 
# Legally Binding

## Cleo Peitsche

### Contents

Copyright

Author's Note

Series List

Blurb

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Other Titles
Copyright, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

**LEGALLY BINDING** © 2016 by Cleo Peitsche. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only.

**This book contains mature content and is solely for adults.**

Cover Photo ©2016 by Cormar Covers. Ebook created with Vellum.

# Author's Note

Dear Reader—

Thank you for purchasing this book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to sharing more of my stories with you.

**...** **Why join my mailing list?** Because I release new stories at a special price to thank my readers!

xoxo,

Cleo

# Series List

**Other Titles By Cleo**

* * *

**Coming Soon (partial list)**

_Her Demanding Bisexual Alphas (Trilogy)_

_The Shark's Double Secret (PNR Trilogy)_

_Destroyed by a Dangerous Man (Suspense)_

* * *

**After Forever/Bisexual Billionaire Trilogy (Threesome Romance)**

Careless

Hopeless

Fearless

After Forever Box Set

* * *

**Office Toy Series (BDSM Gang Bang Romance)**

Office Toy

Client Satisfaction

Company Vacation

Flex Time

Soft Skills

Executive Package

* * *

**Executive Toy Series (BDSM Gang Bang Romance)**

Executive Toy

Professional Sin

Dangerously Big

Trickiest Job

Dirtiest Lie

Forbidden Fix

* * *

**Lawyers Behaving Badly (Office Menage)**

Legally Binding

_Triple Jeopardy (coming soon!)_

_Willful Violation (coming soon!)_

_Private Chambers (coming soon!)_

_Morality Clause (coming soon!)_

* * *

**By a Dangerous Man (BDSM Erotic Romantic Suspense)**

**_Season One_**

Trapped by a Dangerous Man

Wanted by a Dangerous Man

Saved by a Dangerous Man

Tempted by a Dangerous Man

Seduced by a Dangerous Man

By a Dangerous Man (Season One Box Set)

**_Season Two_**

Dared by a Dangerous Man

Broken by a Dangerous Man

Pursued by a Dangerous Man

Desired by a Dangerous Man

Protected by a Dangerous Man

By a Dangerous Man (Season Two Box Set)

**_Dangerous Man Standalone_**

Tormented by a Dangerous Man

_Destroyed by a Dangerous Man (coming soon!)_

* * *

**The Shark Shifter Paranormal Romance**

Touching Paradise

Master of the Deep

Oceans Untamed

Blood in the Water

Shark Burn

Complete Series Box Set (select retailers)

* * *

**Take Me Hard Series (BDSM Romance)**

Ride Me Hard

Love Me Hard

Use Me Hard

Take Me Hard Compilation #1

Push Me Hard

* * *

**Fantasy Playland Series (BDSM)**

Sleeping Lady

Sleeping chez Sade

Wide Awake

Wide Open

His Kiss

Fantasy Playland Box Set

* * *

**Mistress Moi Series (Femdom)**

My Three Slaves

Cuckold Chuck

Faye-Faye and the Sadist

* * *

**Bad Boyfriend Series (Femdom Romance)**

Bad Boyfriend

* * *

**Standalone Titles**

Luring the Pack (PNR Menage Novel)

Melted and Whipped (BDSM Novella)
**_Legally Binding_**

_M aisie can't hide her shock the first time she sees Ethan Brennbach's scarred, mask-like face._

_Ethan. Gorgeous except for... yeah._

_Ethan, her new boss._

_He's not impressed by her lack of tact. Neither are Raphael Lattimore and Trent Banno, the handsome partners at the prestigious LB &B law firm, where gossiping about Ethan's appearance is grounds for termination._

_The whole office is brimming with secrets, some downright dangerous. Soon the secrets include Maisie herself, the illegal activities she discovers..._

_And the filthy things all three of her dominant bosses expect of her._

# 1

Maisie stood in front of the gleaming skyscraper and looked up, up, up. She was only vaguely aware of the morning crowd and the aromas of coffee and fried egg sandwiches from the street carts.

Far below the sidewalk, the subway rumbled.

She tugged her purse higher on her shoulder, then her fingers blindly sought out the long necklace dangling between her breasts.

The tower seemed to pierce the sky. Very phallic, Maisie thought, though lately everything seemed to have sexual undertones.

Too much job hunting, not enough dating.

LB&B Law was on the sixtieth floor—was that even visible from down here?

She took a tiny step back and wobbled on her four-inch heels. Then her free hand was windmilling through the air while the other gripped the necklace, as if it could keep her from crashing to the pavement.

The men and women nearby shrank back, but then strong arms caught her, cradled her against a hard chest.

"Easy there," a deep voice said. "You're all right—I've got you."

She couldn't see the man speaking, but his voice was deep and smooth like honey. Like whiskey licked with fire. Something seductive and forbidden.

Something comforting yet dangerous.

As the stranger released her, the silk of his suit brushed against her bare forearms. She almost shivered with delight.

"Thank you," she murmured. Her heel had gotten temporarily caught in a subway grate, she saw now. The hem of her form-fitting dark skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh, revealing her curvy legs.

Tugging at the bottom of her skirt, she slowly turned toward him. Because she was partially bent over, she had the perfect excuse to scope him out.

The elegant navy blue suit camouflaged his muscles somewhat. But Maisie had felt them, and she definitely approved. His hands were large and strong, and the nails were neither too long nor chewed to the quick. With a little sigh, she took in his broad chest and shoulders.

His head was tilted up, like he was trying to figure out what she'd been staring at.

Then he looked at her.

Maisie's entire world crashed to a stop.

A whimper of surprise and fear escaped her lips. The man—he was wearing a stiff Halloween mask—

Except it wasn't fake.

The right half of his face was an artificial caricature, frozen in place, from sharp cheekbone to taut jaw. Strangely masculine but wholly terrifying.

What the hell could even do that to someone? Fire? Acid?

But the skin was too smooth, and the color, while several shades paler than the rest of his tanned face, was too even.

She shouldn't stare, but he was only inches away; if she suddenly became interested in the passers-by or the guy hawking newspapers on the corner, the reason would be obvious.

So she fixed on his eyes, stormy like a troubled sea, and felt herself sinking into their gray depths.

But how many people even noticed how mesmerizing they were?

Her gaze skated upward, to his dark-blond hair, thick and cut conservatively. He was about six inches taller than she was in heels. So, six-two or six-three.

The guy was perfect, right down to the trappings of considerable wealth: expensive watch and exquisitely tailored suit, a flash of gold cufflinks.

But that scar...

She tried not to stare, but it didn't seem real. It couldn't be. But now she saw the knotty seams along his jaw and below his eye, where it connected to healthy skin.

It kept pulling her gaze back.

His lips pressed together in a humorless little smile as he took a step back and straightened his dark blue tie.

What the hell was _wrong_ with her, evaluating this kind stranger? _Fucking say_ _something, Maisie._

"Thank you. For stopping. For helping me." The stammered sentences were scarcely coherent.

He had to know why she was flummoxed.

And now he was the one staring rudely, as if to make a point. It threw her off.

She blinked quickly, but it didn't help her shorted-out brain to function. "What happened to..." She flattened her hands over her mouth. She'd meant to say, _Do you always catch falling women?_ Except she'd been thinking about what had happened to his face.

The hard look in his eyes said he knew it, too. His lips thinned even further, though not as much on the right side.

"You're welcome." The coldness in his voice made her shiver despite the mild spring weather _._ He wasn't looking at her now.

He walked away without another word, continuing to his job or wherever he'd been heading.

Even now, she couldn't stop staring.

He looked damned good from behind. It was impossible to ignore his powerful shoulders and muscles under those expensive clothes. He walked like he owned the world.

She tilted her head. Ok, so maybe he was hot. Or... His confidence was hot. Women were staring in appreciation... at least the women who didn't see the right side of his face.

The others? They did double takes, their eyes widening in alarm.

Maisie knew because she watched until he turned the corner.

# 2

It took fifteen minutes for someone to come collect Maisie from the lobby.

After being shown to her desk and introduced to a few harried coworkers, she was shipped down to the first floor for processing, which sounded like a euphemism for something involving bolt stunners and meat grinders.

"You might want to fix your hair." The woman taking the identification photo leaned out from behind her camera to point. Tiny white stones were embedded in her long fingernails. "It's flat there."

"Curly hair is such a hassle," Maisie said, laughing, but she didn't mean it. She'd paid a lot of money for these nice curls, which were thick spirals that cascaded to her elbows. She liked her hair a little messy, a little wild; it made up for the mousy brown color.

She fluffed up her hair, and when she did, a faint masculine scent reached her nose.

Hot swirls of arousal stirred up inside her and coursed through her veins like a drug.

A heartbeat later, she understood why. The man from the street—some of his aftershave must have gotten on her when he caught her. It hadn't quite registered in the moment. Bergamot and citrus, pine and wood-smoke. Subtle and expensive. It made her think of private jets, penthouses, and power.

It made her heart pound.

She shoved away the memory of his face and focused on the moment when his arms had wrapped around her. Holy hell, that had been hot.

"Guess I don't have to tell you to smile," the photographer said. "I've never seen someone so happy to start a new job. Ok. You're done."

Maisie hopped down from the high wooden stool to retrieve her purse, then joined the photographer by the machine that would print out the security pass.

She found herself tugging at her chain. Toying with the puffy silver heart pendant was a habit she'd developed at her last job, a call center. She'd been the CEO's assistant, a position that maybe sounded glamorous but had mostly consisted of running interference between stressed-out employees and her jerk of a boss.

Ex-boss.

"What's it like at LB&B Law?" she asked. "I haven't heard much." Because it was impossible to get former employees on _Linkt In_ to answer questions about the firm.

The woman smiled cautiously. "They pay well."

Maisie already knew that. Once she'd successfully completed her trial period, she'd go from hourly to salary—and receive a bonus larger than the yearly wages of most of the poor guys at the call center. But LB&B wouldn't pay so well unless they had to, right?

So why did they have to?

When she arrived back on the top floor, a well-dressed woman in her early fifties intercepted her en route to her desk. "I'm Mrs. Donahue, and I'll be giving you the tour," she said.

"I already got one, but had to leave for this." Maisie held up her badge.

The woman smiled as if Maisie were an idiot. "So you know where the bathrooms are. Congratulations. I'm going to give you the _real_ tour. The one you need if you hope to survive your probationary period."

"I appreciate that," Maisie said, suspecting that she was either going to adore or despise Mrs. Donahue.

"You aren't to handle any files that aren't given to you. Not until you're a full employee, which will take hard work. The founding partners are exacting. They're three bachelors who are married to their jobs. They sacrifice, and you will have to as well. Late nights are the norm here."

"Understood. I'm a perfectionist, so—"

"That will serve you well, no doubt. Come."

Gulping, Maisie fixed a smile to her face and followed the dour woman.

Lush, silver-tipped ivy potted in gleaming silver planters lined the corridor. Overhead, skylights at regular intervals let in a flood of warm yellow light.

"This is Raphael Lattimore's office," Mrs. Donahue said, turning left. They passed through a small but elegant seating area, then through a door. "You'll be part of his support team."

Which Maisie already knew—she'd interviewed for the position, after all. Still, she kept her mouth shut.

She drank in the decor, starting with the tall grandfather clock to her right. It was clearly an antique, with a beveled front glass panel. Fifteen feet beyond it was a large marble-slab coffee table surrounded by two sofas and two chairs.

The executive desk sat halfway across the room, facing the door. It was an imposing, solid-looking piece of furniture, with thick fluted columns dividing the panels. A powerful desk for a powerful man. A curved monitor and a telephone sat on a matching riser to the right, and there was a sturdy credenza, too. The contrast of modern and antique was well executed.

A dozen plants sat around the office in small groups. Maisie would have put some of them on the massive legal bookshelf built into the wall on her left, to break up the overbearing rows of gilded-paged books, but she supposed the plants were happier in the open, where they could get light.

Through the windows straight ahead, Maisie could see miles of clear blue sky dotted with puffy clouds.

Yeah, this was far nicer than the gloomy CEO's office at the call center, which had reeked of stale cigarette smoke and human desperation.

The sexy stranger from the street popped back into her mind.

What was it like where he worked? Who was he?

Too bad she hadn't twisted an ankle. He might have carried her to a bench and stroked her leg with those strong hands of his. _Your body is perfect_ , he might have said, sliding his hand to her knee, then under her skirt—

"As you see," Mrs. Donahue said, "Mr. Lattimore is tidy. He can be very old-fashioned." As she spoke, she walked to the credenza and gestured at the newspapers on it. "He only reads print, not digital. Every morning, he must have the _Wall Street Journal_ , _The New York Times_ , and the _Financial Times_. Once a week, you'll replace the old editions of _Music News_ and _Beautiful Blooms_."

"Beautiful Blooms?" She hadn't actually gotten to meet Mr. Lattimore; the job interviews had been conducted at the employment agency. Somehow, she'd come away thinking he was young, or maybe middle-aged. Certainly not old-fashioned, heading for retirement, and tottering around his garden on the weekends.

Mrs. Donahue gave her a piercing look. "Whatever you think you've understood about Mr. Lattimore, forget it. Whatever you're imagining is likely wrong." Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the elegant office. "He wants his shades drawn up in the mornings. There's a light meter in your desk along with instructions."

"Instructions?"

Mrs. Donahue nodded. "His plants are expensive and require a precise amount of light. If you get it wrong, he'll fire you."

"But I'm an executive assistant, not a gardner."

"It might seem beneath you, but bungle this and you'll be out of a job. Think of yourself as a horticulturist." She smiled cruelly.

Maisie remembered a joke her mother had told her. _You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think._

She crossed her arms. For the first time since waking up that morning, she was more worried than excited.

"I'll email a longer list of specifications: how he takes his coffee, when he wants his dry cleaning picked up—"

"He expects me to pick up his dry cleaning?" Maisie asked, crestfallen.

Mrs. Donahue ignored the interruption. "Next, Mr. Banno. He has a full-time personal assistant who handles most of his needs, but occasionally you'll have to step in. To that end, I recommend spending a few hours with Gladys, letting her show you the ropes. Mr. Banno will require your assistance less often than Mr. Lattimore, but he can be quite demanding."

She paused as if for dramatic effect. "A previous employee served him cold coffee. That man ended up wearing it."

Maisie's stomach curdled. "That's terrible!"

"Instead of constantly interjecting your opinions, you might want to consider the warning I'm giving you. Assuming you're smart enough to take a not-so-subtle hint."

The temptation to match Mrs. Donahue's rudeness was almost overwhelming. Gritting her teeth, Maisie said evenly, "I graduated from Penn, you know. Same as Ethan Brennbach." She'd read it in an article about the firm.

"Did you? Then I imagine you have a lot of student loans to pay back and need this job more than we need you."

Maisie felt her face heating with anger. People were usually impressed when they heard where she'd gone to school. "Well, I read some general books about law practices in preparation for working here. I've also got a good memory and speak three languages." _Sort of._

"Look around you, Ms. Novau. Do I look like HR? Does this look like a Broadway audition? Here we're all drones, stacking up billable hours. That's the only language you need to concern yourself with. Since you brought up Mr. Brennbach..." She gestured Maisie closer and glanced around even though there wasn't anyone near them.

Maisie leaned in. She could see the unevenness of Mrs. Donahue's foundation and the bloodshot veins in her eyes.

And was that the sweet grape scent of wine on her breath? First thing in the morning? Maisie chanced a quick sniff. It sure was.

"Mr. Brennbach suffers from... an embarrassing affliction."

A million possibilities raced through Maisie's mind. She had an uncle with IBS, but he didn't seem particularly embarrassed about it. If anything, he thought it was funny, or at least pretended to.

Mrs. Donahue drew a finger around her own face. "His countenance," she said. "The right side. It happened two years ago, and it didn't improve his disposition any."

Prickling crawled along Maisie's skin. With each passing second, it burrowed deeper, permeating her with cold dread.

