Page 30 of Dial F for Finance

I could push back, make a scene of this—point to the fact that he’s in my bed, that it was a one-time thing, and it’s time for him to get up and go. But the world doesn’t work like bullet points. Not when it’s four in the morning and your body still wants him inside you.

“I wasn’t trying to escape. I was thinking about peeing,” I say.

He laughs once, low in his chest. “Thinking?”

“Needing.”

He catches my eye and lifts his chin, like there’s a world record for cocky post-fuck posture and he’s been training for years. “Go pee, Jen.” He props his head on a fist and lets his gaze roam, slow and proprietary. “But be quick about it.”

I narrow my eyes. “Or what?”

“Or I’m coming in there after you,” he says.

“No,” I start. “I don’t think that’s wise. We work together and . . .” I let out a sigh and force the words out. “This is never happening again.”

Dominic’s grin appears slowly. “Never?”

“Never.”

“That’s a shame. I was just working out the logistics of fucking you against the bathroom counter.” His grin goes sharper. “Tokyo sinks are the perfect height.”

I want to say I don’t believe him. I want to say I can’t be manipulated by this routine. But my body’s already getting hot at the thought—his hands on my hips, his mouth at my shoulder, my thighs braced against whatever surface is nearest.

I retreat to the bathroom, slam the door purely for show, and brace my palms on the counter. The mirror is gigantic and merciless. My hair’s a disaster, my lips are still swollen, and there’s a flush at my throat that’s not going away anytime soon.

I could, in theory, lock the door.

I don’t.

Instead, I pee, splash water on my face, and try to fix my hair. There’s a knock at the door, followed by his voice, all faux-innocence and low threat: “You OK in there?”

I exhale slowly. “I’m fine.”

The door opens anyway, and Dominic is framed in the doorway, completely naked, a hand braced at the jamb like he’s giving the version of me in mirror time to invite him in. My eyes trail down to his already hard cock, and my whole body comes alive in anticipation. I hate that it does and love it just as much.

He surveys the scene—a tangle of me, standing here just as naked, dignity halfway up my throat—and smirks. Then he steps over the threshold, crowding me against the counter in two long strides.

“Lean forward and open your legs, Jen.”

I want to tell him to fuck off.

Instead, my knees go soft and I melt into the granite, biting back the shudder that runs from the back of my neck down through the insides of my thighs.

Dominic slides behind me, his hands spanning my hips, and for a single electric second I feel his chest at my spine, his cock hot and hard at the line where my body curves out.

He bends over, voice in my ear, all teeth and sin. “You know I’m going to ruin you, right?”

“I’m not that easy to ruin.”

His laugh is dark, a bruise of a sound. “Thank fuck.”

His hand slides up, finds my breast, palm rough against the still-sore skin. He drags his thumb across my nipple until I gasp, then kisses my neck just above the pulse that’s gone frantic. He finds my gaze in the mirror. I hate that I look back, unable to look away. He holds the contact as he tugs my hips back and lines himself up, the head of his cock sliding slick between my legs and nudging against where I’m wet and ready for him.

He pushes in, slow at first, his thickness stretching me until my nerves catch fire and there’s nothing in the world but this—him, me, the cool edge of stone under my hands and the pressure building edge to edge until I’m nearly wild. I watch our faces in the mirror, his eyes dark and dangerous, jaw tense, a curl of a smile when I bite down on a moan and fail to hide it.

“Keep looking at me,” he says, low, “or I’ll stop.”

I meet his gaze in the glass. It’s too much—intimate, unfiltered—but something in me claws for it. He starts to move, slow and measured, letting me feel every inch, every withdrawal and slide. The angle is criminal. My legs shake and I widen them further, the flush on my skin darkening to match the heat that climbs up my chest.