Page 32 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Stole my control in the situation. Left me rudderless, powerless.
Resentment stirs in my chest, mixing with the desire, creating a murky, swirling mess so I can’t extricate one emotion from the other.
A starkness enters her eyes, and she briefly closes them before glancing away, her hair concealing most of her profile. Fisting those curls and moving them out of the way so I can see her expression, her thoughts, is such a fierce urge I shift away from her. As far back as the chair permits.
“I didn’t think about that. About stealing your voice. I’m truly sorry for that.”
I believe her. But I’m not letting it go that easily. It isn’t in my interest to.
“Look at me,” I say softly. I order softly. And a coil in my gut draws almost painfully, sweetly tight when she obeys. “You owe me. And I’m offering a form of ... penance.”
She loses that pained, haunted expression, and anger tautens the skin across her cheekbones, emphasizing their boldness, their strength. Her jaw flexes the tiniest bit, but I catch it, and as perverse as it might make me, my cock pounds at the signs of her ire. Yeah, I’m turned on, and part of me is hoping she takes it out on me with teeth and nails.
Well shit. When did I become a man who enjoyed an edge of pain with his pleasure?
The answer?
Zora.
When the possibility arose that I might be the receptacle of that pain/pleasure if she was the one doling it out.
“Penance?” She bitespenanceoff in a way that should have my cock flinching in horror, but nope. Apparently, it’s made of much sterner stuff.
“Or think of it as an arrangement. An arrangement between acquaintances.” I shrug.
“Is that supposed to sound better?” she grinds out. “Why don’t you explain what you mean by both before I pick up my coffee, book, and go home?”
I’ve never believed that bullshit cliché of women being beautiful when they’re angry. Until now. She’s absolutely transcendent. And possibly dangerous.
I slip her cup from her fingers while she’s distracted and set it down on the floor on the other side of me.
“Let me start at the beginning.” And I do, telling her the abridged version of originally being hired by Ryson, Dare, and Gregerson LLC, the culture there, being up for a partnership, and, finally, about the corporate retreat.
“You don’t find that a little misogynistic at all?” she asks, nose wrinkled.
“How so?”
“They want partners who are solid, grounded, family oriented? What about the women who decide they don’t want children—or a husband, for that matter?” She squints at him. “Here’s another question. What’s the percentage of women in your firm? Partners?”
I see where she’s going with this, and she’s not wrong. Out of thirty associates, five are women, and only one is being considered for partnership.
“Your silence speaks volumes.” She snorts and curls her fingers at me. “Gimme my coffee. Your family jewels are safe from me ... for the time being.”
Controlling the smile that’s fighting to slip across my mouth, I hand her the warm to-go cup.
“Good ol’-fashioned misogyny aside,” she continues, dark eyes fixed on me over the coffee-cup lid. “What does this have to do with me or any ... arrangement?” Her lips twist on the last word, as if sucking on a shit-flavored lollipop.
I inhale a long deliberate breath, hold it for several seconds, and then release it. Meeting that unwavering stare, I lean forward, voice lowered.
“This retreat is pretty much a casual vetting process for the associates being considered for partnership. Every person on that list will be bringing their wife, fiancé, or partner. Since mine just recently broke up with me, I find myself in need of a substitute. You.”
She blinks, eyes going blank with shock for a moment. But as comprehension dawns in the chocolate depths, anger joins it. And another, foggier, murkier emotion that I can’t ...
“That’s crazy,” she snaps. “And if this is your idea of a joke orpenance,” she practically snarls, “then let me tell you what you can do with it. And be warned. It starts withshoveand ends withup your ass.”
Her glare and the blast of heat from her fury could peel the skin from my bones. And it requires every ounce of control I’ve earned and learned over the years not to lean closer into that fire, not to beg her to singe me with it. Lust battles with curiosity, the need to know where that anger originates. So I can extinguish it.
“It’s not a joke,” I say. “I wouldn’t joke about something as important as my job and the future of my career.”