"His face? I think... I think I saw him on the street, but he was heading—"

"If you think you saw him, then you did. He doesn't like being reminded of his disfigurement, for obvious reasons. Don't stare, don't gossip. In fact, the best advice I can give you is to pretend you don't notice at all."

_Too fuckin' late._ A nervous, choked giggle escaped Maisie's pursed lips.

"Honestly," Mrs. Donahue said, flustered. "Don't do _that_ when you see him."

Maisie pressed her fingertips against her mouth. She could smell a trace of that intoxicating aftershave, or maybe she was imagining it. She remembered the solidity of his body as he caught her. "What happened to him?"

"That's none of your business, so don't go asking. It's not spoken of."

"But—"

Mrs. Donahue snapped her fingers. "It's not discussed here. If you gossip and he finds out, he won't just fire you. He'll sue you for creating a hostile work environment. He'll win, and you'll be selling your blood plasma and collecting cans for the next thirty years. That man never loses a case, and he never forgets a slight."

Maisie nodded, but the blood had drained out of her face, leaving her woozy.

# 3

Maisie absorbed very little of the tour after that. At the end, Mrs. Donahue explained about the other office, half a block away, where the majority of the staff worked. She made threats that Maisie would be transferred to the mailroom there if her performance was unsatisfactory.

Maisie didn't really hear her.

Was Ethan Brennbach the man who had caught her? The possibility filled her with equal parts mortification and hope.

Little by little, dread won out.

The instant she was alone at her desk—which was unfortunately within sight of Mrs. Donahue's desk—she accessed the company directory.

She'd tried once previously, the morning before her first interview, but LB&B kept the directory behind password protection.

Now that she was on an office computer, she didn't need a password.

Hands trembling, she typed in _Brennbach_. During the seconds that it took the computer to return the results, she suffered through several levels of hell.

In the photo that popped up, Ethan Brennbach was staring straight into the camera, his eyes blazing with the knowledge that he held the world in the palm of his hand.

Maisie lifted her hand and covered the right side of his face, but she already knew the truth: Ethan Brennbach was the man who had caught her.

Her boss. The man whose scent practically brought her to orgasm.

The man she had offended.

She dropped her arm and contemplated the screen. He had strong features, a square but refined jaw and chin, and a straight nose. His face was astoundingly symmetrical. He looked indestructible, invincible.

Once upon a time, he'd been gorgeous.

It was one thing to have always been homely, but she wouldn't have wished his fate on her worst enemy. Actually, maybe her worst enemy. Heather. The woman who'd sabotaged their final project junior year, blamed it on Maisie, and thereby stole the marketing internship that turned into a full-time position after graduation. In contrast, Maisie had ended up paying for courses to be an executive assistant, which at LB&B meant a dry-cleaning fetching, plant-watering, coffee-carrying gofer.

One of Maisie's guilty pastimes was imagining all the ways she'd get revenge on Heather. Most of them involved public humiliation. Unlikely it would ever happen; she'd only seen Heather twice in the four years since graduation.

The second time, six weeks ago, had motivated Maisie to give notice at the call center and start looking for a better position. Maybe she wouldn't be the head of a department anytime soon, but at least she was working on the top floor of the most exclusive office building in the city.

She'd just have to steer clear of Ethan Brennbach.

Maisie found a photo of the three founding partners together. "Wow," she murmured. Mr. Lattimore was elegant and sleek. Far closer to her age than even early retirement. Dark-haired and confident, he had the kind of charmed good looks that other men sneeringly called "pretty," as if that would diminish their appeal to women.

Mr. Banno was classically handsome, with a chiseled jaw and mocha-brown eyes. He reminded her of the Japanese soccer star she'd dated her freshman year—his senior year—before he ditched her for the woman he was now married to. And he'd done it a few weeks before Maisie was supposed to meet his parents, visiting from Osaka.

Nice memory, that.

She wondered if it was just a good photo or if the partners were insanely attractive in real life.

Her gaze kept returning to Mr. Brennbach. He was smiling, his gray eyes hypnotic.

That much, at least, hadn't changed.

She closed out of the directory and turned to the mountain of work on her desk. Mrs. Donahue had explained that Maisie would be started off on simple tasks, to see if she could handle them.

The matter of love or hate had been settled; she hated Mrs. Donahue.

First she took a few minutes to shuffle through the pile, to get a sense of what was there. Nothing too difficult, and by regrouping the drudgery so that she'd be focused on one type of project at a time, she figured she could wring a little extra productivity out of herself.

This was supposed to take all day? She'd have it finished before lunch, late start notwithstanding.

And it went fast like that... at first. She turned written forms into typed documents, put together new client packets, and regrouped files. There was lots of photocopying, which she quickly learned meant babysitting a machine that refused to be hurried.

She took another stack of folders to the copier. Unfasten the papers, copy them, put them back. This was tedious. She was tempted to make it last all day just on principle.

On the other hand, she wanted to make a positive impression.

A woman wearing a beehive hairdo and tons of eyeliner walked in with an armful of folders. "How much more do you have?" Her voice was nasally, like she had sinus problems.

Maisie glanced at her own stack of work. "I'll be collecting retirement benefits before I'm done."

The woman sighed, then set down the folders. "Guess I'll come back," she said, and left.

With nothing else to do, Maisie started snooping through the folders. It felt naughty. This was prohibited according to Mrs. Donahue, though Maisie had signed nondisclosure agreements.

The top file was a senior citizen suing his apartment complex because they hadn't been diligent enough when de-icing the sidewalk. He'd fallen, breaking a hip. There were photos of the walkway as well as the victim, a map of black and blue over his sallow canvas of skin.

The next case was a contested will, two sisters squabbling over who owned the contents of the house. Boring.

She moved it aside and gasped.

"Luther William McAvoy," she whispered. They'd gone to school together. A glance at the date of birth was proof enough that it was the same guy. Like there was a herd of Luther William McAvoys running around.

He'd been arrested for destroying a traffic cam.

"What an idiot," she murmured. Luther had been the class clown. While they weren't close friends, if she were to run into him, they'd probably end up chatting for ten or fifteen minutes.

According to the file, he was married and had a toddler. He worked at their old high school as a janitor.

Two yellow stickies were attached to the top of the file. _Pro bono_ was written on one, and _J.T._ on the other. J.T. must be one of the associates, Maisie thought. From what she'd seen, everyone but the partners—the three founding partners plus five equity partners—was referred to by initials, or initials plus last name.

Well, that wouldn't do. Luther was a decent guy and deserved the best possible representation, especially if it was going to be pro bono and wouldn't cost him anything.

Maisie ripped off the sticky and crumpled it up.

She liberated a sticky with Mr. Lattimore's name from another folder and slapped it onto Luther's file, pressing hard. She memorized the case number: eight digits plus four letters. Once she was a permanent employee, she'd be able to track the case's progress through the online system.

She returned the folders to their former order, then tended to the copy machine. Yesterday's milkmaids were today's copy machine attendants. Feed it, collect the warm white output.

Maisie snickered, thinking of the photo of the three sexy partners. She could imagine far more interesting warm white output to be had in this office.

Her pulse quickened as she remembered Mr. Brennbach's arms around her, and his deep voice in her ear.

"Maisie? Mr. Lattimore needs you."

She jumped at the interruption and turned to find herself facing the definition of a peaches-and-cream complexion. The woman's full lips, which were just a little pouty in a sexual way, looked natural, as did her high cheekbones.

Maisie stared for a second. She couldn't help comparing herself.

Comparing and coming up short.

The woman smiled like she knew what Maisie was thinking. Like she knew Maisie was used to being the most attractive woman in the room, and that here, in this little copy room, population two, she'd slipped into the bottom fiftieth percentile.

"He needs you now," the woman said. "I'll show you the way."

Great. She was finally getting to meet Mr. Lattimore, and instead of making a memorable first impression, she was going to be overshadowed by a supermodel in a form-fitting pantsuit. Maisie's fingers groped for the silver chain around her neck. "What about my files?" she asked as the chain whispered across her skin.

"We'll stop by your desk so you can drop them off."

Nodding, Maisie gathered everything up.

The woman had a sexy rolling gait that seemed, to Maisie, a little overdone. It didn't matter, because it was effective. Hell, Maisie wanted to grow a dick and fuck her.

If the bosses were amenable to office romance, Maisie was obviously going to have to get in line. And that really fucking sucked.

She dropped the folders onto her chair and noticed that a new stack had been added to her desk. So much for getting her work done in a couple of hours to impress the bosses.

"I'm Maisie," she said, deciding she should introduce herself to the competition, who definitely wasn't wearing a wedding band.

"Jayne. I saw your résumé last week. I spent almost half a year at Penn."

"Really?" If Jayne hadn't been able to hack it, that was a point in Maisie's favor.

"Yeah. The professor overseeing my independent study took a position at Penn, so I followed her, wrapped up the project, then went back." She smiled. "To Stanford. It was a logistical nightmare, and I almost didn't graduate on time."

Somehow, Maisie smiled back. She hadn't done an independent study. None of her professors would have asked her to tag along to another university. In fact, she doubted any of her former professors could have picked her out of a lineup two months after semester's end.

And then there was the fact that Stanford had rejected her.

Maisie hadn't met many people who made her feel so insecure that she wanted to slink into a closet and hide, but of course there had to be one at her new job, a goddess with a perfect body and a starlet's face. It figured.

Jayne led her to a conference room, where she went right up to a seated man Maisie recognized as Mr. Lattimore. He was older than in the photo; she'd thought late twenties, but he was likely in his early thirties. Thick, dark lashes framed his sleepy blue eyes. Bedroom eyes.

_Irresistible._

Maisie liked guys who were a bit older, and eight years was the sweet spot. They were confident, accomplished, and knew their way around a woman's body—most of the time, anyway.

Mr. Lattimore didn't immediately drop everything he was doing to stare at Jayne's beauty. Maisie was impressed by his restraint. He was, however, speaking to her like she was a colleague. And Maisie realized... Jayne wouldn't be an assistant. Not if she'd been an overachiever in college. And while she didn't look older than Maisie, she was the kind of woman who probably aged at a tenth the rate of mortals.

Jayne probably _was_ Mr. Lattimore's colleague.

Oh well. Maybe it was better to be thoroughly outclassed. At least she wouldn't have to waste time and energy competing.

Mr. Lattimore finally looked over at Maisie. He stared a fraction of a second too long... just a normal reaction to seeing any unknown person, Maisie realized with a fair amount of disappointment.

"You're my new assistant."

"Yes."

He stood to shake her hand, and Maisie noted the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of the muscles under his starched shirt.

Oh, she definitely appreciated what she saw.

When their fingers touched, she swore she felt a spark of current zapping between them.

"Welcome, Maisie. Maybe we can chat later, but at the moment I need you to drop whatever you're doing and check a transcript against one of the Ballystock depositions. Mrs. Donahue is setting it up. Whenever you find something that doesn't match, note the time from the recording as well as the text of the discrepancy."

He paused. "I know it's a bit much on your first day, but we're under deadline. You have to be detail-oriented."

"I am," she assured him. "It's not a problem."

She gradually became aware that Jayne's posture had changed. She was standing a little straighter, maybe holding her breath, and her attention was fixed on someone behind Maisie.

When Maisie turned, she discovered that Mr. Brennbach had entered the room.

His scarred face, too, as handsome and horrific as she remembered.

And he was looking right at her.

# 4

His expression was unreadable, but Maisie had no difficulty supplying a plausible running commentary.

_There's that fucking bitch who panicked when she saw me._

Then she realized that while she was standing there in shock, she'd broken the cardinal rule: she was staring at him.

And everyone had noticed.

"I'll get right on that, Mr. Lattimore," she stammered, dropping her gaze, then hurried to the door.

Mr. Brennbach didn't move out of the way, and she sensed his disapproving glare as she squeezed up against the conference room table to avoid bumping into him.

She caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the memory of that morning slammed into her like a truck. That scent. His arms around her. His voice in her ear, letting her know she was safe. The silk of his suit and the hardness of his arms and chest underneath.

She fled down the hall, anxious to get somewhere safe. What she needed was a minute in the bathroom, to pull herself together. But then she saw Mrs. Donahue impatiently hovering over her desk.

After giving a demonstration on how to operate the self-explanatory transcription software—which Maisie tolerated because she needed a moment to calm her pounding heart—Mrs. Donahue planted her hands on her hips.

"They're only entrusting you with this because of a last-minute development. Mr. Lattimore has court on another case at noon and a meeting about this one immediately after. If you're not capable—"

"A toddler could handle it," Maisie said with a sigh. "It's just following along."

"It's not _just_ following along," Mrs. Donahue said, shaking her head. "If there's anything on there, you'd better find it."

She stalked off.

Maisie evicted the stack of folders from her chair. She pushed more folders to the back of her desk. She'd only been there for a few hours and she was already drowning in paperwork.

Well, at least this would take her mind off a certain lawyer who never lost a case, never forgot a slight, and was probably right now ordering HR to assemble Maisie's termination paperwork.

The woman on the recording was the former live-in housekeeper of the Ballystocks, a couple in the middle of a messy divorce. The questions centered around observations of physical violence.

Even though the housekeeper always said she didn't remember the events she was being asked about, the questions were enough to make Maisie's stomach sour.

Thank goodness LB&B was representing Davina Ballystock and not her husband, though Maisie assumed the firm had plenty of less-than-pleasant clients. She sighed and prepared to listen to the last five minutes again.

She became aware that someone had stopped next to her desk.

Pausing the recording, she looked up.

It was Mr. Lattimore. He smiled kindly— _ooh, sexy smile_. With dimples.

She pulled off her headphones and shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Lattimore. I combed through it and listened to anything ambiguous several times. I did find a list of discrepancies, but they're minor."

"May I?"

She handed over her page of notes.

While he scanned the list, she scanned him. Sophisticated, but she was willing to bet he had a wild side. She wasn't sure why she thought that—maybe because his hair was a little longer than the standard executive cut. Her fingers twitched from wanting to slide under the lapels of his charcoal gray suit. The man knew good clothing. The fabric would be soft, and his chest underneath hard.

She loved getting dressed up, putting on makeup and doing her hair. Her mom liked to tease that she should have been born a couple of centuries ago, to a noble family. Maisie didn't disagree.

"Excellent work," Mr. Lattimore said, handing the paper back to her.

Maisie cleared her throat. "Obviously I haven't been to law school, but I thought the court reporter's transcript is... binding." Was that the right word?

Mr. Lattimore looked impressed. "That's true; the transcript is the document of record. But last night Mr. Ballystock's attorney put in a request for an audio copy of the deposition and then scheduled an emergency meeting for today. We suspected the request might be a ploy to distract us, but I couldn't gamble on it. Not when so much is at stake. I've already had one of our first-year associates check, but I wanted to be thorough."

"Oh." In other words, she'd expended all that energy looking for something that didn't even exist.

"Never trust a lawyer," he said, and was he flirting?

"The housekeeper sounded scared," Maisie said, tilting her head at the paused audio file. "I think she's lying."

"She is, but Mrs. Ballystock no longer wants us to pursue that angle."

"Why not?"

He smiled instead of answering. "I'm heading to court. Don't forget about my plants. And check the vines for dead leaves. If you find any, strip them off."

_Ugh._ But if it was part of her job, she might as well do it with a cheerful heart. "Lucky for you, I was voted 'most likely to become a stripper' by my sorority," she said, laughing.

His smile vanished. One of his eyebrows lifted. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

He walked away.

Oh, god. Why the hell had she said that? It wasn't even true—she'd been joking. What was wrong with her?

Irritated by her own stupidity, she quit the transcription program, pushed to her feet, and started toward Mr. Lattimore's office. Then she remembered the list that Mrs. Donahue had emailed.

Sure enough, the plants were on the list. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, water the plants except for the three in the southeast corner.

She rolled her eyes and went to do it.

Just as she was finishing with the bonsai—it had to be soaked three times—she became aware that someone had entered the office.

