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Isabella’s voice is thick with sleep, a raspy hum that vibrates in the center of my chest. I turn.
She is propped up on one elbow, the dove-gray duvet clutched to her chest. Her dark hair is a chaotic mess against the pillows, there’s a faint smudge of makeup around her eyes, and her lips are swollen. She looks human. She looks soft. I can just see the bruises my nipping kisses left on her neck and shoulder.
I left my mark.
The possessive thought flashes through my head, and I immediately force it away.
“It’s after six,” I tell her. “I need to go.”
Isabella blinks away the fog of sleep, revealing the sharp, calculating mind I see in the office every day. She doesn't flinch when she realizes we broke the second rule. She simply nods and throws back the covers.
Watching her move across the room naked is a special kind of torture. It’s almost a relief when she disappears into her small walk-in closet and comes back wearing leggings and a sweatshirt.
She looks like she’s completely unaffected by what happened. And it makes me want to pull her back into bed and break the rules all over again.
“Staying over,” she says, her back to me as she picks up her discarded clothes from last night, “can’t happen again.”
“It won't,” I reply, getting out of the bed. I find my underwear and pull them on, regaining some semblance of the armor I lost last night. “The rules are there to protect the integrity of our businesses and the job we have to do. I don't belong here, and you don't belong at my place.”
She turns, her expression unreadable. “I know exactly where I belong, Sebastian. And it’s not in your bed. Right now, it’s in your office, saving your ass and mine.”
I feel a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. This is the woman I recognize, the one who agreed that our physical intimacy is nothing more than a transaction to be managed, just like every other part of our business contract.
“Good,” I say, standing up. I pull on my slacks and pick my shirt up off the floor. I walk toward her, stopping just outside her personal space, feeling the charge between us. “If this starts bleeding into work, we end it. No arguments.”
She looks me dead in the eye and lifts her chin. “You don’t get to decide that alone, Mr. King.”
I hold her gaze for a long moment. “Then we both decide. Together.”
“Together,” she agrees. Then, because she can’t help herself: “And for the record, you’re the one who forgot to set an alarm.”
She reaches for my shoes and hands them to me. There’s a fire in her eyes that makes my throat dry. She’s built a barrier. She’s putting the mask on, transforming the woman from last night back into the PR exec. The woman who gripped my shoulders and whispered, “Please,” is being buried under the woman who will likely cut me off in the middle of the presentation today just to prove she can.
She turns and leaves the room. I follow, catching her at the bathroom door. “I’ll see you at the office, Isabella.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
“Thirteen days left,” I remind her.
“I’m counting,” she replies, and closes the door. I hear the shower turn on.
I put on my shirt and button it up, grabbing my jacket on the way out. The click of the front door closing feels loud and final.
When I get home, I head straight to my bathroom and turn the shower to cold. I need the shock. I need to wash the scent of her off my skin before I step through the doors of King headquarters.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I see clarity that wasn’t there yesterday.
Isabella said this was about control, and she’s right. This is an exercise in restraint. I will prove to her—and to myself—that I can have the most addictive thing I’ve ever tasted and be able to put the bottle back on the shelf when I’m done.
I sit at my desk, staring at the press release Isabella handed to me when she arrived. It hasn’t hit the wires yet, but the headline reads:
ARTHUR VANCE, FORMER HEAD OF MERGERS & ACQUISITIONS AND JERRY JENKINS, FORMER CHIEF SECURITY OFFICER, SUING THE KING CORPORATION FOR DEFAMATION AND ILLEGAL TERMINATION
I lean back in my chair. “Is this an attempt to get back at me for forgetting to set my alarm this morning?” I mutter.
She stares at me and purses her lips. “I showed you because it’s something you need to be aware of, Mr. King.”
“Did I miss something?” the voice on speakerphone asks. It’s the “Ghost," a hacker I hired to scavenge the wreckage of our servers to help me figure out what the hell happened. I don’t even know his name, but he sounds young and intelligent, and I like him.
