Page 21 of Dial F for Finance

He laughs softly, the kind of laugh that wants to become something else. “You make it very hard to be professional, Pemberton.”

“Good thing for you, I set a high standard.”

The doors open on our floor. The corridor swallows our footsteps in carpet. My door is closer than his, and I stop in front of it, clutch in one hand, key card in the other, and for a second neither of us says anything.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For dinner?”

“For letting me take the lead in the meeting.”

He bounces a shoulder. “You deserved to. You’re the one who fixed the papers. I hope you realize that everyone involved with the NeuraTech project is going to think you’re a superstar for getting this over the line.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I insist.

“We’ve been working on this for years. Take the win, sweetheart.”

Before I can respond to that, he takes the card from my hand and taps it to the lock. “Get some sleep so you can ruin more men in suits tomorrow.” He leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the center of my forehead.

I blink up at him, speechless for a moment. Then he steps back, pushes the door open behind me, and slides his hands into his pockets like a man holding himself in place.

For a second I just stand there looking at him, dazed. I mean, who the fuck just kisses a woman on the forehead without warning?

“You too,” I say. “Sleep well, I mean.”

I wince and slip inside. The door closes with a muted click, and I stand in the entry of the suite with my pulse in my throat and my forehead still warm, listening to the silence where he used to be.

I make it four seconds.

“Fuck it,” I whisper.

Then I yank the door open.

He’s still there—mid-turn, like some part of him didn’t believe he’d actually get to leave. I fist both hands in his lapels and pull, and he comes without a smug pause or a joke, letting me haul him over the threshold.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I tell him.

He laughs, low and dark, his hands already finding my waist. “Pemberton. This means fucking everything.”

And I laugh—startled out of me, helpless, before I can stop it.

“Shut up and fuck me, Dominic. Before I change my mind.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER 4

Jenna

Dominic’s body is a tall, hot wall in the dark, and as soon as the door latches we’re braced against it, crashing together like we’re both trying to prove a point. It’s not a kiss. It’s an argument with our mouths. He tastes like whiskey and the aftermath of a decade’s worth of unfinished business.

“Pemberton,” he says, low, against my mouth.

“Don’t talk.”

His hands settle at my waist, then slide down and around, pulling me so tight I can actually feel the edge of his self-control vibrating under my hands. Every inch of him is against me, and I want more. I want to demolish the last twelve hours and the years before that. I want to pillage my own rules, rip “professionalism” off the wall, and see what’s left when I finally let him have what he’s been circling since day one.

“I’m going to talk. You’re too fucking hot, and I need to tell you.”