She turned and found herself looking into a pair of intelligent dark eyes set in a handsome face. His skin was lightly tanned, and his dark hair brushed his eyebrows.

_Well, well, well._

Mr. Banno was, by far, the hottest of her new bosses, and it looked like he had a muscular body under that designer suit. He was gorgeous. In person, he didn't look much like her ex, maybe just a vague resemblance. Hell, if her ex had been this sexy, she would have cried when he dumped her.

And judging from Mr. Banno's sharp inhale of breath when she smiled, he liked what he saw, too.

He recovered quickly.

"It looks like Raphael bought another bonsai," he said, flashing a cocky grin that showed off perfect white teeth. "He's been trying to keep one alive ever since some corporate speaker we hired said it was a good way to hone leadership skills, but I think he's missing the point."

He was looking at her as if she were beautiful. She wasn't a blusher—not usually, though when she did, people often thought she was having a minor stroke—but Mr. Banno's attention almost did the trick.

"Missing the point in what way?" she murmured, running her hand over the top of the diminutive cedar tree. Its tiny branches tickled her palms.

"The whole point is to keep them alive yourself. They always die on him, then he gets angry and blames me because I'm supposed to be genetically predisposed to keeping tiny trees alive or something." Grinning, he crossed the room. "I'm Trent Banno. Welcome."

Finally, someone who didn't make her feel out of place. "Thank you. I'm happy to be here."

So far, Mr. Banno didn't seem so bad, but then Mr. Lattimore had been nice at first, too. Her stomach sank again as she remembered his words. _I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that_.

She'd been stupid. That wasn't in dispute, but Mr. Lattimore could have been a little more gracious.

"Is everything all right?" Mr. Banno asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. First day, is all. Still finding my footing."

"You'll do fine. We're not an easy firm to work for, but those who make it through the probationary period tend to stay a very long time. The secret is to not let anyone get under your skin."

This was the guy who had dumped coffee on an employee, she suddenly remembered. She couldn't imagine it. "Thanks for the tip."

He nodded and started to turn away, but then he thrust his hands into his pockets. "Actually, I didn't come in here by accident. You're famous."

She didn't respond to that. Either Mr. Lattimore had complained about her clumsy joke, or Mr. Brennbach had complained about her rudeness on the street. She tried on a bland smile.

"Ethan is a little... upset... that you're working here."

Maisie closed her eyes. Mr. Brennbach, then. "God. I didn't know—"

"No one is blaming you, Maisie. We always prepare new employees, but obviously it was too late in your case."

She wanted to ask about the scar, but instead she said, "How does he handle clients if he's so sensitive?"

"I wouldn't describe him as sensitive."

Maisie folded her arms across her chest.

"Ethan didn't solicit new clients even before the accident. I'm sure if someone came in, paid a substantial retainer, and requested him specifically, he'd accept. He's not embarrassed by his appearance, Maisie."

His tone had grown cool. He walked to the window and stared out.

Had she been dismissed? After a few seconds, she figured the answer was yes, and turned to go.

"We don't usually talk about this, but I thought you deserved an explanation. Rather, a partial explanation."

"Oh," she said, turning back. Mr. Banno was now watching her.

"It's been a long time since someone screamed in his face."

She winced and prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her. "I didn't scream." It had been more of a surprised gasp, she thought.

"No," he said, appraising her astutely. "I imagine you didn't, at least not intentionally. Ethan is a cynical son of a bitch, and he'll see right through any ass-kissing you might have planned." He tilted his head back, like he was weighing what to say next. She stared at his Adam's apple and the thick column of his neck. Fucking gorgeous, gorgeous man. "My suggestion is for you to lie low."

"Believe me, I intend to." She paused. Part of her desperately wanted to find Mr. Brennbach.

But why?

To fall into his arms again, she realized with a jolt. She could almost feel his body against hers, and the solidity of his embrace. It had been far too brief.

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Banno asked.

She hesitated.

If she alienated Mr. Banno, then the office was going to be unbearable. But he was waiting patiently. Maybe it was because of that slight resemblance to her ex, but he didn't feel like a stranger.

On impulse, she decided to tell the truth. "You know, he's not really that ugly."

He smiled. "Not that ugly? What every man aspires to."

She shook her head. She wasn't, she realized, scared anymore. "I mean... yeah, he's..." She fluttered her fingers inarticulately. "But he's still hot otherwise. I'm sure he could find a girlfriend if he tried."

"Could he?" Mr. Banno sounded extremely amused by what she'd said. "Well, it was nice meeting you. If you need help, don't hesitate to ask... Mrs. Donahue."

After he'd left, Maisie double-checked that she'd properly followed the rules for the plants.

She noticed a small framed photo on one of the bookcase's higher shelves. Lifting up on her toes, she pulled it down, then laughed.

Mr. Lattimore was playing guitar on a stage crisscrossed with electrical cords and overturned mic stands. His shoulder-length hair brushed the collar of a grungy flannel shirt over a ripped Nirvana tee. The photo had been taken from the audience, and it looked like the mid-sized venue was packed.

She took a closer look but couldn't make out the band's name on the banner behind the stage. Too bad—she would have loved to find some videos online.

So, the straight-laced attorney used to be in a band. Maybe her earlier impression had been right, that he had a wild side. Intriguing.

Replacing the photo, she looked around one last time.

Mr. Lattimore's office was nice. Serene. Clean lines, no clutter, and good lighting. Actually, she wouldn't mind getting one like it, eventually. Of course that wasn't going to happen here unless she went to law school.

One thing she knew for certain was that her new bosses were eccentric. All of them. She was starting to see why the pay was so high. When you had to tiptoe around, follow all the rules to the letter... Who would put up with that?

Maisie Novau, that was who. Because Mrs. Donahue was right—Maisie had tons of student loans. And credit card debt. And a car payment. And rent. Even a year at LB&B would help her get back on her feet, assuming she managed to avoid Mr. Brennbach until the end of her probationary period.

She needed to prove herself. This place wasn't like the call center.

Here, she was replaceable.

# 5

After another hour of tedious work, Maisie got to thinking.

Dating the boss... She wasn't against it, in principle. She'd had a fling with one of the managers at the call center right around when she'd started. They'd banged daily for a few months, until he took a better job eight hours away and then got a girlfriend.

But he hadn't been her boss.

Jayne would be a problem... Jayne was gorgeous. Maisie decided to look her up in the directory, just to make sure.

It took some scrolling, but she found Jayne Torrabadella and couldn't help noticing that Jayne was the only lawyer with the initials J.T.

Maisie thought about the sticky she'd thrown away, then shrugged it off. If it was important for Jayne to get that case, it would get sorted out.

And, yeah, she really was that stunning. It wasn't fair.

But Jayne was one woman, and there were three bosses. Well, two, because Mr. Brennbach was off the table. Disappointment twisted in her gut, and regret had her heart fluttering. She ignored it all.

So, that left a boss for Maisie. Mr. Lattimore had been flirting with her before she crossed the line, so he was possibly interested. Mr. Banno, too. Maybe that was why he hadn't revealed his coffee-throwing ogre side to her.

It deserved further investigation.

She was way overdue for a lunch break, so she wrapped up what she was doing, then went into the bathroom to wash her hands.

While she was in there, she unbuttoned the top of her short-sleeved blouse. The tiny bit of extra skin wouldn't offend anyone, and maybe if she was a little sexier, the bosses would warm up to her.

After buying and inhaling a cloyingly sweet smoothie and a three-bean salad in a deli in the building's lobby, Maisie returned to find several pieces of paper sitting on her keyboard. _Priority! Type these into BFA (business formation application) forms (6 pages) for Mr. Banno_ , the attached sheet said. _Attention to detail, Maisie, or you can go home!_

Obviously it was from Mrs. Donahue.

She typed and printed them. The note hadn't said what to do with them once she was finished, and Mrs. Donahue was at a late lunch, breathing fire at some poor waitress, Maisie imagined. She decided to take it to Mr. Banno's office.

His assistant was away, so Maisie approached the open door.

Mr. Banno was seated at his desk, engrossed in something he was reading.

The office layout and furnishings were almost exactly like Mr. Lattimore's, but without the plants, and the grandfather clock was a lighter shade of wood. Mr. Banno had a phone, a laptop, and several folders on his desk.

An additional chair was beside the credenza.

She knocked, and he looked up. The corner of his mouth twitched; he was happy to see her, though doing his best to hide it. A few strands of hair had fallen into his eyes, and Maisie wanted to climb onto his lap and brush them away.

"I've got your BFA forms," she said quickly, hoping he hadn't guessed what she was thinking.

"That was fast."

"What can I say? I'm fast." Then she realized what she'd said.

She froze. Geez, they were going to think she was some kind of horny pervert. Which she kinda was, but this time it really had been an accident.

But Mr. Banno was smiling. She hadn't offended him.

He motioned for her to enter, and he watched as she approached his desk. She tried not to sway her hips too much. He wasn't staring, wasn't being at all inappropriate, but deep down she knew: he was attracted to her.

Forget Mr. Lattimore. Former grunge guitarist or not, he was too uptight, and anyway Mr. Banno was hotter.

She handed him the papers.

"One moment," he said. "You can run them back to Mrs. Donahue." He quickly flipped through the pages, scrawling his signature and the date. He was left-handed, she noticed, the kind who curled their fingers and wrists around their pens and seemed to write backward. It was inelegant and thoroughly charming.

"And tell Mrs. Donahue that she'll need to arrange dinner for eight people tonight."

"Which restaurant... I mean... I guess she knows, or you would have said."

"Dinner will be here, but she'll know." He handed her the pages. "Actually, if you want some overtime on your first day..." He shook his head sharply, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Strike that."

She wanted overtime! "But—"

"Ethan will be there."

_Oh._

"That's all I need for now. Thank you."

As she walked down the empty hall, she reordered the papers. One of them was missing a signature, so she turned around and went back.

Mr. Banno frowned when she entered. "Sorry," she said. "You forgot something."

"Nonsense," he said with a playful smirk. "I never forget anything."

"Never?"

He raised his eyebrows. Oh, he was definitely flirting. "Never, Maisie. But sometimes I use invisible ink." He motioned for her to approach.

He didn't seem so bad. She wondered if Mrs. Donahue had made up the coffee thing to scare her. She seemed the type.

Maisie placed the paper on the desk, and then, her finger on the empty line where Mr. Banno was to sign his name, she skated the paper forward.

She had to lean over to do it. The long chain and heart pendant tumbled out of her blouse to pool on the desktop.

The movement caught Mr. Banno's attention. He wasn't staring down her shirt... until he was.

With an abrupt motion, he signed his name. "I'm glad you came back. It'll save me a phone call. You'll bring my coffee today, in half an hour." He turned away as if he couldn't deal with the temptation of her breasts trembling in his face. "That will be all for now."

She wondered if his cock was hard. Oh god, she really hoped it was. She hoped he was going to grab hand lotion and tissues and head into the bathroom for some self-love.

What she'd done had felt so naughty. It wasn't like her.

Well, it wasn't _unlike_ her, either. She'd always been forward. Men usually flirted with her, and she'd come to expect it. Being ignored sucked, but now she felt a lot better. She didn't even mind Mrs. Donahue's snippiness as she showed Maisie how to put together a tray of coffee for Mr. Banno.

But when she brought it to him, he ignored her.

"Mrs. Donahue said two tablespoons of cream, right?" she asked, carefully placing the gleaming silver tray atop the credenza.

He didn't look up from his work. "If I wanted something different, I'd tell you."

So much for Mr. Banno being the approachable partner.

She dumped the cream into the coffee and placed the mug on the desk.

He reached for it, then paused. "The sugar?"

"Oh... um..." Using the stupid little tongs, she picked up one white square. It glittered like frozen snow.

It slipped out of the tongs, slid across the desk and disappeared over the side.

"Fuck!" she said, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes were like ice. "Pick it up."

She stared.

"Now."

Springing into action, she hurried around the desk and crouched.

Mr. Banno used the side of one polished black shoe to nudge the sugar cube under the desk.

Confused, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. Being on her knees in front of her boss felt funny. It made her mind go to strange, forbidden places, to things that could never happen in real life.

"Get it," he ordered, sliding back with his chair and making space for her.

Oh, this was humiliating. To retrieve it, she had to crawl under the desk, her palms and knees scraping across the carpet. Her skirt was uncomfortably tight over her ass and the backs of her thighs.

There was a paper clip on the floor, so she picked that up, too, then scrambled to her feet.

"Fix your shirt," Mr. Banno said.

She looked down and saw how the fabric had bunched up under one of her breasts, pulling the neckline to the side and exposing an inappropriate swell of cleavage.

She quickly straightened herself out, then dumped the sugar into the trash. She kept the paper clip, though.

"Maisie?" Mr. Banno said. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I... I'm sorry. Did you need something?"

"My sugar."

So she had to walk back and do the sugar ritual again, but this time she got close with the bowl and didn't screw up.

Mr. Banno picked up his pen and began writing something, like she wasn't even there, and Maisie took the opportunity to flee the room.

"What the hell was that?" she murmured as she plopped down at her desk and tossed the paper clip into a drawer.

Then she realized.

That was payback.

A smile crept across her face. _Game on._

An hour later, she had another excuse to return to Mr. Banno's office. Technically Mrs. Donahue was the one sending her, but Maisie had angled for it by asking several times if there wasn't an errand she could be running, to avoid sitting for too long.

But not only was his door closed, his assistant—Maisie didn't remember her name—was sitting at her desk.

"I need to speak with Mr. Banno," Maisie said.

The secretary's gaze dipped toward the folder Maisie was carrying.

"It's about the Easton case. Mrs. Donahue said to make sure Mr. Banno saw this subpoena right away. I'm supposed to bring it back to her."

The secretary shrugged, then picked up the phone. "Something that needs your attention," the secretary said. "Yes, sir." To Maisie, she said, "Go on in."

"Thank you. They really run us ragged here, huh?"

"You're telling me." She turned back to her work.

Maisie entered the office. Mr. Banno might have been surprised to see her, but he turned away so quickly that she couldn't see the look on his face. "What is it?" he asked.

"A copy of a subpoena that came in for Easton, about some documents related to his dry cleaning business."

"Bring it here." Mr. Banno stood, and she gave him the paperwork. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing vaguely at the chair beside the credenza. "This will take a few minutes."

It was going to be more difficult to seduce him with a desk between them and her stuck in a chair, which was maybe his intention.

But Maisie refused to give up so easily. She sat gracefully and crossed her legs, knowing her tight skirt would highlight the outline of her shapely thighs. She swung her foot a little, letting her high-heeled shoe dangle from her toes.

And then the shoe slipped off and hit the floor with a quiet thump.

Mr. Banno glanced over, but he didn't say anything.

Maisie delicately removed the other shoe, then stood and went to pour herself some water from the tray on the credenza. She couldn't think of a good reason to bend over, but she very much wanted to give Mr. Banno the image of her curvy ass, so, carrying her water, she undulated over to the coffee table and bent at the waist to study the magazines on offer.

Nothing juicy, just law journals and reviews. It was a bit of a disappointment.

"Put your shoes back on," Mr. Banno said matter-of-factly.

She sashayed back to the chair and wiggled into her heels. Mr. Banno watched, his face expressionless.

"Am I allowed to choose a magazine?"

"If it'll keep you from moving around and distracting me." He shifted away from her.

But she'd caught a glimpse of what he was trying to hide: an obvious tent in his pants.

She'd only gotten a peek... Too bad.

She chose a magazine at random and couldn't help glancing back to see if Mr. Banno was watching her.

He wasn't, but he'd hooked a finger behind the knot of his tie. She watched hungrily as he tugged it a little looser.

She slipped open another button of her blouse, then sat primly in the chair. Mr. Banno was marking notes all over the pages she'd brought.

Holding the magazine up so he couldn't see what she was doing, she slid a finger into her shirt, then her bra.

It wasn't easy to pull the cups down so that her nipples were bare under the shirt, but she managed it. When she was done, she took the magazine back to the coffee table.

