BILLIONAIRE'S DESIRE

6. Package

CHAPTER SIX: PACKAGE

Tuesday morning arrived like a slap to the face.

Dragging myself into the company premises around mid-morning, I was in a foul mood; scratch that, a dangerously shitty mood. First, the stripper never showed up like I’d hoped she would yesterday. But worse, Collins had insisted on dragging me and Blake to Jade’s apartment the previous night for an emergency “support session.” Apparently, her boyfriend of two years had dumped her. Again.

One breakup playlist and several shots later, everything blurred. The only thing I’m sure of is that I blacked out somewhere between Jade crying about Henry’s “emotional immaturity” and Blake trying to freestyle rap over SZA.

Now, I was nursing a hangover from hell. The sunglasses perched on my face weren’t helping. They were just making me look like an off-duty celebrity with bad decisions and worse PR.

I stopped by my secretary’s desk.

“Monica,” I croaked, leaning against the cool edge of her desk like it could somehow stabilize my brain, “I see you’re feeling better.”

Last week, she’d called in sick, meaning that Scarlett had been free to barge into my office and h****k my peace that freaking Monday morning.

Monica flipped her blonde hair and offered a sultry smile, leaning forward slightly, her blouse conveniently plunging low. Textbook move. Boobs in plain sight. Not that they ever worked on me. Well, except for one cleavage. Make that two, if we’re counting the stripper.

Nope. No boobs. No thoughts. Just pain.

“Yes, sir,” she said sweetly.

“Cancel any meetings I have today. And get me something, ibuprofen, poison, I don’t care. Just make the headache stop.”

“Sure thing, sir. Anything else?” Her tone was laced with innuendo.

Monica had been trying to seduce me since she got hired. She was objectively hot. But I’d always been… preoccupied. And right now, I had a very specific pair of black panties dancing through my memory.

“Look who finally decided to show up for work.”

That voice could curdle milk.

I turned slowly, like a man already regretting all of his life choices. And there she was, arms crossed, frown fully engaged. Scarlett f*****g Simpson. Not even 10 a.m. and she was already on my nerves.

“Scarlett.”

“Just because you’re the CEO doesn’t mean you get to waltz in here whenever you please,” she snapped.

Is it too early in the day to murder someone and plead temporary insanity?

“Mind your own damn business, Miss Simpson,” I said, rubbing my temples as the hangover spiked.

“Oh, I am minding my business. You know what that is? Making sure this company grows. That includes dragging you, Mr. Valiente, into something called professionalism. As the head of marketing, you’re supposed to work with me, not stagger in hungover like some frat boy on a bender.”

I could have fired her. Should have fired her. But something in me refused to lose to this woman. I glared at her.

“You’re lucky I hate losing. Because I swear, if I didn’t, you’d be unemployed already. One week on the job and you’re acting like you own the damn place.”

Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the challenge. I hated her. God, I hated her. Before I could storm off, Monica interrupted.

“Excuse me, sir. A package just came in for you.”

I paused. “From who?”

She shrugged. “No idea. There’s no sender listed. Just signed… ‘Candy.’”

My pulse did something weird. Like a double kick drum in a rock band. Candy?

Fuck.

The only name that could clear a hangover that fast.

“Where’s the package?” I demanded, my brain short-circuiting as a vivid memory of her hips swaying on stage slammed into me.

Monica handed me a medium-sized box wrapped in deep red fabric. It was soft, light. My heart sped up. I didn’t even acknowledge Scarlett as I brushed past her, locked myself in my office, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the couch.

I unwrapped the package. Black lace panties. My jaw ticked. My brain melted. My d**k twitched like it was responding to a fire alarm. They were soft. Delicate. Expensive. And sinfully tiny.

Tucked underneath was a folded note in dark, elegant handwriting:

Still want that private dance? I’m free tonight.

Meet me at the club. Eight p.m. sharp.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across my face. Oh, hell yes. My morning might have started like s**t, but my night? My night was about to be f*****g legendary.