61

Walter Spade’s daughter.

Off-fucking-limits.

But, goddamn it, the only thing I wanted was her.

I left my suitcase and went over to the minibar, removing several bottles of whiskey, dumping them into a glass that I held to my lips.

The liquor burned as it went down.

I wanted it to.

I wanted it to extinguish the thoughts in my head, the desire pulsing through me, the throbbing in my cock. I refilled the glass and took off my jacket, hanging it across the back of the chair and loosening my tie. As I was unbuttoning my shirt, I caught sight of the large bed behind me.

The headboard.

And all I could think about was tying her fucking wrists to each side, her legs spread wide over the mattress.

Jesus Christ.

I tried shaking her from my head, concentrating on work. The full inbox of emails that needed replies. The parcels of land I needed to study, the permits I needed to research, the numbers I needed to analyze.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

I could only think of her.

And the raging