"Finished," Mr. Banno said, holding out the marked-up papers and the folder.

And then he saw her.

His eyes went from her face right to her chest, where her heavy breasts jiggled with every step as she returned to him. The fabric of her shirt slid over her nipples, the stimulation turning them into hardened little peaks.

Maisie knew men were visual creatures. Give them the sight of an attractive woman who might be interested in sex, and it was difficult to get their attention on anything else.

Mr. Banno was attractive, successful, and wealthy. There was no way he didn't get as much pussy as he wanted.

But he probably wasn't used to women trying to seduce him at work.

"Will that be all?" she asked innocently.

Mr. Banno swallowed hard and looked toward the door. "Um, yes. Thank you, Maisie."

She felt his eyes caressing her ass as she walked out.

A smile of triumph made her cheeks ache. She held the papers in front of her chest until she'd fixed her bra.

"Type this up." Mrs. Donahue handed Maisie several stapled pages. The handwriting was different than before, sloppier. It wasn't from Mr. Banno.

Too bad.

In fact, the writing was so messy that she could barely decipher it. After a few minutes of valiant effort, she took it back to Mrs. Donahue, who put on her reading glasses.

After a moment, she said, "Nope, I can't read it." She removed the glasses. "Mr. Brennbach's handwriting is a bit of a disaster to begin with, and to make it worse, sometimes he writes while he's driving."

Maisie looked at the chicken scrawl and wrinkled her nose.

"You'll have to ask him to clarify what that says. Some of it you'll be able to figure out in context, but you'd better check on the name and the address."

A strangled sound escaped Maisie's throat, but one look at Mrs. Donahue's stern features and she knew better than to beg for a favor.

She trudged back to her desk and typed as much as she could, but there were several sentences she couldn't begin to guess at.

No getting around it—she'd have to go to Mr. Brennbach.

Unless she told Mrs. Donahue about what had happened on the street. But if she did... That might come off as gossiping. If Mrs. Donahue told another assistant... if it got around the office and Mr. Brennbach found out... disaster.

Girding herself, she set off to find the beast himself.

# 6

To Maisie's relief, Mr. Brennbach's secretary was at her battle station.

"Hi," Maisie said. "It's my first day, and I can't quite make out some of these words." She fanned the papers.

The assistant jerked her head at the door. "He's in."

"Um..." Maisie smiled and held the papers out. "I was thinking maybe you can read it?"

The assistant didn't quite roll her eyes. "I spend enough of my time trying to unscramble his scrawl. Enjoy!"

Her heart pounding in her throat, Maisie headed for the door. The assistant stopped her. "You can't just barge in there. Call first."

"Oh."

A phone sat on a table beside the door. Maisie pushed the button labeled _E. Brennbach_ and picked up the receiver. "Good afternoon," she said. She hoped she sounded professional and not like she was about to upchuck. "I'm outside your office. If you have a moment to spare, I'd like to—"

"Come in, and close the door behind you." He hung up.

Had he recognized her voice? No... he wouldn't. But by process of elimination, he might know it was her.

What if he'd been extra careless with his handwriting to force her to come down here? Maybe it was a trap.

The taste of shame in her mouth, she opened the door and walked into the lion's den.

Mr. Brennbach was watching when she entered. From the second she set foot in his office, she felt like she was on trial.

"Hi," she said, feeling stupid, then immediately pulled her gaze away from his face. She looked at everything except him, but his image was imprinted on her retinas: that flawless body, irresistible in a tailored suit, his thick hair perfect for a woman to dig her fingers into while she rode him hard. His face was a blur, though.

She swallowed and tried to focus on his office, with its classic dark wood furniture. The design was more modern than the other two, but not by much. Maybe it was a legal thing, she thought. Maybe clients expected classic sophistication. Bookcases lined the walls on either side of her. Intimidating-looking law books crowded their shelves. There was a wood filing cabinet, too.

"Where's the typed form?" he asked, his voice unnecessarily loud.

"On my computer." Where the hell else would it be?

He picked up a yellow legal pad and tossed it across the desk at her. Impatiently, he jerked his hand, beckoning her closer.

She practically ran across the room to hand the papers to him. "It's just the name and address, and the second paragraph under the notes section."

For some reason, her gaze jerked to his, and she found he was staring intently at her.

Instantly she was sinking into the gray depths of his eyes. She felt naked in front of him, like he could see all the naughty things she'd been thinking about doing to Mr. Banno.

Things she ached to do to him, too.

She wanted to lean across the desk to sniff him, to catch another whiff of that delicious aftershave.

He cleared his throat. She waited for him to say something... then realized he was expecting her to pick up the notepad and a pen.

Her fingers frantically grabbed out. She fumbled the pen but managed not to drop it on the floor.

"Elmore Rubins, Jr.," he said, and spelled out the last name.

She quickly wrote it down, and when he gave the address, she wrote that, too. Then he was quiet for so long that she looked up from the notepad.

"Let me ask you a question," he said.

Her heart skipped a beat, then pounded back to life, working overtime. Why was it so easy to lose herself in his eyes? She didn't want him to think she was gawking. Even though her eyes were locked on his, she couldn't help being aware of the two halves of his face, one smooth and handsome enough to make women swoon, the other stiff, pitiless and cold, to make women shriek.

He leaned back without releasing her from his stare. Her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara after a thousand-year drought.

Was he waiting for a response from her? Or was all this part of his punishment, to make her feel as small as she'd made him feel?

Eventually the silence stretched out for so long that she couldn't stand another second. "What's the question?" she blurted.

Her voice trembled. He had to have noticed. A little smile turned up one corner of his mouth—the unscarred side. The effect was frightening... like he wasn't intimidating enough, with his unblinking stare.

"What were you looking at?" he asked.

The fire of a rare blush shot across her cheeks and up her neck, like she'd bitten into a devilishly spicy chili pepper. Her face was so hot that she could feel blood throbbing in her temples and at the hinge of her jaw.

"I am so incredibly sorry about that—"

"This morning. What were you looking at that made you forget how to stand?"

The blush bloomed even hotter. "The building," she said quickly.

"Why?"

It wasn't a trick question, but her mind had gone blank. This morning? It might as well have been a year ago. "I don't know."

He seemed disappointed by her answer, but he didn't press any further. Picking up the papers, he said, "What else did you need help with?"

"The notes section," she managed to say. Was it the second paragraph or the third? That bit of information had also flown out of her head, but she couldn't make herself walk closer to him. "I can't remember which."

She wondered if people always lost their memories around Mr. Brennbach. He seemed to be short-circuiting her prefrontal cortex.

"Show me," he said.

Walking the few steps toward his desk was as difficult as if she'd tried to flap her arms and fly there. Yet, somehow, she managed it, probably only because she was staring at the papers and not into his arresting eyes.

The notes section lay flat on the desk. The index finger of his right hand rested on it.

Maybe it was her imagination, but it felt like an echo of what she'd done with Mr. Banno, when she'd pointed out the missing signature.

She didn't dare take the paper from him. Should she walk around?

Maybe, if she could meet his eyes, she'd understand what he wanted. _Today is a lesson in the importance of nonverbal communication_ , she thought. But actually, today was, above all, a lesson in humility.

She sucked the swell of her lower lip into her mouth and, exhaling slowly, leaned over the desk to take a better look at the notes section.

It was upside down. At the moment, she probably couldn't have read anything if the letters had been eight inches tall and right-side up.

Cooler air stirred over her chest, and she remembered that even though she had fixed her bra after tormenting Mr. Banno, she hadn't re-buttoned the top of her blouse. Was Mr. Brennbach looking down her shirt? Were his eyes caressing the fullness of her breasts while he imagined ripping away her clothing and exposing her?

The thought woke every dormant nerve in her body, and she became acutely aware of her pussy, which was wet—though she had no idea why or when that had happened. She'd made out with guys, long sexy sessions, yet had stayed bone dry. _Lick it before you stick it_ , because otherwise she never got wet enough. But now she could feel moisture seeping through her panties, dampening the insides of her thighs just under her sex.

"Maisie." His voice was so deep, the room seemed to vibrate with her name.

How could one word fill her with so much longing? "Sorry," she said, and had to stop to swallow hard. "The first few lines, I think."

"Make certain. Partners bill at $2,500 an hour. My time is valuable."

She squinted, bent deeper, and tried to focus. Now she could see the letters—or what Mr. Brennbach tried to pass off as letters. "The second paragraph," she said. "I'm sure of it."

She could have straightened up, but for some reason she felt like she was waiting for him to... to what?

To release her.

Remaining in place, she forced herself to look up. The sun coming in through the window made her squint, but she stared defiantly into Mr. Brennbach's eyes.

"I'm not Trent Banno," Mr. Brennbach said. "He thought about taking you across his knee and spanking you for your insolence, but then decided it would be prudent to restrain himself until after your probation."

"Spank me?" she asked, her mind reeling.

"That's correct," Mr. Brennbach said. "Trent felt you deserved a spanking, and after hearing how you behaved, I'm inclined to agree. If you continue to shove your tits in my face, I'll be obligated to take you in hand myself."

She flinched when he said the word _tits_ , but she held her uncomfortable position. She hated that word, and he'd noticed. __ "No need to be vulgar," she said.

"Keep flashing your tits and you'll see how vulgar I can be."

He wasn't laughing, wasn't even smiling.

He meant what he'd said.

# 7

Maisie's face was only eight inches from the desk's surface.

Her arms began to tremble, and she let her upper body sink another few inches. The desk reflected back her uncontrollable shallow breaths. She was drowning, right there in a room full of air.

But she wasn't going to stand straight. A smile tugged at her lips.

With pointed deliberation, Mr. Brennbach's gaze raked over her, pausing at her lips, then her neck, before settling on her partially exposed breasts. She could feel him, a hot phantom touch that she yearned to make real.

"Your _tits_ are still on my desk," he said, standing. "I warned you."

She gasped in surprise as his fingers closed around the back of her neck and forced her all the way down, until the side of her face was pressed onto the wood. His hand was warm, his grasp strong.

Now she couldn't move.

They'd crossed the point of no return. That much was clear, and she was a little afraid of what might happen next... and even more afraid of what would come after, when their sweat-dampened bodies lay spent on the torn pile of their clothing.

If she didn't stop this from happening, Mr. Brennbach might add "slut" to the list of reasons he hated her. Rude. Thoughtless. Slut.

That wasn't a particularly flattering picture.

Would he really want to fuck her if he hated her so much?

Stupid question. He was a guy, and he probably hadn't gotten laid in ages. Probably he was just really horny and desperate. Anyway, Mr. Banno had obviously told him about their earlier interactions. Pretending to be the kind of woman who wanted dinner and champagne first—that ship had sailed.

_Think of what will happen if you decide not to do this_ , she ordered herself. It wasn't easy.

If she stopped him, he'd think it was because of how he looked. Then his list of reasons would include "shallow."

And "cock tease." That would surely make the list.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other. No matter what she did, there was a good chance she'd feel bad about it later.

Might as well choose based on what _she_ wanted to do. She sighed happily.

"Stay." Mr. Brennbach released her and walked around his desk.

Ooh, she liked how he'd said it, how he'd known she would obey. She pressed her cheek and palms against the desk's warm surface.

One of his hands slapped her ass, then slid down to squeeze the soft, vulnerable skin of her inner thigh through her skirt.

He dug his fingers in deeper, making her whimper.

Then he was bending forward, grabbing her neck. There was that aftershave again, the swirl of bergamot and pine. She closed her eyes, letting it surround her. She felt like she was inhaling a drug, one that took her back to the most perfect five seconds of her life.

"Let me be clear," he said. "If you don't tell me to stop, I'm going to pull up your skirt, take down your panties, and discipline you for your brazen behavior."

A thrill ran the course of her body.

His grip on her neck and her thigh tightened. She felt like a high-strung mare about to be mounted by a stallion.

Yes, she could get away, but at what price? Was she willing to leave a piece of herself behind? Could she even truly get away? Because Mr. Brennbach's essence was inside her. His scent filled her lungs, and his power was like a cloak that wrapped around them both, binding her to him.

"I'm not a gentle lover," he said. "When I fuck you, I'll be claiming you as mine. This will never be a relationship. I will never fall in love with you."

She was stunned for a second, then insulted. But she said, "That's a relief. I'd hate to have to break your heart."

His response was an abrupt laugh. A moment later, his fingers relaxed on her thigh... only to slide down to her knee, then slowly caress higher again, this time under her skirt.

Her flesh trembled. Any second now, he would know how wet she was.

He would know it was because of him. For him.

"I just want us to be clear," he said, stroking a finger across her panty-covered slit. Electricity sang through her veins.

"We're clear," she snapped.

"I'll teach you manners," he said. "God knows someone needs to." The smugness in his voice only made her hotter.

She was panting like a dog, like a bitch in heat, she realized. She'd arched her back, pushing her hips toward him, pleading for his finger to slide her panties aside and plunge inside her channel.

Mr. Brennbach wrenched her torso up, forcing her to look at him. "I can't figure out your fetish. Rich men? Scars? You want the monster to ravish you?"

In the sunlight, the scarred half of his face looked like hard plastic, unfeeling, incapable of emotion.

Something caught in her throat. She struggled to move away from him, but he wasn't releasing her.

"If you don't want me to fuck you, you have to say that. You have to say, 'Mr. Brennbach, I don't want you to bend me over your desk and shove your cock into my cunt.' Actually, you can just say 'no sex' and that will be fine."

The silence was the loudest she'd ever heard, and then he laughed.

"Very well." He roughly turned her to the side and pushed her shoulders down. She propped her hands on her knees to avoid falling over. "Don't move," he said. "Don't even blink."

The heat of his body pulled away from her, and she became aware that he was opening his desk drawer. He closed it and opened another one. She couldn't imagine what he was searching for. Something to spank her with?

Then the sound of ripping foil reached her ears.

Followed by latex being stretched and rolled down. She hadn't even seen his cock. She'd done a lot of wild things in her life, but she'd never been fucked by a cock that she hadn't seen beforehand.

Maybe it, too, was deformed? But that didn't make sense—his scars were recent, and as far as she knew, confined to his face. After all, both his hands were smooth.

"From now on, you will do whatever I tell you to. You know what to say to make me stop. I will use you however I see fit. What do you think about that?"

_I will use you however I see fit_. It was like something from one of those forbidden romances she sometimes bought at newsstands, then skimmed quickly and furtively before introducing them to the nearest trash can... only to regret it at night, in the darkness and solitude of her bed.

He slapped her ass, and she gasped at his presumptuousness. He slapped her again. "I asked you a question."

"I think... I think you're a pervert."

His laugh filled the room. "In which case you like the idea of being used by a pervert. You think we'll be beauty and the beast."

"That's not true."

He clamped a hand over her mouth. "I could get a girlfriend if I tried?" He laughed.

She tried to protest, to explain that she'd meant it as a compliment, but it was impossible to speak.

No one had ever treated her like this before. Manhandling her. God, she fucking loved it, and even though she struggled mightily against him, she couldn't stop grinning, which he surely felt against his palm.

He straightened her just enough so that he could jerk her skirt up over her hips. Tight spasms had started pulsing rhythmically in her core, and her legs trembled with anticipation.

She couldn't help trying to rub her ass on him.

"Stop that." He took a short break from yanking down her panties to slap her ass.

Apparently liking the way she gasped and tried to wiggle free, he slapped her ass again and again, a quick tempo, the smacks screaming out, her skin warming under his attentions.

When he stopped, they were both panting. She was glad he couldn't see her expression.

"Open your legs so I can fuck you."

She almost died. Trembling with need, she slid her feet apart. His hard and surprisingly large tip prodded her slit.

She had never been so ready for fucking. As the unseen swollen head of his cock pressed into her entrance, she could hear the wetness between her legs. Wanting to make things difficult for him, she clenched her muscles.

But she couldn't keep him out, couldn't stop him from shoving his way in, and his insistence was even better than in her fantasies.

