“There’s my girl,” said Dylan as he swung open the door. “Well?”

I was still standing in the doorway, taking him in, his expectant gaze and open posture. He was shirtless, wearing only his suit pants, and his lean, muscular body spanned the doorway. I knew the smile on my face must have made me look like a kid. I was giddy. I was giddy because my deal had just gone through and because the glorious man in front of me was just about to make my afternoon a hundred times more interesting.

“Well what?” I asked, not able to stop looking at his abs.

“How did it go?” His blue eyes were studying me, expectant, hopeful. “You got the money?” I smiled widely, and he beamed back at me, leaning in to sweep me into his arms. “You got it!” He spun me around.

“I got it!” I jumped and danced a little as he put me down, letting my excitement take over.

“I’m terribly proud of you.”

“Thanks.” I sighed and dropped my bag on the floor. “I can’t believe it’s going to happen. I’m heading up the opening of Hannah Rogan’s first store. In London.” He looked at me with a sweet smile and a slight shake of his head. “What?” I said.

“You. I can’t remember the last time I felt about work the way you do now. About you? Absolutely. Work? Well…”

“Babe, you’ve just been so busy. Between all these meetings with your dad and wrapping up the Athens hotel and the other projects…You just need a break. Or to start a new design, something you feel passionate about.”

He sighed and then looked back to me and nodded, cutting off that thread of conversation. “Will you tell me who the investor is now?” His hands were on his hips, all businesslike, as though he were prepared to take the gloves off and fight me hard if I continued to refuse him the information he’d been wanting for weeks. I hadn’t wanted to tell Dylan details about the deal on the off chance that he would stick his nose in. I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Giles Cabot. Have you heard of him?”

Dylan’s arms fell to his sides and he stepped closer. He raised his eyebrow. “I have. He’s a good man. He might seem a bit chummy, but the man does not part with his money easily. He’s very discerning. You must have impressed him, damsel.”

He placed his hands on my hips and walked me backwards until I was leaning against the caramel-colored leather desk. I felt so warm, so perfectly happy—I was sure the smile wrapped clear around my head. I finally took in the luxurious hotel room: warm, dark brown accents; sea-green walls; and an endless expanse of crisp white sheets spread against the bed behind Dylan.

His warm hands untucked my silky red blouse from my pencil skirt, first in the front and then in the back. I automatically raised my arms and he lifted it above my head.

“Giles said that—” I began as he continued to undress me, but Dylan placed his finger over my lips, slowly shaking his head.

“I want to hear about it, but right now I need you to be quiet.” I sucked in my breath. “I’m going to make you come, and then,” he said as he reached between my legs and pulled his hand up, bringing my grey pencil skirt with it, “I’m going fuck this sweet cunt of yours.” My eyes locked with his, and I nodded in a daze, unable to focus as all my blood sailed from my extremities to the aching knot at my core.


“However I want. No talking,” Dylan replied with that rakish smirk. His hands roamed appreciatively over my ass, smoothing over my cool skin. “God, you’re like silk.” He reached behind me and unfastened my skirt, lowering the zipper and shoving it past my hips so it fell to the floor. He pulled off my boots and dropped them to the side. To see him in the bright afternoon light, in this beautiful but foreign room, felt like such a wanton secret. It’s not that we hadn’t made love during the day, but it was always on a weekend, buried in the sheets of one of our beds, indulging in our limited free time in private. But this felt naughty, stolen.

I was now only in the black lace La Perla panties and bra that Dylan had given me. I was not even sure why he’d bought me the panties, since I rarely wore underwear these days, per Dylan’s “no-knickers rule,” which I protested for good measure but not-so-secretly loved. My hair was still in a soft, clean bun at my neck, my bangs swept aside. Dylan’s hands slid into my panties. Both his hands cradled my ass, the ribbons of the thong holding them to my skin, and then the panties were sliding down my legs.

“There. All’s right with the world again,” said Dylan, as he shoved the tiny black scrap of fabric into his pants pocket.