But James Blackwell was a strategist. A man who didn’t take—he made you beg to give. And God help me, I was getting close to begging.
The next day, I walked into the office in the tightest pencil skirt I owned. No blazer. Just a silk cream blouse tucked in, with buttons daringly undone—more than office protocol would allow. But after last night? Rules had already been broken.
By noon, I’d gotten no call from him. No glances. No secretive messages.
Nothing.
Was he pretending it didn’t happen?
At 4:52 PM, my phone buzzed. One line.
“Bring the acquisition files to the penthouse. Now.”
My heart dropped and soared at once.
I grabbed the files and took the private elevator, palms sweating, thighs pressed tight with need. The moment the doors opened into his penthouse suite, the scent of