Only the tip of his cock was inside her, but he was so thick that there was no way he could easily slip out. He kept her upright.

Her body vibrated with anticipation.

"Be still," he ordered, sliding his hand from the back of her neck to the front of her throat, cradling her. The thin metal of the chain pressed against her skin. "I want you to be quiet. If you fake an orgasm or put on a show, I'll know, and I'll punish you. Move your hips."

Desperately, she began working her hips in a circle. He shoved forward, pressing another inch of his erection into her pussy. Oh, he was so thick.

She loved the way he'd taken control of her, of the situation. The way he knew exactly what he wanted was the ultimate turn-on. He was the opposite of the other guys she'd been with, who'd thought that when she asked for "rough sex" she just wanted her hair pulled a little. One guy had given her a decent spanking. After, he'd been unable to meet her eyes. It had been like a bucket of ice water thrown in her face.

But the fire hadn't been extinguished. It had kept smoldering just below the surface.

Mr. Brennbach had barely touched her, yet his control was absolute. This was what she'd been craving, one of those heroes she'd fantasized about coming to life.

He didn't look the part. Not at all. But she was addicted nonetheless.

# 8

With Mr. Brennbach's hands over her mouth and across her neck, she felt cradled. Just like earlier, when he'd caught her on the street.

Except now, the only danger was Mr. Brennbach himself.

He thrust his hips, skewering her on his cock and making her whimper. She couldn't know for sure without looking, but the heavy fullness inside her and the uncomfortable stretching of her entrance suggested he was the largest man she'd ever been with.

And that thrilled her even more.

Her moans were stifled by his palm, but keeping quiet was impossible. His girth was slick inside her, thank goodness, or he would have ripped her apart.

"Is this what you came here for?" he growled in her ear. "Are you happy now?"

She couldn't help laughing. The pressure of his palm, which was wet from her mouth, pressed her lips against her teeth.

She inhaled through her nose. Oh god, she loved the way he smelled. Was it simple association, because he'd caught her—saved her from injury and humiliation? Or was it some primal chemistry thing?

Either way, she was powerless against it.

He walked them both forward, and she found herself leaning on the desk again, her palms flat on the cool, smooth surface as she arched her back, bracing for more fucking.

His cock was shoved deep inside her. She missed his hand over her mouth, and she wished he would start thrusting. She wished he'd figure out why she had a clit.

What she got instead was a finger in her ass.

Her eyes and mouth flew open. "What are you doing?"

"Shut up." As large as his finger was, it was still smaller than a cock—and much smaller than _his_ cock. He finger-fucked her ass.

"That's not doing anything for me," she gasped, briefly squeezing her eyes closed. The intrusion felt good, but also too intimate.

"Liar. I'm inside you. I can feel your wet little pussy begging for more."

_What an arrogant asshole_ , she thought, but she couldn't deny the inappropriate rush of pleasure and the accompanying heat coiling in her pussy, which was stuffed full with his unmoving cock.

She started to get up.

He pushed her back into position and held her there, his hand rudely against the side of her face. "Do you want me to take my cock away? I could walk into any bar in the city and pick up a dozen women just like you."

He moved his hand, and she tried to bite him. Laughing, he evaded her teeth and walloped her ass so hard that her foot kicked up. "Answer my question. Shall I go find some other easy piece of ass to sink my dick into?"

"No," she spat. "Having hate-sex with you is better than photocopying."

"You don't know me well enough to hate me. Not yet, but you will. And this? It's coming out of your break time."

"Bastard," she hissed.

He laughed hard, his body shaking, and hers, too, because of all the ways he was inside her.

Mr. Brennbach fucked her nice and slow.

She had never been so close to orgasming from so little clitoral stimulation.

With each press of his hand, her entire body flattened against the table.

He picked up speed. Her pussy spasmed and squeezed him, but she wasn't coming. Not yet. She would need more.

Three fingers tunneled painfully into her ass and began ramming insistently.

After a moment, she gave in, arched her back, and allowed him to stretch her hole. He was going to do it anyway. She got even wetter.

He groaned, and his body went stiff. His demands, his orgasm, and the swelling of his cock almost sent her over the edge.

But in the end, it didn't.

She relaxed against the table. Her cheeks and forehead were damp with perspiration.

Her boss reached down, between their bodies, then he was pulling out of both holes. Whimpering, she glanced back just as he was turning away, the spent condom in his hand.

"Don't move," he said.

She wondered if she should tell him that she hadn't gotten off. Or maybe he knew he'd failed, and she'd only be embarrassing him further?

He pushed onto the side of the bookcase, and it swung out. From her current position leaning over the desk, there was no hope of seeing what lay on the other side, but a moment later she heard water running.

When he came back out, he was completely put back together—cock away, hair damp and slicked away from his face, tie nice and straight.

Apparently, he'd gotten his, and now he was finished.

Irritated, she started to push away from the desk, but Mr. Brennbach stopped her with a single word. "No."

His cell phone buzzed. He looked at it, then picked up his office phone and pushed a button. A moment later, he said, "Raphael's in the building. Apparently it didn't go well. Grab him and come right to my office."

He hung up.

"Um, excuse me," she said. "I'm sure this is fun for you, but I don't need everyone seeing my bare pussy."

He leaned on the edge of the desk, and his hand came to rest on her head, covering her jaw and neck. She could smell that scent again. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she so undone by him?

"It won't be everyone," he said. "Only Trent and Raphael."

Trent was Mr. Banno; she knew that. "Who is Raphael?"

"The first one you tried to seduce," he said, and her heart stopped beating.

She didn't have time to argue with him, because a moment later the door opened.

Mr. Brennbach's touch on her head grew firmer. She became aware of how exposed she was, her fluids drying on her pussy and thighs, her skirt hiked over her hips, and Mr. Brennbach holding her in this submissive position.

The door closed, rather loudly, it seemed.

No one said anything. Maisie shifted her weight in her shoes, trying to keep her toes and the arches of her feet from cramping.

"What the hell, Ethan."

Maisie was pretty sure Mr. Banno was the one who had spoken.

"Friends, this is the new submissive."

Maisie's heart leapt in her chest.

Someone groaned. "You've got to be kidding."

Mr. Brennbach—Ethan—did something that caused his hold on her to lighten, just for a moment. She could have squirmed free... if she'd wanted.

"Hands behind your back," he said. He yanked up her panties somewhat. She couldn't see, but she could feel the elastic's weird angle, and the fabric was bunched unevenly.

Slowly, she pulled her hands back. Her palms were sweaty, and one of them made a high-pitched squeak as she dragged it down the desk. She had to rock her torso to turn her arms around.

Ethan grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the small of her back. Instantly, she felt herself getting wet again.

"Goddamn," a breathless male voice said. Then Mr. Lattimore's face was beside hers. "Are you ok?" he asked.

She nodded and bit back a smile. "More than ok."

His eyes searched hers, and she saw hunger there, the desire to believe her. "You know there are three of us, right?"

_Oh god._ She hadn't thought of it like that, hadn't known if Ethan was going to merely humiliate her or what, but now she was starting to get the picture.

The smile broke through. "Really, I've never been better."

It seemed to put his fears at ease, because the little crease between his eyebrows abated some. Then it reappeared. "Have you ever done this sort of thing—"

"Relax, Raphael," Ethan said. "There were developments in Trent's office that you don't know about."

Raphael straightened. She turned her head a little but was only able to see from his elbows down. She could see Mr. Banno—Trent—too. Or part of him, at least.

Then Trent turned his body slightly to the side, and she caught an eyeful of the enormous hardened bulge she'd only glimpsed earlier.

Dear god.

Trent was fucking huge.

Her mouth was watering so much that she had to swallow.

Raphael was scrawling something on Ethan's legal pad. His pen loudly scraped across the page, which he then ripped out and placed on the desk beside her. "Sign this."

She read the hastily composed lines—not an easy feat given her position. It was a non-disclosure agreement with some liability release wordage. Ethan released one of her wrists, and she signed as best she could.

"Even I know that won't hold up in court," she said as Ethan roughly pulled her arm back.

Raphael picked up the paper and folded it in half. "Don't be so sure."

"I'm not going to sue you. Anyway, I heard you never lose, so what would be the point?" She said the last bit in a resigned tone, and to her delight, they laughed.

Even Ethan.

The tension in the room dissipated.

"Let's see her," Raphael said, and joy quickened her pulse.

Ethan relaxed his grip on her wrists. He slid his hand under her shoulder and brought her vertical.

She was still facing the desk, the back of the office. The skirt was still bunched up over her hips.

Looking down, she saw that her twisted panties cut a line across the swollen, delicate mound of her pussy. One of her lips was gently pinched beneath the elastic and held open, revealing a flash of deeper color and the pale pink tip of her clit.

When Ethan turned her around, a thrill of anticipation hummed through her veins.

And when Trent and Raphael saw her...

The expressions on their faces, the surprise and instant desire, made for a deeply satisfying moment. It was even better than when she imagined running into that nasty Heather, when Maisie would introduce her obviously recognizable A-list celebrity boyfriend and flash the gargantuan rock on her ring finger.

But unlike _that_ fantasy, this one was actually happening.

She met Trent's eyes. His surprise had given way to something far more enticing.

Dominance.

Trent's gaze pinned her in place as he yanked off his tie. She swallowed as he approached her. "We'll have to play with you later," he said hoarsely, pulling her arms forward.

Her fingers accidentally trailed across her pussy, and she gasped and shuddered.

"Damn, Ethan," Raphael said. "You didn't let her come?"

_Let_ her come? What was that about?

Ethan shrugged. "She didn't earn it, and you know how I feel about setting a good precedent."

# 9

Trent slowly dragged his thumb across her chin and lower lip.

Up close, she had to admit that he was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. He should have been an action hero, not a lawyer; cast him in a movie, and she'd be there for every single showing.

He used his tie to quickly and efficiently bind her wrists.

"You're going to wait over here," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders and steering her toward the credenza. "Stand quietly. We have business to discuss." Trent's tone was detached and professional. The warmth of earlier had completely vanished.

"Can I take off my shoes?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course," Raphael said.

But then Trent said, "No, and I'll explain why later, Raphael. You've missed a lot."

"Apparently." Raphael sounded irritated.

Pouting, Maisie bent her bound arms and brought them up so the men could appreciate her disheveled clothing and the scandalous state of her pussy.

But the bastards weren't paying the least bit of attention.

In fact, Raphael was walking out.

She wondered if they'd done this with other women in the company. Obviously they'd shared a woman before if she was their "new submissive." What Ethan had said—about Trent wanting to wait until her probation was over...

That suggested she wasn't the first.

How was she going to find out more without "gossiping," she wondered.

The thought started as a tiny seed, but it burrowed into her self-esteem. Really, what did it matter? She didn't have any illusions that this was anything more than sex. She liked all three of the men well enough—to fuck.

But she didn't know them, didn't know the first thing about them.

Other than that they were hot.

And rich.

And dominant.

And very naughty bosses.

_New submissive._ Hm.

Ethan opened a drawer in his filing cabinet. He pulled out a thick accordion file and started to hand it to Trent, then paused. "I'm assuming Raphael updated you on the Ballystock case?"

A dark look crossed Trent's face. "My gut says that if Davina goes back to her husband again, it's over. He'll kill her rather than let her go."

The door opened and Raphael entered, carrying an elegant briefcase. At that moment, he looked like a model-wannabe-actor trying out for the role of hotshot young attorney. Maisie snickered.

All three men looked at her.

"No offense, Maisie, but..." Raphael turned toward Ethan. "I don't think she should be here."

"Lock the door," Ethan said.

He walked toward Maisie, his gaze intense. She realized that she hadn't thought about his scars for the last fifteen minutes, but now there was no avoiding them, not when he was so close and facing her. His hand gently touched her cheek. "You've signed papers that legally bind you to silence."

"I have," she said. She glanced at Raphael, who seemed uncomfortable. "And I understand why you're hesitant. In fact... I think... Honestly, I think it's better if I leave. You don't know me, and you don't know if I'm trustworthy."

And if something bad happened, she didn't want to get blamed.

"Actually, we do know you," Ethan said. "Trent had one of our investigators dig into your past. We had to be sure you weren't sent here by another firm, to spy."

"People do that?" she asked.

"Some do," Raphael said. The way his grip tightened on his briefcase, Maisie wondered if he meant Mr. Ballystock's lawyer, the one who'd tricked them into poring over the transcripts.

"Maisie." Ethan stroked one of her curls, then dipped his fingers into her hair. He held her face in both hands and stared into her eyes.

Her bound forearms brushed against his body, and she could feel his erection on the back of her hand—just for a moment, but it inflamed her need.

"What were you looking at this morning?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

"Nothing," she said. "I was trying to see the top of the building."

"Why?"

"Because... I wondered if it was possible to see the office from the street, and I was running early."

"Is that the only reason?"

She nodded. "I guess I was savoring the moment. You know by now that my last job wasn't very glamorous. Even though I'm just one of several executive assistants here, this is still a step up for me." She stopped short of mentioning Heather.

"Ok," he said. "It's just that I'd never seen anyone so interested in a skyscraper before. You were oblivious. I knew you were going to fall."

And then he kissed her.

He tasted faintly of coffee, and his lips, at first gentle, became insistent as the attraction between them turned electric.

Maisie heard a click, someone locking the door.

She wanted to bring her hands up, to throw her arms around Mr. Brennbach—Ethan. His cock having been inside her meant he was Ethan, and his kiss especially meant it.

She was aware of the right side of his face. His lips were a little firmer on that side, and maybe the skin was a touch cooler.

He ended the kiss, then turned away from her. "I trust her," he said.

"I do, too," Trent said. He winked at Maisie. "Our investigators are very good at what they do."

Raphael shrugged. "I had to bring it up," he said apologetically. "Mrs. Ballystock's situation is sensitive, and her husband is playing dirty."

God, it was impossible to reconcile this guarded man with the wild guitar player in the photo.

She nodded and tried to act like she didn't care if they sent her away or not, but she was starting to become curious. These men didn't seem like much fazed them, but they were on edge.

So was she; the shoes were killing her.

With a little moan, she shifted her weight to her left foot and raised the right one, giving it a respite. Oooh, that felt so much better. She switched up.

"Stop that," Trent said. "You're too damned fidgety. You can move once every sixty seconds." He pointed at the clock, then turned to the desk, where Raphael was unloading the contents of his briefcase.

"What's this?" Ethan growled.

He ripped an 8x10 photo from Raphael's hand.

"What it looks like." Raphael finished transferring out what he needed, and he closed the briefcase and set it on the floor. "Norm is still stalking her."

"Davina Ballystock gave this to you?" Ethan asked.

Raphael shook his head. "No, Norm did. He claims someone mailed it anonymously to his house, but come on. He's only been living there for a few weeks. Look at it. The angles, the framing, it's all identical to the earlier photos. He's still stalking her, and he wants her to know it. He thinks his money will protect him."

"How is Davina taking it?" Ethan asked, studying the picture, and Raphael shrugged in lieu of an answer.

"We knew she'd never press charges or take out a restraining order." Trent had leaned against the desk. His shoulders hunched forward as he frowned at the floor. "Maybe we should have handled this through—"

"No," Ethan said sharply. He and Trent immediately looked at Maisie.

She jerked her eyes away, but the men weren't stupid; they had to know she'd been paying attention.

She cleared her throat. She was aware that she was half-naked and might as well have been chained to her spot near the credenza. "I heard the deposition, and I know the housekeeper is afraid for her life. There must have been fifteen different incidents that she was asked about. Detailed incidents. And she couldn't remember a single one."

When she stopped speaking, the room was completely silent.

"You can trust me," she said. "That's all I meant."

They didn't say a word.

She should have kept her damned mouth shut. She found herself shifting her weight from side to side.

Trent crossed the room. He gathered up a handful of her curls and pulled her head back. "I told you once per minute," he said, "and you're dancing around like you're at a club. On your knees."

