this morning to go with it, that’s your choice.”

“Because it’s insulting!” Emma whirled to face him, not in the least surprised to discover Vivienne Grant had called up to let him know how the meeting had gone, but angry nonetheless. “A residence? A driver? A clothing allowance? What your lawyer presented to me this morning was basically a mistress contract, minus the sex in return for your generosity.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously at that. “I don’t need to bribe women into my bed. They come when I tell them to.”

The veiled reference to Friday night snapped her spine straight.

“Come for me, Emma. Just like that. I want to feel you squeezing my cock.”

Bastard, she thought, even as heat uncoiled in her belly.

“You told me why you couldn’t work for me. No house. No transportation. No clothes.”

He let the last reason hang meaningfully for a moment, as though he knew her mind would conjure visions of naked skin, shifting muscles, sweaty bodies, her imaginings made all the more visceral now she knew how it felt to have Max thrusting inside her.

“I was merely trying to rectify those concerns. That’s how negotiation works.” He stepped closer, his nearness muddling her senses. Making her want things she shouldn’t. “In order to reach an accord, sometimes one party submits to the demands of the other party.”

She glared up at him, resenting the innuendo. “What happened between us wasn’t a negotiation. It was a hostile takeover.”

“You seemed to enjoy yourself.” His voice was pure sex, and she hated him for it in that moment.

“You know what, Max? Fuck you.”

“You already did,” he said darkly.

And that, she realized as she turned back to the window, was exactly the problem. He just didn’t know how right he was.

If her time here was just about waiting for him to discover she wasn’t the one who installed the spyware on her computer, she would have gladly stayed while Max’s cybersecurity team did whatever they needed to do to prove her innocence.

The problem, however, was that the longer she stuck around waiting to be cleared for the corporate espionage she’d had nothing to do with, the more opportunity they’d have to figure out that she had, in fact, been espionaging in what could be construed as a corporate-esque manner...

When Max found out she’d been feeding carefully curated bits of information to his own father—a man he openly despised—for the entirety of her tenure at Whitfield Industries, well, it was almost enough to make a girl wish she’d been the one who’d installed the spyware on her computer.

Emma squared her shoulders, crushed the flare of guilt. She’d had her reasons for accepting Charles Whitfield’s bargain, and if she had it to do over, she’d make the deal again.

Max was a big boy. With millions of dollars and an army of lawyers. He’d figure a way out of this unscathed. Her fate, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so certain. She needed to take care of herself.

To that end, she injected some steel in her spine and her voice as she faced him. “You seemed to enjoy yourself,” she taunted, throwing his earlier words back in his face, as though no time had elapsed since he’d spoken.

“You outrageous little—”

His hands manacled her upper arms, hauling her against him as his mouth crashed down on hers.

Emma meant to resist, truly she did, but her lips parted under the siege of angry lust, and when she raised her arms to push him away, they ended up twining around his neck and pulling him closer.

Stupid arms.

Max grabbed her ass and hauled her up his body before executing a quarter turn and shoving her back against the window. They both grunted at the rough pleasure of their bodies colliding. Emma wrapped her legs around his waist, vaguely aware that the ripping sound that accompanied the grind of his hips against hers meant the slit in her skirt was probably up to her navel now, but she was too lost in the taste and feel of Max to care.

A loud beep echoed through the room, intruding before things got really interesting, and he cursed against her mouth, letting her go so fast that she almost stumbled.

The beep sounded again, and Max stalked toward the desk, running his hands through his hair and tugging his tie straight as he reached out and hit a button on his phone, leaving Emma breathless and frustrated, and a little lust-drunk, if she were being honest. With a frown, she glanced down at her skirt.

“What?” he snapped.

The slit wasn’t quite to her navel, but the frayed material made her think its fate lay with a trash can, not a seamstress. As it stood, she was going to need a couple of safety pins to finish off the workday without getting charged with indecent exposure.

Sherri’s voice flooded the room. “Kaylee’s here to see you. She says it’s urgent. And I have Jesse Hastings on the line for your ten o’clock.”

“Tell them both to wait. We’re almost done here.”

He hit the disconnect button and put his hands on his hips, but he didn’t say anything.

“So...” Emma glanced over at the opaque glass wall. “What do you suppose Sherri thinks is happening in here right now?”

“I pay her not to speculate.” And just like that, Max was all business again. “Who knows that you quit?”

Emma sighed and pushed away from the window, walking toward the front of Max’s desk. By the time she’d secured her position at Whitfield Industries, the need for overtime pay and her mother’s worsening condition had taken up any time she’d have used to cultivate coworkers into friends. Somehow, it had seemed easier not to bother. “If that’s all you’re worried about, then we’re done here. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving except for you.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. If we’re going to catch whoever is behind this, discretion is key.”

The words snapped her like a rubber band. “What? I thought I was your suspect.”

Max’s amber eyes roved her face, looking for something, some answer. It felt...personal. Not like business at all.

She swallowed against the buzz of attraction that charged the air.

After what felt like an eternity, Max turned his attention to the files on his desk. “You’ve been cleared.”

The gruff announcement blindsided her.

“What are you talking about? If you’re not investigating me, why did you come to my place with that contract? Why am I here?”

When Max looked at her again, his impassive mask was back in place. “As I said, the SecurePay launch needs to go off without a hitch. And in order to unearth the mole before the release date, we need our traitor to feel confident that we are still unaware of the leak.”

Hope crept through her veins. Maybe there was still a chance for her to get out of this mess with minimal damage. To Max. To herself. She just needed to keep a cool head. “So, I’m supposed to jump back into my job like nothing happened this weekend?”

She’d been expecting access restrictions, at the very least.

“Exactly like nothing happened this weekend,” he confirmed.

Despite the absolution, something kept her senses on high alert, like her body was reacting to the distant clang of a warning bell that was just beyond her hearing. Something about this didn’t feel right.

Emma tempered her frown at this new development and grabbed her bag from the visitor’s chair. She hooked it over her forearm, positioning it strategically in front of her ruined skirt so she didn’t flash anyone on the way out, pulling her suitcase with her other hand.

She was almost at the door when Max’s voice stopped her.

“And Emma?”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised in question.

“Wear a fucking bra tomorrow.”

He needn’t have worried. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, but she kept her voice tart when she answered. “I’ll wear whatever I want.”

Max scrubbed a hand down his face and hit the button that summoned Sherri’s voice like a high-tech genie.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell Kaylee I don’t have time to see her right now. And find out who I need to talk to about getting the dress code amended before tomorrow.”

“The dress code?”

“That’s what I said. Let Hastings know I’ll be with him in five minutes.”

Emma made sure to flash him a victorious smile as she walked out of his office, but it faded long before she reached her desk. The flare of hope she’d experienced in his office sputtered and died.

The whole point of seducing Max had been that she’d never see him again. And the whole point of quitting her job was to escape the reckoning that seemed almost inevitable now. Whitfield Industries had one of the top cyber security firms in the nation on retainer. It was only a matter of time before Max discovered what she had done.

* * *

Max dropped into the chair behind his desk, legs spread wide to accommodate the results of his earlier lack of willpower with Emma. He hit the button beneath his desk that unfrosted the wall of his office with more force than was necessary.

He was drowning in a security breach that could derail SecurePay, and here he was, acting like a horny teenager with the top suspect, about to conduct a meeting with raging erection.

“What was that all about?”

The sudden intrusion snapped his head up, and Max didn’t bother to smooth the annoyance from his features as his unwanted visitor stormed in without knocking. Not that he expected such civilities from her. He might be known for his poker face, but no one taxed it quite as much as his sister.

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