Chapter Five

It’s not his ominous words that jolt me straight to the core.

It’s his voice.

My gaze snaps up—and connects with his, in the reflection of the glistening windowpanes.

My jaw drops. There is no preventing this, uncouth as it is. My eyes widen.

He’s standing all the way across the room, but as with every single workday, I can feel his commanding presence, taking up space, filling it, heating it. I can smell the faint tinge of his imported cologne—from the Oman region, no less—mixed with his innate virility. No, the latter shouldn’t have a scent associated with it. With this man, however… It naturally exudes from him.

My heart is lodged in my throat so that I can’t pull in a steady stream of air.

Nor can I form a coherent sentence. Not that that’s relevant. I can’t speak around the lump clogging my esophagus to say more than one word: “You.”

He gives a slight nod of his head, though his sinfully delicious, melted chocolate gaze doesn’t waver.

His eyes are so rich and swoon-worthy, it’s a miracle I’m still standing, when—in his typical fashion—Jameson Richards has my knees weakening and my entire body threatening to pool right at his feet.

Fuck. Me.

My eyelids squeeze shut for a few seconds, because that sentiment holds numerous connotations right now.

Primarily, how am I going to explain to my boss that I’m being paid for sex?

Then again, how is my boss going to explain paying for sex?

And… Oh, my God! The grand slam here is: I’m about to have sex with my boss for money!

I whirl around on my high heels, to hell with whether I spill champagne. In fact, I thrust the arm out that’s attached to the hand holding the champagne flute and accusatorially declare, “You bought me??!”

He has one hand in the pocket of his tailored designer tux. The other lifts to his chin and he rubs his set jaw with his finger and thumb.

I am momentarily captivated—and thrown off course—by the familiar gesture. It’s his, hmm…do I fill in the blanks for Miss St. Claire, or do I let her reach the logical conclusion to problem XYZ on her own?

My gaze narrows on him.

“Mr. Richards,” I very formally say because, after all, we’ve been nothing but formal with each other in the office. And have never, ever associated outside of the building he owns on Lexington Avenue.

Until now.

Jesus.

Now, we’re in the riskiest territory of all.

“How did this happen?” I continue, my voice no more than a thin wisp, laced with incredulity—and mortification.

I am half-naked under this coat!

His hand drops, he closes the door to the suite and then turns back to me. He moves toward the wet bar and pours himself a tumbler of amber-colored liquor from a fancy, cut-crystal decanter. All likely Baccarat.

Scotch is his preferred evening cocktail when working late, and I surmise that’s what he sips as he contemplates how he’s going to manage this insane scenario we’ve found ourselves in.

This is much too wild for my brain to fully process.

I can’t take his money.

And I sure as hell can’t have sex with him.

But goddamn it… I need the money.

And I really, really, reallllly want to have sex with him.

The man is a living David. I don’t have to see him stripped bare to know how fantastically sculpted he is. Every inch of him is chiseled to perfection. When his suit jacket is off, his muscles strain against the material of his dress shirt. His hands are large and smooth, his nails manicured, his skin supple looking. He’s tall, with powerful thighs and impossibly broad shoulders and he has dark, neatly trimmed hair that is slightly unruly at the ends, belying a roguish side to him.

He is devastatingly handsome. Steal-your-breath-every-time-you-glance-at-him handsome.

And his voice… Oh, his voice.

It’s deep and intimate. He speaks in a low intonation that oozes along my spine like warm molasses and caresses my clit with a titillating tingle.

Sometimes, I have to lean in close, when he’s lost in thoughts I’m actually supposed to hear in order to do my job effectively, and he’s murmuring this or that. Those are the moments when I have to concentrate exceptionally hard to not fall further under the spell of Jameson Richards.

Which seriously puts me in a bind here!

I drain my champagne. He immediately extracts a fresh bottle from a chiller and joins me at the wall of windows to give me a refill. He sets the bottle on a table and then gently clinks the rim of his glass to mine.

“Cheers,” he whispers.

And I’m a goner.

My pulse pounds against every erogenous zone and my nipples tighten behind the lacy cups of my bra. An insistent throbbing deep in my pussy has my Kegels clenching and releasing, but that’s doing nothing to alleviate the pressure that’s mounting within me.

If anything… The entire combination of sensations is sending me barreling toward orgasm.

I am much too aware of this man, on every level. I am much too amped by him, sexually. I am much too scantily clad to not want him to rip every strand of lace from my body.

I have spent so much time crafting and honing a professional demeanor, an impartial, unaffected façade, which I successfully maintain at the office. But tonight, that has literally all vanished. Hell, I’m leaning toward him now, and he’s not even murmuring, not saying anything at all. It’s a gravitational pull I can’t fight.

I stare up at him and quietly repeat, so as to not shatter the fragile yet searing moments between us, “How did this happen?”

“I never received my invitation to the auction,” he explains.

“That’s my fault. I accidentally opened it.” No point in hiding the fact. There’s not a damn thing I can say that’s more incriminating than being in his house in my lingerie.

“I wasn’t intending to go, but I always RSVP out of common courtesy.”

“Of course.” One corner of my mouth quirks upward. I know this man so well. Surprisingly, I didn’t think of this one critical aspect when I’d put the invite through the shredder, along with the envelope stamped personal and confidential. Destroying the evidence of my incompetency wouldn’t go unnoticed by this man. He pretty much has eyes in the back of his head.

“I went on the app to respond,” he further expounds. “And there was your photo. Kinky St. Nikki.” He chuckles, softly. “Clever moniker, Miss St. Claire.”

“I’m thinking you can just call me Nikki in this amazingly bizarre and highly embarrassing instance.”

His dark brow knits. “Why embarrassing?”

I gape.

This isn’t even a query that warrants a response.

And yet… He prods with, “I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be, either.”

I can’t wrap my mind around that statement.

He adds, “To be honest, I only changed my RSVP status to an affirmative because of that photo of you. I’m told it takes a hell of a lot for a candidate to get selected for the auction. I’m not surprised you were chosen, but… I also know how prestigious the honor is. So I experienced a moment of pride, on your behalf. Also, given that I know you, personally.”

He pauses, as though I’m supposed to feel gratitude that he finds me attractive or that I’ve passed this auspicious test, achieved this rare feat.

Though he arbitrarily adds, “But then…” He lets out a puff of air. Shakes his head. Sips again.

“Yes?” I delicately prompt, hanging on his every word.