He didn't push her, but he certainly helped her into position. He was a little rough. It hurt a bit.

She didn't mind at all.

His cock hadn't still been hard, but within seconds it was pushing at the front of his pants. "I need someone's tie," he said. When he got one—blue, Ethan's—he wadded it up and shoved it in her mouth. "Quiet," he said. "Stay quiet."

The tie smelled of Ethan. She wanted to work her fingers free and soothe her neglected pussy, but that would count as movement; she didn't dare.

Her bosses were crowded together, talking in hushed tones. In less than a minute, they'd reached some kind of agreement.

Maisie didn't know what it was, but clearly they'd discussed this before and had a contingency plan in place.

Ethan looked over at her. "Maisie," he said with a smile. "How would you like to stay at the Beaumont tonight?"

Gagged and unable to speak, she nodded enthusiastically.

A night in an expensive hotel with her three bosses? What could be better?

# 10

Maisie finished blow-drying her hair, then padded into the ornate and unfamiliar bedroom, where yesterday's clothes hung in the closet. It was a luxurious three-room suite, and she had the smaller of the two bedrooms.

Mrs. Davina Ballystock had the other room.

Knocking came from the main door.

"Great," Maisie muttered. Davina had probably woken up and immediately ordered room service again. Last night, the feisty woman had kept a steady procession of champagne flowing.

At first Maisie had been happy to get buzzed; going to the Beaumont to babysit a client was not what she'd thought she was signing up for.

But Davina had kept drinking. And drinking. She had a frat boy's tolerance. Eventually she'd fallen asleep, and Maisie had roused her long enough to drag her to bed.

The knocking came again.

"Who is it?" Maisie called out as she started across the room.

"Trent."

She smiled at the sound of his deep voice. Regretting the big fluffy robe that protected her modesty a little too well, she practically skipped over to let him in.

"Good morning," she said. She couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop remembering him forcing her to her knees, his hands stuffing the tie into her mouth. "Are the others coming?"

He shook his head. "They're at the office, but I thought I'd bring by a few things to make your stay more comfortable."

He stepped aside, and a porter bearing three overflowing bags came into view. The porter briskly entered the suite and went to her bedroom, where he began arranging the clothes on hangers.

"Whatever doesn't fit, put to the side, and we'll see that it goes back to the store," Trent said.

She frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Think of it as a little extra payment for your trouble."

Smiling, Maisie made a point of looking around the lavish suite. "This is no trouble, Trent. Really. If anything, I should be paying you."

He shook his head. "No. And you won't be in the office today. Whatever Davina wants, you agree to, but you're not to let her out of your sight. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, but her smile faded.

"It's just for today. Her niece is flying into town this evening, and she'll take over."

Maisie nodded. They'd explained it all to her the night before. She'd been disappointed, to say the least. Ethan had sternly reminded her that taking care of clients was part of her job, and at the moment, Davina needed a little extra help.

But now Maisie was banned from the office? It didn't seem fair.

Before actually meeting Davina, Maisie had imagined her as a frail thing. The Ballystock's former housekeeper had sounded so small, so fragile, and Maisie had assumed Davina was also easily cowed.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Davina was several inches taller than Maisie, and about forty pounds heavier.

There was nothing about her that shouted _victim_ , which Maisie supposed she might want to take as a life lesson. _Never assume_.

By noon, Davina still hadn't gotten up, so Maisie cautiously knocked on her door.

"Come in," Davina said.

Maisie opened the door and found her sitting up in bed, a rumple of expensive sheets and pillows around her and a sleep mask pushed high on her forehead. Her eyes were swollen, the whites almost as red as her frizzy hair.

"What's wrong?" Maisie asked as she entered.

"I miss him." In the light of day, Davina looked every one of her forty-four years. "I know I shouldn't. He's a jerk, and he cheated on me, but..."

_Oh, no._ She'd known Davina was repressing her true feelings last night, but she'd assumed it was anger, not sadness.

"One second." Maisie darted into the bathroom to snatch handfuls of tissues from the ceramic dispenser.

Davina loudly blew her nose, and Maisie took a fresh bottle of water from the minibar, unscrewed the top, and handed it to the distraught client.

With a body-wracking sob, Davina shook her head. "It's so dumb, but I want him back. I want my old life back. At the beginning, he was so sweet, Maisie. Everyone thought he was charming."

"I've heard that controlling men are like that at the beginning, but they can't keep up the charade."

Davina shook her head harder. "Norman was a sweetheart the first year. It wasn't a charade. But after his partner defrauded the company and left him to deal with the fallout, he changed. He said such awful things. I never cared about the money, you know."

She buried her face in the tissue and blew her nose again. Maisie wasn't sure what to say or do, so she just waited.

Davina's phone vibrated. She didn't seem inclined to answer it.

Then Maisie's phone rang in the other room.

It was Raphael. "Hi," he said. He sounded a little out of breath, like he'd been running. "Bring Mrs. Ballystock to the courthouse immediately."

"Ok," she said. "Where, exactly?"

"It's ten minutes from the hotel. I'll text the address. Actually, I'll have a taxi waiting. Make sure you wear something conservative."

Maisie looked down at the short-sleeved floral dress she'd chosen. The skirt was joyfully puffy and barely reached her knees. "I will," she said.

"Be there in fifteen minutes or less."

# 11

Getting Davina out the door in under five minutes was almost impossible, but Maisie somehow managed, and she'd pulled a tailored black jacket on over the dress and fastened the single oversized button in the middle. Now it was office appropriate, though not exactly conservative.

If Raphael complained, she would point out that she'd figured making the deadline was the most important of his orders.

Davina had pulled her hair up into a bun and wrapped a green silk scarf around it. She'd painted her lips crimson red, and she slid dark sunglasses over her eyes while they climbed into the taxi. If Maisie had tried that combo, she'd have been laughed off the street. Some things only rich women could pull off.

Trent and Raphael were waiting on the steps of the courthouse, an austere grayish building that was nevertheless stately. Pigeons strutted around, pecking at the stained concrete. A parade of well-dressed people was entering and exiting, the women stylish, the men impeccably groomed.

"Hold my hand," Davina said, pulling Maisie's arm through hers as they began climbing the steps. Maisie didn't mind. She needed something to distract her from the flutter of nervousness in her stomach.

She'd never been to court, but she was willing to bet Heather hadn't, either. She also knew Heather couldn't possibly have such handsome bosses. Trent and Raphael were freshly shaved, dressed for court in dark suits. Maisie had to keep stealing glances because it was too overwhelming.

"Where's Ethan?" she asked as she reached them.

"At the office," Trent said, distracted. "Sorry to do this, Maisie, but that particular dress won't work. Not for this judge. She's extremely conservative." He headed into the building, his hand on Davina's shoulder.

Maisie looked at Raphael for instructions. His hair was neat and combed away from his face; she never would have known it was a little on the long side. He still looked hot, though.

His brow furrowed. "There's not much seating outside the courtrooms."

She started to speak, but a truck honked loudly. "No, it's—" The truck honked again. "It's ok. I understand. I'll just wait out here."

Pigeons suddenly flew up from the steps in an explosion of thudding wings and loose feathers. Maisie ducked even though there was no danger of them hitting her.

"Actually," she said, "can I go to the office?"

Raphael looked like he wanted to deny her request, but he surprised her by saying, "I don't see why not, but keep your phone close. You can take Trent's car and driver." He gestured at a sleek black sedan idling at the curb.

During the ride to the office, Maisie checked and rechecked her makeup. She was dying to talk to Ethan, to find out why Davina was needed so suddenly.

But mostly, she wanted to see him, to assure herself that he was real. Trent and Raphael had acted like she was just any other employee, and Maisie was starting to feel like she'd imagined yesterday's sexy goings-on.

Mrs. Donahue intercepted her in the hallway. "I need you to take care of the paperwork you were assigned. If you can't handle it—"

"I can handle it," she said, irritated.

Because Mrs. Donahue was watching, she went to her desk instead of Ethan's office. She figured she'd drop off the purse, then go find him, but when she saw the stacks of folders, a panicky feeling gripped her. Why hadn't the partners told Mrs. Donahue to stop piling on the work? Surely she knew what was happening, or Maisie would have been screamed at for being gone half the day.

She flipped through the folders until she found something requiring Ethan's signature. It took a couple of minutes to fill out the form and print the final copy, and then she was heading down to his office, her feet practically flying.

His assistant must have stepped away, and his door was closed.

Maisie picked up the phone to call him, but then the door jerked open.

Jayne came barreling out, her jaw set, her eyes narrowed. Maisie wasn't sure she'd ever seen someone so mad that they'd clenched their fists.

"Jayne—" Ethan came to the door. He looked anguished. "Goddamn it," he growled under his breath.

He was so tall, his shoulders so broad. Her heart pounded. Today the scarred side of his face wasn't as shocking, maybe because she'd expected it. When his expression was neutral, it was far less noticeable in general.

She remembered how his cock had felt, how thick it was, and a silken tremor ran through her pussy. She wanted more of that. Needed it.

Did he even know she was there? "Hi," Maisie said, feeling uncomfortable.

His dismissive glance said he knew, but he didn't care.

Maisie held out the paper. "Um, this is for you."

He took it without looking at it. "Thanks."

Then he disappeared into his office and closed the door.

Maisie blinked slowly several times. What the hell?

Heart heavy, she trudged back to her desk. Suddenly she didn't feel so pretty. If anything, the dress was too froufrou, too restrictive, and it wasn't her style at all. She was Maisie Novau. She was a panther, not a flowery powder puff.

She slumped into her chair and began to tackle the paperwork.

Yeah, now she knew the real reason why LB&B needed to pay so much. They expected you to give them control of everything in your life—and she didn't mean the sex. They'd _made_ her babysit Davina last night and all morning, but the rest of her work kept increasing. And, yeah, the clothes had been a nice touch, but would it have killed Ethan to thank her for dropping everything on short notice yesterday?

She wondered what the corporate speaker had suggested to improve Ethan's management skills. A personality transplant, maybe.

She sorted the work by type, then eyed the towering piles. It would take at least ten hours to get it all done.

And if that wasn't bad enough, she sliced her thumb.

A bright drop of blood welled up, then trickled down the side of her hand. Another drop quickly replaced it.

"Shit," she mumbled. She didn't have any tissues in her purse, and her desk was mostly empty—except for the files on the top, of course.

Holding her hand up, she speed-walked to the closest bathroom. Someone was in one of the stalls.

Maisie turned on the water and held her hand under the faucet, then washed with soap. The bleeding had stopped, but she still wrapped her thumb in a paper towel and applied pressure to the wound.

The stall door opened, and Jayne came out, looking radiant, her hair twisted in a high bun that accentuated her eyes and cheekbones. She'd certainly pulled herself together.

They exchanged perfunctory hellos. Maisie checked her thumb and the towel. No blood. But she needed a moment to herself, to process everything that had happened, and soon Jayne would be gone.

Except... Jayne wasn't leaving.

Maisie tossed her head back, trying to get her hair out of her face without using her hands. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Jayne said.

"About law school. I'm just thinking about my future, and maybe I want to be a lawyer. Do you like it?"

Jayne huffed out a laugh. "That is _not_ what I thought you were going to ask," she said. "Most new employees want the story on Ethan's face. But if you'd rather have career advice..."

She trailed off. It was clearly an invitation.

Oh, Maisie was tempted, but she thought about sour Mrs. Donahue tattling to Ethan—maybe he was again Mr. Brennbach to her.

"It's not really any of my business," she said.

That made Jayne laugh. "Either you've found out already, or you don't appreciate a good piece of gossip. I'm guessing someone told you. I didn't see it happen, but Ethan's my hero. Very sexy. Um, in a platonic way, of course," she added quickly.

Now it was killing Maisie. She had to literally bite her tongue to keep from blurting out, _Please tell me, for fuck's sake, tell me right now!_

Jayne crossed her arms and leaned against the marble water basin. "Being a lawyer is great, but it's a boys' club. Look at this place. Three founding partners, all male."

"Oh," Maisie said. "They passed you over?"

"Well, not me. I'm only a third-year associate. But, I mean, come on. It's not like when my father started his firm, and there weren't many women. These guys surely know plenty of female lawyers, yet when they decided to start their firm, they made a good old boys' club."

Maisie guessed Jayne didn't know about the whole dominating and gang-banging women aspect of their relationship. The partners clearly shared more than most men did.

"Are you thinking of quitting?" she asked.

"No," Jayne said, almost sullenly. "I was this close today, though. It's cutthroat getting cases here. I could spend my entire career doing prep work for hearings. You know, I don't even blame the guys. They've been friends since high school, so I guess they get a pass. Mrs. Donahue is the problem. Ever since the incident, she's untouchable. They let her run things however she pleases."

"What incident?"

Jayne gave her a funny look. "She was next to Ethan when it happened. I would love to get her fired. She tries to get me taken off of everything. I've got five cases, Marnie. Five."

"Maisie." She wondered what would happen if Jayne figured out that Mrs. Donahue showed up to work drunk.

"Maisie. Sorry. Maisie." She shook her head angrily. "There was a case that came in recently. Stupid—some guy ran a red light, somehow noticed the traffic cam as he was zooming past it, then went back and beat it into a million pieces with a hockey stick. The only reason he's our client is because I saw it on the local news, and I suggested we represent him, pro bono, for exposure. Which Ethan backed me on. He complimented my ambition. The decent thing would have been to give me the client, right?"

Maisie struggled but failed to keep her expression neutral. Jayne didn't seem to notice.

"But did he do that? No. Raphael took it. Raphael is Mr. Lattimore," she explained. "It doesn't make sense. Why the hell does he even want it? But they're such control freaks. The year I started, there were twenty other people with me, but only a handful of us are still here. So, right now? I wish I'd become a veterinarian. At least when you've got your arm buried to the shoulder in a cow's ass, you don't have to wonder why everything smells like shit."

Maisie nodded and made sympathetic noises. "Frustrating."

"Really, I'm sorry about getting your name wrong." Her smile was genuine. "Thanks for letting me vent. It's just that I expected this from Mrs. Donahue, but if the partners are freezing me out..." She shook her head. "Let me shut up. So, Maisie"—she emphasized the second syllable to prove that she'd gotten the name correct—"how about I take you to lunch sometime soon, and I can give you some useful advice?"

Maisie nodded.

Then Jayne was gone, leaving Maisie to stew in her own guilt.

# 12

Maisie kept looking at her cell phone, waiting for Trent or Raphael to call. In the hours since she'd arrived at the office, she had cleared a third of the folders off her desk, and so far, no new ones had been added.

No new paper cuts, either.

She opened the next folder, yawned, and ran her fingers through her hair.

The woman with the beehive hairdo walked by. She ignored Maisie as she headed for Mrs. Donahue's desk.

Maisie was just about to get up to stretch her legs when Ethan glided out of the hallway. "I need you," he said impatiently.

There wasn't any secret meaning to his words, and not an ounce of tenderness in the way he'd said them. She'd lain awake in the strange hotel, thinking about all her bosses and Ethan in particular, wondering where he was and what he was doing. What his bedroom looked like. If he was thinking of her, too.

Obviously he hadn't been... but that made her want him even more.

She forced herself to stand like a sane person and not jump to her feet like a lovelorn schoolgirl.

He'd walked off in the direction of the elevators, not his office. Confused, she glanced around and found that the beehive woman and Mrs. Donahue were both watching. Maisie closed the open folder on her desk, then hurried after him.

"You were with Davina all night, correct?" he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.

"Y-yes," she said. She could smell his aftershave, and heat pulsed in her core.

"Did she go out?" He pushed the emergency stop button, and the elevator slid to a smooth halt.

Frowning, Maisie shook her head. "Definitely not. Why?"

"Mr. Ballystock was supposed to meet his brother for a racquetball game last night. His brother, the assistant chief of police." His voice became tense. "I just got a call—it seems he's already investigating. You're her alibi."

Coldness washed over Maisie, and her mouth went dry.

