“No, I didn’t fire her.” He just punished her by impaling her to the wall with his cock. The one now hardening in memory. “She insists on continuing to work there. She won’t let me help.”
Flynn snorted. “That’s a change.”
Brody shrugged his agreement. He was used to money-grubbing women, so when Emma didn’t jump at the chance for him to wipe out her debt, it surprised him. That stubborn, independent streak was as much a turn-on as her ruthless efficiency and unflappability. Not to mention those gorgeous legs and beautiful breasts and hot, tight— f*ck
, his mind needed to take a permanent vacation from those illicit thoughts, yet he couldn’t not do something about her situation.
Flynn eyed him, looking like he had something smug at the ready. “Couldn’t help but notice that she’s got a great pair of legs. Shame she hides it under those acres of material.”
“You ever hear that expression ‘don’t eat where you sleep,’ Cross?”
“I would think sleeping would be the last thing on your mind while you’re eating,” Flynn shot back with a dirty grin.
Her mouth had tasted so damn sweet that Brody couldn’t help the raft of X-rated images that consumed his brain in an inferno. Licking, sucking, eating out that sweet, pliant flesh between her insanely gorgeous thighs. Now he’d had an appetizer, he was ready to indulge in multiple courses.
Looking up, he found Flynn grinning like he knew all Brody’s secrets. Not so far from the truth, since his friend had lived with Brody’s family after his dad kicked him out at fifteen.
“Not gonna blab, then, Mr. Kane?”
Brody was tempted to tell him that the first rule about strip club was no one talks about strip club. He’d never been the kind of guy who bragged about his conquests, and his shame at his loss of control beat out the male satisfaction at bringing Emma off like a rocket. He also suspected that Emma would not appreciate being the subject of office gossip.
“She’s off-limits. Always has been, always will be. But I need to fix it so she doesn’t work at that club anymore.”
“My experience is that women don’t enjoy being told where they can and cannot work.” Flynn leaned back in his chair and twiddled a pen. “You know what we do when we want something badly enough?”
A kernel of an idea unfurled in his brain. “Outbid, outflank, or outsmart.”
Flynn smiled. “Knew there was a reason why you’ve got all that extra gray matter.”
As Brody left, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Seeing the caller ID piqued his curiosity. Listening to the voice on the other end of the line had him surprised. By the time the practically one-sided conversation had come to a close, Brody’s plan for Emma Strickland had taken a leave of absence from his brain.
…
Brody lived on the sixtieth floor of the same building as Score Property’s offices, and as the luxury-bound elevator rocketed Emma to the top, her pulse shot skyward with it. She checked her phone again:
The penthouse. Now.
That’s all his text said. She’d been on her way back from a coffee run for the girls—nothing for me, I can only afford the aroma, thanks—when the abrupt message came in.
Security on the residential side of the building had known to expect her. The elevator came to a smooth, moneyed stop, and the doors split apart to reveal a roomy foyer. Her senses were tantalized by fresh-cut flowers, the cost of which probably could have fed Emma and her cat for a month. Beautifully appointed furniture and an Oriental rug solidified the impression of understated, yet undeniable luxury. And that was what was going on outside the penthouse.
Faced with such surreal opulence, a dizzy spell came over her. Somehow, she had managed to cling to her day job, this one constant, while everything else crashed around her ears. What if Brody had changed his mind? Found some loophole that would have her out on her shiny-shorts-covered ass before the day was through?
What if she never saw him again?
Inward mental shake. How ludicrous. She was thrift-store Dumpster diving; he was designer-label personal shopping. What had happened between them was a product of proximity and her inner bad girl trumping the woman she was trying to become. So what if the man could yield orgasms with a steely-eyed look through those sex-nerd glasses. Orgasms were a dime a dozen. Well-paying, respectable jobs were thinner on the ground.
She knocked on the door with a quick rap. Not too soft. Not too hard. Goldilocks would have given her a freakin’ medal.
The door opened quickly and there he stood, looking so handsome her eggs shrieked in pleasure. He’d lost the battle with his tie-as-a-noose and pulled open the top two buttons of his shirt. His glasses sat slightly askew. Her fingers itched to straighten them, but then he did it himself and squinted. As if he needed to ensure he could see her properly.
“Come in,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Is everything okay?”
He walked into the—holy chalk, that’s a lot of white—living room with the clear expectation that she would follow. She tracked the direction of his raised arm, now pointing to a spot on a pristine, ivory wool hearthrug.