Ethan was staring into her eyes. He knew that she'd put it together. "You set me up," she whispered.

He shook his head to dismiss that. "It was an accident."

A little cry burst from her throat, and she took a step back. The hardness in Ethan's eyes turned to surprise.

"Maisie, you don't think..." He laughed uncomfortably. "He's not dead. We were able to... persuade... him to leave town. We didn't realize he'd try to disappear completely. But it looks bad. If something happens to him before the divorce is final, his wife inherits everything."

"He's alive?"

"We didn't hurt him. I swear it." He held her gaze. It seemed, she thought, that he felt it important for her to believe him.

And... she did. "Ok," she said, and let out a trembling breath.

"Good." He pushed the emergency button again, and the elevator resumed moving. When the doors slid open so more people could get on, he said coldly, "Get out."

"What?"

His expression was like marble, and for once, both sides of his face matched. "Get out," he said.

The two people who'd just gotten on the elevator looked nervously away, pretending not to hear. "I'm going to buy myself a cheese danish, and I don't need you for that. Wait in my office."

He flung out an arm to stop the door from closing. Head bowed, Maisie stepped out.

She turned to ask what she'd done wrong, to ask why he suddenly hated her so much, and discovered his gaze was locked on her. Was that a flicker of arousal in his gray eyes?

_Wait in my office._

She smiled.

Twenty minutes later, she was still waiting. She timed it in her mind... taking the elevator to the lobby, going to the deli, waiting in line... He should have been back five minutes ago.

The door opened, and Maisie practically jumped to her feet. Her jacket, which she'd been holding on her lap, slipped to the floor.

Flustered, she dipped down to grab it.

When she looked up, she found herself staring at Ethan's shocked assistant. "No one is allowed in here alone."

Maisie felt her mouth open, but no words came out. "I..." she whispered.

"Stella, in fifteen minutes or so, could you give Mrs. Donahue a hand with collecting yesterday's summaries from the other office?" Ethan handed her a small paper bag. "Blueberry," he said, and his assistant beamed.

He closed the door after her.

Maisie twisted the jacket in her hands. Her heart was racing. Now that they were alone, Ethan seemed too large, too intimidating.

"Strip," he said. "Everything except your shoes."

He went to his desk and picked up the phone. "Stella," he said. "Hold my calls. When Raphael and Trent get here, send them right in."

He hung up. "You're still dressed." He leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms. "Strip, Maisie. Slowly."

Giddy with relief, Maisie turned and dropped the jacket onto the sofa. She unzipped the dress and let it skim down her body, slowly uncovering her curves. When she glanced over at Ethan, she saw that his attention was fixed on the skin she'd just revealed.

Her ankle wobbled as she stepped out of the dress, and for a moment the heel of her shoe caught in the hem. Her pulse doubled while she gracelessly got everything under control, but she didn't fall, and she didn't punch a hole through the beautiful garment.

She couldn't help looking at Ethan again once she was standing straight. He raised an eyebrow.

With a teasing smile, she ran her fingers over the exposed mounds of her breasts, then into the silky material of her bra. Her shoulders curled forward, and she slid a finger under one of the satiny bra straps.

"Stop there." He whipped off his tie, the movement fluid.

She trembled as he approached her. Now that he was closer, the imperfections in his face were more difficult to ignore. The first chance she got, she planned to pump Jayne for information.

"Go ahead and stare," he said.

"I wasn't..." The heat of a blush scalded her cheeks. "I didn't mean to..."

His arm snaked out and he caught her wrist. Slowly, eyes fastened on hers, he raised her hand and pressed her fingers against the right side of his face.

The skin was thicker there, denser. Her breath caught.

"I'm sorry," she said, pushing the words through the lump in her throat. "I never meant to offend you."

Something flared in his eyes, and if he hadn't been holding her, she might have pulled away. "I wasn't offended, but you have a lot to learn about tact."

He released her.

She didn't immediately lower her arm, but then he did it for her, catching her wrists together and forcing them to the small of her back.

The position lifted her breasts proudly into the air, and Ethan had stepped closer to her. Even though they weren't touching except in a few places, she could feel the heat of his body on the naked skin of her thighs and stomach.

Staring into his eyes felt dangerous. From what she'd observed, he was a man of logic, a linear thinker.

But what she felt? There was a volatility in him. Like now, a few seconds after letting her touch him, the coldness in his eyes was absolute. She didn't like the way he could turn it on and off.

It made her afraid.

Tightening his grip on her wrists, he brought her toward him, pulling her into the solidity of his body and that addictive hardness. She ached to feel him inside her again. Because as much as he scared her, she didn't want to stay away.

She didn't think she could.

He turned them both, a quick dance step, then quickly released her hands and pinned her body to the wall with his. She trembled against him, her hips straining forward, wanting his cock.

"Your training begins now," he said.

Then he wrapped his tie around her head, covering her eyes.

Her little whimper of surprise sounded especially loud now that she couldn't see anything. But she could feel: Ethan's rock-hard body, his warmth, the rush of her own breathing, the whisper of the ends of the silk tie as he secured the blindfold.

She heard the door open, and were those footsteps entering?

The door closed.

Then there was silence.

# 13

Time crawled.

Two minutes? Fifteen? She couldn't tell, but she was getting dizzy. The blindfold wasn't too tight, nothing like that, but all she could feel was the hard wall behind her, and Ethan in front.

If he moved away, she might fall over. It was like yesterday morning, with him holding her up.

She'd heard about sensory deprivation chambers, huge vats of dark water, and how people lost their minds in relatively short periods of time.

She heard herself gulp in air.

Rough hands grabbed her.

How many men? Just the partners?

"Who is it?" she asked, and she could hear the terror in her own voice.

A hard, masculine chest leaned against her shoulder. He was tall. Solid. "It's just us," Trent said.

Then he dipped her to the side, pulling her against him, his arm sweeping under her knees.

She choked in a fast breath as she went horizontal. Trent was carrying her, and a moment later he carefully placed her on a soft office chair.

The blindfold had shifted a few centimeters. She could see very little—just a sliver of her knees.

Someone tied her wrists to the chair's armrests, the soft fabric cushioning her forearms.

One of the men was kneeling. All she could see was his shoulder. Dark jacket. It could have been any of them.

He pushed her knees apart and tied each to the support of the chair's armrest. She was able to see the scrap of fabric he'd used. Royal blue, silky. She didn't know where it had come from, but it wasn't a necktie.

She heard the men walking away, then their lowered voices discussing something. Slowly, she tilted her head back until she could see the three of them in conversation. Ethan was taking off his jacket.

He unfastened his cufflinks and slipped them into the jacket's inside pocket before tossing it out of view.

His strong fingers deftly flipped over the bottom of a shirt cuff. He rolled it to just below his elbow, exposing a muscular forearm. He started to repeat it with the other arm, then paused.

The men were having a disagreement about something, she realized. Trent and Raphael were arguing with Ethan.

After a moment, Ethan said, "Fine," loud enough for her to hear, then jerkily rolled up his other sleeve. She sensed them turning toward her, and she lowered her head lest they realize she wasn't completely blind.

Footsteps approached.

A nervous smile rose to Maisie's lips. It froze there—oh, she hoped she wasn't about to start laughing inappropriately. She felt like she'd been kidnapped.

"Stick out your tongue," Ethan said.

She poked out her tongue and waited for an erect cock to join the party.

But instead of hard flesh, she got nothing. Just the office air, slowly drying her tongue out.

How ridiculous did she look?

A hand plunged into her bra, the touch so unexpected that she gasped.

Fingers tweaked her nipple. "You were given orders." Raphael's voice was low and dangerous.

"What—" she started to say, but rough fingers forced her jaw open, caught her tongue, tugged it forward.

"Don't fuck up again," Raphael growled, and her pussy gushed with excitement. These powerful men had turned their focus on her, and while she didn't know the rules of this game, she loved it already.

Nodding enthusiastically, she strained her tongue forward, lengthening it until the corners of her jaw ached, and the tug on her tongue's frenulum brought tears to her eyes. She could even hear the hum of her trembling muscles.

"Much better," Raphael said, his voice thick and deep with tightly controlled desire.

The chair was being rocked, then lifted into the air.

Squeezing her eyes tight—not that it made any difference because she couldn't see much—she clamped her teeth on her tongue to keep from disobeying her bosses again.

The chair landed with a mild jolt, and she slowly peeled her eyes open. Through the sliver by which she saw the world, she learned that she'd been put on top of Ethan's desk.

The men released the chair, and the wheels slid slightly.

She gasped, thinking she was about to roll over the side and crash to the floor. If her hands had been free, she would have clawed off the blindfold.

Suddenly the chair was still; one of her bosses must have grabbed it. Maisie's tongue had taken refuge in her mouth. She desperately pushed it forward again.

"Bad, bad girl," Ethan purred in a deep voice. His hands stroked from her knees to the tops of her thighs, and then his touch became cruel and punishing, his fingertips digging into the vulnerable flesh just below her sex.

He pushed her thighs away from each other, but she was already spread as wide as possible given the chair's confines. His fingers burrowed into her softness, hitting the muscle underneath. "Bad girl."

Someone moved behind Ethan. Impossible to be sure who; they all had similar builds, at least when they were dressed.

The man shifted to the side, and she almost gasped when she saw the protuberance of his erect cock thrusting through the fly of his pants. She only caught a glimpse, but it was enough to set her blood pounding in her veins.

He wouldn't have taken it out if he didn't plan to use it on her, after all. Now she had to clamp down on her tongue to keep from grinning.

"When you're bad," Ethan said, increasing the intensity of his grip and chasing away all thoughts of grinning, "we will punish you."

Something flicked against her clit. Hard enough to make her gasp, but because her jaw was clamped down, she didn't disobey her bosses' orders.

The second flick delivered a stab of pain that quickly heated to a sizzling burn.

She inhaled sharply through her nose.

Then Ethan moved his left hand and began flicking his way up her inner thigh. The skin he'd been squeezing was tender. "One from each of us," he said, and flicked her sex so hard that her pussy quivered with pleasure.

She was practically panting, and it was a strange sensation, her tongue painfully dry while the rest of her mouth had turned into a floodplain.

"You're incredible," Raphael said. "I don't fucking believe it."

"Believe it," Ethan said. "You should have seen the way she came in here, practically begging for me to put her across my knee and paddle her ass raw."

Someone reached out and yanked down the cups of her bra. The straps dug into her shoulders. He leaned forward (it was Raphael, she saw now) to force his hand behind her back and unhook the closure with surprising precision.

She could smell his aftershave, which she hadn't noticed yesterday. It was heavier than Ethan's, the musk stronger and the individual scents less distinct from each other. He tugged her bra again. The straps came to rest in the crooks of her elbows, the cups suspended over her lap.

His hands cradled her breasts and lifted them. By tilting her chin just right, she could see his thumb stroking across one nipple.

The dusky pink tip tightened, and his attentions became almost too intense. Each brush of his thumb sent painfully intense sensations streaking toward her clit. Her body felt like it was vibrating.

"You may relax," Ethan said. He released her other thigh to tap her tongue. "That's enough."

Slowly, she pulled it in. She could still feel the ache in her jaw.

"Should we fuck her?" Raphael asked. He resumed teasing her nipples, and she knew her arousal was seeping through her panties and onto her boss's chair.

"Please," she said, and one of the men barked out a laugh.

She both heard and felt a drawer in the desk being pulled open. Then the rasp of a condom packet being torn free. "Catch," Trent said.

So he knew Ethan kept condoms on hand. It was more proof that they'd done this at work before. She remembered Jayne's reaction to seeing Ethan, the way she'd gone stiff. Then, later, she'd said he was sexy.

Had Jayne once been tied to the chair and fucked by the bosses? Maisie felt herself frowning. It wasn't the sort of thing one would mention casually to the new girl.

"Oh, it won't be that bad," Raphael said. He brought her breasts together. When he spoke again, his breath was hot on her nipples. "We'll even allow you to come as much as you want. Enjoy it while you can."

Then he licked a lazy circle around one of her peaks.

She gasped and threw her head back.

The chair was moving, but she didn't care so long as Raphael kept on with what he was doing.

The tip of his tongue danced over her nipple. She longed to bury her hands in his hair and hold him to her.

A second tongue joined in, worshipping the other nipple. The sensations were almost overwhelming.

She moaned, and someone flicked her pussy, making her squeal from the sharp, delightful agony. "Be quiet," Ethan growled.

But she couldn't keep quiet, because slowly but surely, an intense orgasm was building. They were doing it to her with their tongues and their domination.

Ethan flicked her pussy again, and it almost sent her spiraling over the edge. Then his mouth was on her panties and her most sensitive flesh.

She cried out, and Ethan jerked away. "This isn't going to work."

Her breasts were abandoned, and someone violently ripped away the blindfold, leaving her blinking in the sudden light.

# 14

Raphael's mouth twitched into a smile. His shirt had come partially unbuttoned, and a thick cock was poking through his pants. "Your mascara is smeared," he said. "Pretty fucking hot."

Tilting her head, she smiled at him. She and her bosses were definitely on the same page.

Ethan was frowning. He stepped forward and grabbed the chair. Then she was sailing through the air. She braced herself for a hard impact, but he set her down gently.

Raphael and Trent began untying her arms and legs.

"No. No, no," she said. "I'm so sorry, Ethan. I can do better—"

"You will address me as _sir_ ," he said.

"I'm so sorry, sir." It felt weird to be using the word. She'd read about it plenty of times, about addressing dominant men in that way, but she'd certainly never used it herself. "It's just that I was about to..."

"Yes?"

"To orgasm. Sir. Please don't send me back to my desk now." Even though her limbs had been freed, she kept them pressed against the chair.

Trent pulled her to standing. He yanked away her bra and pulled off her panties, leaving her naked. She was a little bent over, her knees clamped together and her breasts swinging gently.

He turned her roughly and pushed her back toward the chair.

"Spread your legs, honey," Ethan said. "Show me that juicy cunt."

_Honey. Cunt. Tits._

She liked when he talked like that.

She slid her legs apart. The men maneuvered her onto the chair, her legs spread, her knees over the armrests, and her feet dangling. She leaned her upper body against the back for stability. Her hips hung in the air, over the seat. It wasn't comfortable, all her weight resting on the narrow armrests, even if they were padded.

The chair smelled like Ethan's aftershave.

Trent stooped and released a lever, and the chair's back lowered, pitching her forward.

Now her ass was in the air. With her thighs spread, she felt very exposed. It would be easy for anyone to slide whatever he wanted into wherever he wanted.

A moment later, that was exactly what Trent did. He turned the chair, grabbed her hips, and thrust his cock into her heat.

Her head jerked up, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The chair lurched forward with every slam of his hips.

Ethan took his place at her head. "What should you be doing?" he asked.

She took her cue from his erection bobbing aggressively in front of her face.

The head was particularly plump and bulbous, and the shaft was swollen, shiny, and tinged purplish.

"Sucking your cock, sir," she said.

Ethan already had his fist wrapped around the thick thing, and he fed it to her with little thrusts, each deeper than the last. The chair moved back and forth, and she felt like she was on an erotic seesaw.

Sucking him wasn't easy, but the rhythm made it possible to breathe.

Raphael came to stand next to Ethan. His cock was hard and pointed right at her, so she wasn't surprised when Ethan stepped back and Raphael shoved down her throat, choking her, blocking her airway before the chair rolled back, impaling her pussy on Trent's cock.

Her bosses crowded the chair. No more rolling around.

Ethan and Raphael slid over her lips and chin, smearing them with salty pre-come.

Her tongue couldn't keep up, but oh, she tried to please them both, licking and sucking. The men were delicious. If only she could get them both in her mouth at once, though it was hot to be sucking one, bobbing aggressively on the hard shaft, while the other cock pressed impatiently at her stretched lips.

With a groan of pleasure and frustration, Ethan stepped away, letting Raphael do as he would.

She loved the texture of his shaft, the bulge of his cock head and the ridges of his veins. He grunted as he picked up speed, fucking her mouth mercilessly. Her exhausted jaw kept quivering, and she finally went soft and compliant for him. "That's what I want," he growled, shoving deep into her throat, each stroke ending with a vigorous pulse that made her gag... and made him even harder.

As tears blurred her vision, she realized she'd never been so happy. Her bosses were giving her the fantasy she'd always thought too dangerous to pursue.

Meanwhile, Ethan was rolling a condom over himself.

Everyone stopped moving. Trent's cock throbbed inside her, and her inner muscles squeezed around his girth in desperation.

Raphael thrust one final time in her mouth, then stepped back. His shirt had come untucked, and she caught a glimpse of a tattoo low on his hips. All she could see was a blur of dark ink, but ooh, she was dying to know what it was.

The men remained still.

She looked up. "Sirs? Have I displeased you?" She'd read that sentence in a book about a woman being taken hostage by some kinky pirates. She hoped it would please her bosses.

Ethan took hold under her shoulders to push her upright, and then Trent's large hands were under her thighs, lifting her entire body into the air. His cock stayed planted inside her pussy.

For a moment she felt unsafe and insecure, and she barely noticed that Ethan was lying on the chair, that erect cock sticking up obscenely, his shirt partially unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up.

Then her back came to rest against Trent's chest, and she felt safe again.

"Guess what?" he whispered into her ear. He nibbled the lobe, making her squirm, and his cock twitched inside her. Her pussy squeezed in response. A low, masculine moan vibrated his body. "I'm going to take your ass," he growled.

She gasped. "I'm not ready—"

"It's better to get it over with," Ethan snapped. "If triple penetration won't work, it's better for us all if we know now, when it's easy to go our separate ways."

She had to remind herself of how gently he'd set her down.

But then she thought... maybe that was because he cared about the chair. After all, it was likely custom-made.

"Ethan is right," Trent said. "You can trust me. I know what I'm doing, and I'll take care of you. Ok?"

She held her breath.

"I'll be careful. If you want me to stop, just say so. But I think it'll be easier if you trust me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," she said hesitantly. She looked up, the back of her head sliding against his neck. His jaw was square, strong. "I trust you."

"That's my girl." He walked forward and lowered her over Ethan. A moment later, he pulled his cock away.

But Ethan quickly took his place, plunging deep into her with a single claiming thrust that made her mouth open wide in a voiceless gasp of surprise.

She immediately began twisting and bouncing, frantically working his cock until his hands settled on her hips, locking her in place.

"Enough of that. Kiss me," he said, deep voice commanding.

Heart pounding, she started to lean forward, then realized what position she'd be in if she obeyed; she'd be allowing Trent unrestricted access to her ass.

Ethan laughed. "Too smart to be fooled so easily, I see. But the thing is"—his hand cupped the back of her head—"I demand your kiss."

Her body responded. There was something irresistible about Ethan.

He urged her down. He wasn't forcing her, she realized. She could feel his strength, but he was giving her the option to resist.

They were giving her an out.

But that wasn't exactly what she wanted. She stared into his eyes. "What if I'm not comfortable with this? How would you even know?"

Concern creased his brow. "We don't want to force you into doing anything," he said. "That's not what this is about."

She nodded. She'd understood that from the beginning. "I want a safe word. Something better than whatever you said yesterday."

"I believe it was _no sex_ ," he said.

"Yeah. That's not gonna work for me. Because..." She had to force herself to hold his gaze. "Because I want to pretend this is against my will. Sir. I want it rough."

"You're awfully demanding," Raphael said.

"Pro bono." There was a smile in Trent's voice. "Those two words will cause any well-paid attorney to lose his erection."

Ethan laughed, a genuine laugh. As he did, his hands tightened around her, like he wanted to keep her close. She felt her pussy getting even wetter around his cock.

Trent swatted her ass. "Pro bono, then. And if your mouth is full, bite Raphael."

"Funny," Raphael said, not sounding amused. "We usually use snapping fingers."

_Usually._

Maisie pushed it away. "Ok, sirs," she said. "I think I'm good."

The warmth went out of Ethan's eyes. It was like it had never been there.

He pulled her toward him, and now she couldn't get away. His cock was rock-hard as he began fucking her and kissing her, his hands roaming over her breasts and face, squeezing her ass, and then rubbing her clit.

"I want to feel you come," he said, his words vibrating across her lips.

Smiling, she sat up a bit, planning to reach down and take charge, to make it happen.

But then he did something with his fingers, a tight, pulsing arc over her nub.

The sensations overwhelmed her. She wanted to shout out Ethan's name, to beg to be his sex slave, to beg him to keep her locked away for his pleasure. Her body went limp.

Ethan made her muscles snap taut again as his finger returned to her clit.

"No," she gasped, wanting to pretend to fight this. "Please, sirs. Stop. It's too much. Stop. Stop!"

Raphael clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her involuntary cry as pleasure ricocheted through her body.

Her spasms and quakes were violent, but the men, who were breathing hard with lust, held her down easily.

All those hot, lascivious hands on her. Wanting her. Claiming her.

Raphael substituted his cock for his hand, and she sucked him hungrily, greedy for every inch.

Something rubbed over her pucker, and she tightened, then relaxed. She really did trust Trent. She trusted all of them.

"You need this," Trent said. "You will learn that there are consequences for your behavior."

Maisie whimpered.

The men moved her so only the tip of Ethan's cock was inside her, and then Trent was nudging at her rear.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she sucked desperately and loudly on Raphael's cock. It swelled against her tongue and lips. "Don't stop. Yeah. Just like that," he said over and over.

Trent didn't waste time trying to get her accustomed to his finger. It was all about the cock.

He simply claimed her ass.

Maisie felt like she was being split in half, but Trent was insistent, and because it happened quickly, she didn't have time to freak out.

Within moments, the burning stretch turned to glowing pleasure.

Raphael did something with his lower body, bumping his powerful thighs against the chair.

It slid back, skewering her ass fully on Trent's massive cock.

"Oh god, it's too much!" Tears overflowed her eyes.

Ethan squeezed her nipple. "You forgot something."

"Sorry, sir," she gasped. "But it's too much. No, no. Please don't let him fuck my ass. I'll be good, sir, I promise."

"He's not _letting_ me do anything," Trent growled. "You're the only submissive one in this room. But keep begging if you want. It makes me harder." Trent's thrust sent her forward again, letting Raphael claim her throat.

"I'm sorry, sir," she mewled when she was able.

Trent only grunted, slapped her ass, and fucked her harder.

All the while, Ethan banged into her at a slow, steady pace. The muffled thumps of their thighs slamming together blended with the chair's slight squeaking.

Her breasts shook as she was bounced between the men. She continued protesting, but now she was laughing, too.

Ethan's fingers returned to her clit, and he proved again that she'd been wrong, that he absolutely knew what it was for. He sent her over the edge, then squeezed her nipples and pinched her thighs, bringing her back to reality again.

Between orgasms, she wondered how she'd misjudged him so thoroughly. Her bosses probably thought she was clueless. If so, they were right.

But she could learn, was in fact eager to.

She sighed and gave herself over to them, to the pleasure they brought.

"I'm gonna come," Trent said, his voice tight from restraint.

"Fuck," Raphael panted. "Me, too."

Ethan's fingers slipped over her aroused nub. She felt his cock swelling, felt the moment that his powerful shaft began to buck inside her.

Her pussy was squeezing and clenching him. Her ass was stretched full of hard, orgasming cock, and Raphael was shooting his hot load down her throat, feeding her.

She pushed and clawed at his legs. God, this was fun. He was so strong, and he resolutely held her in place until he was finished.

Trent pulled out of her ass, and that hurt like hell for a few seconds, then subsided to a warm burn.

He kissed the back of her neck. "See? Safe with us, Maisie."

Raphael had gone into the bathroom. He came out with a warm, damp towel, which he used to wipe her eyes and mouth. "We can't have anyone thinking you were crying in here," he said.

The men cleaned her up, and Ethan—Ethan, of all people!—helped her get dressed, because she was unsteady on her feet, her pulse still a bit wild, her thoughts still scattered.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Listen," he said. "You can never talk about this with anyone. The same for our discussion in the elevator. That never happened. Understood? It would be disastrous if it got out."

No kidding. She nodded again. "Yes, sir."

Rush hour was long over, and darkness had settled around the city.

Maisie had worked a few more hours, until Raphael told her to go home. Even though she hadn't run into other employees when she was leaving LB&B, there were still plenty of people outside. Both sides of the street were dotted with expensive-looking restaurants that had been inconspicuous during work hours.

Maisie started toward the chauffeured sedan, then turned. She was almost in the same spot as when she'd fallen into Ethan's arms. She remembered what she'd said about how he might be able to get a girlfriend if he wanted, and she was deeply ashamed. Ethan was intelligent and rich. He was an amazing lover, and that hadn't happened by accident; it wasn't something he could have learned from a book.

Why had she thought she could be the only woman in the world to be so desperately attracted to him?

Because of how they'd met, probably. Because she'd fallen under his spell without seeing him... and then the shock of that first glimpse of his face.

The last two days had opened her mind in ways she never could have anticipated.

She pushed her hair away from her face as she craned her neck, looking up. City lights reflected off the skyscraper's mirrored facade.

Somewhere up there, higher than she could see, were the three most unconventional men she'd ever met. They'd threatened an abuser to keep him away from their client.

They could get disbarred for that. Was it the first time they'd stepped outside the law to right a wrong? How far would they go?

They were trusting her with that secret as well as the truth about their sexual predilections. She thought about it. Sex with Ethan had indirectly led to her finding out about the illegal thing they'd done. Raphael was right to be wary.

The wind stirred up, fluffing her hair. She caught the mix of their scents, and the combination did dizzying things to her head. Her fingers sought out the chain around her neck and stroked the silver heart briefly before settling on the paper clip, the one she'd found under Trent's desk. She'd added it on a whim while cleaning up her workspace for the night.

She squeezed the paper clip. A little tremor in her stomach told her something real might have started today.

But, logically, it was too soon to think that way.

"Ms. Novau?" The driver had exited the car, and the back door was now open. He was coming toward her.

"Yes, I'm ready," she said. "Sorry about that." Avoiding the subway grate, she walked to the car and slid gingerly onto the gleaming black seat. When he closed the door, the city noises disappeared.

"I have your things from the hotel in the trunk," he said as he pulled into traffic. "Are there any stops you'd like to make on your way home?"

"No. Thank you." She shifted around, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't easy; her buttocks were sore.

Actually, everything ached. Her bosses had really worked her over.

She couldn't wait to see them again.

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# Other Titles

Please visit your favorite online bookstore for these and many other stories!

**LURING THE PACK** **_(Standalone Novel)_**

Luring the pack is barbaric and uncivilized, but it's Emmalina's only hope.

Twenty-one-year-old Emmalina knows all about trouble even before her addict sister signs their house over to the local wolf pack.

Desperate, Emmalina tarts herself up and ventures into wolf territory.

Her plan is simple: offer to lure the pack. Playing bait for a bunch of hot shifters is better than being homeless.

The wolves are even more brutal—and more refined—than rumored. Especially the cruel, dark-eyed alpha who looks into Emmalina's soul and reads all her secret hopes. Armand is the most powerful alpha the pack has ever had, and it's not in his nature to let her off easy.

But Emmalina's hot, mysterious neighbors don't approve of what she's doing, and for good reason. What they're hiding could save Emmalina's life... or get her killed.

* * *

**EXECUTIVE TOY** **_(Executive Toy #1)_**

To stay alive, Lindsay has always relied on her looks and her wits. It's not always enough, and underneath her carefully polished exterior is a desperate woman who will do anything to survive.

When she's called to account for her misuse of the company credit card, she hopes to flirt her way out of trouble. Instead she finds herself faced with a gorgeous stranger who is immune to her manipulation, and she's shocked by the punishment he deals out.

No one in the office can tell her who the stranger is, and when she encounters him again weeks later, things take another unexpected turn... times three. Three handsome, rich businessmen. In their arms, she almost feels safe.

But she knows the truth: safe is an illusion, and staying alive is all that matters.

* * *

**TRAPPED BY A DANGEROUS MAN** **_(By a Dangerous Man #1._** ** _Box Set Now Available!_** ** _)_**

What does she owe to the man who saved her life?

Despite growing up a bounty hunter, being taken seriously is a constant struggle for 24-year-old Audrey Stroop. When she stumbles across information on Corbin Lagos, she recognizes the chance of a lifetime.

One blizzard and a car accident later, she wakes up in gorgeous Corbin's bed. She doesn't know how he'll react if he discovers that the woman he rescued intends to haul him in. She also can't fight her attraction to him.

He's nothing like the men she typically seduces and discards. He's dominant. He's dangerous. And he's going to explode her life into a million tiny pieces.

* * *

**OFFICE TOY** ** _(Office Toy #1)_**

Elle's job interview starts with Cunningham throwing away her cheap clothes and sending his assistant to buy new outfits. He's got her naked, so of course he'll lay her out on the conference table and claim her mouth. Soon Elle is trussed up, all of her holes stretched full while three hot men have their wicked way.

She loves her first tastes of liberated, naughty sex. But she'd better not start falling for her boss—no matter how safe he makes her feel—because while office sex is encouraged, romance is strictly forbidden.

* * *

**CARELESS** **_(After Forever/Bisexual Billionaire Trilogy #1—_** ** _Box set available_** ** _!)_**

After being forced out of his company, Nelson returns home a billionaire with a hole in his life. When he meets Kimberly and Samuel, he decides he'll have them both.

But Kimberly and Samuel aren't a couple, and Samuel's the one holding things up. He hasn't dated a woman in five years, and even though it's plain he loves Kimberly, he agrees to Nelson's threesome on the condition that it be only one night.

Kimberly would marry Samuel in an instant if he asked. He's just not interested. But a single night to satisfy her curiosity is better than never knowing Samuel's kiss.

There's no way for Nelson, Samuel and Kimberly to all get what they want, and one careless moment of weakness carries the power to destroy everything.

* * *

**TOUCHING PARADISE** **_(The Shark Shifter Paranormal Romance #1._** _Box Set at some retailers_ ** _)_**

Despite his billions in the bank, Koenraad is a shark shapeshifter haunted by secrets and regrets. Unable to move on with his life, he relentlessly patrols the waters near the island he once considered home. Fate puts the beautiful Monroe in his path, and duty demands he offer his services, but one look into her eyes and he knows the lonely, frightened woman secretly yearns for adventure.

Monroe is having a hard time getting into the vacation spirit. She's surrounded by powdery white sand and swaying palm trees, but she's terrified of the ocean. When her tour boat breaks down at sea, she's thrilled to skip the so-called trip of a lifetime. However, a gorgeous man with a sleek yacht is determined to change her mind... and maybe her life.

* * *

**USE ME HARD** **_(Standalone story, but is included in the_** ** _Take Me Hard_** ** _compilation)_**

Even before Alyssa meets Eric at a party, she knows all about him. That he likes to tie up submissives, that he has a dungeon somewhere, and that he breaks more hearts in three months than most guys do their whole lives.

As far as she's concerned, Eric is just another rich playboy, and though part of her craves him, Alyssa knows men like him are good for one thing: nothing!

When Eric overhears her claiming that he can't possibly be good in bed, he challenges her to prove it—one week, no sex necessary (unless she begs). Instead of slapping him, she accepts. She can't pass up the opportunity to make him publicly admit that he's clueless about women.

If he wins ... but he couldn't possibly win. Could he?

* * *

**SLEEPING LADY** **_(Fantasy Playland #1—_** ** _Box set now available!_** ** _)_**

Georgia is broke, and she can't resist the ad in the paper: "Women with low libido needed for sex theme park." Never mind that as someone who masturbates several times a day, she hardly qualifies... she needs money, and she'll do anything to get it.

But first she has to pass the audition. All she has to do is pretend to sleep while the sexiest man she's ever seen uses her however he pleases.
