Forbidden Pleasure
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Taryn Leigh Taylor
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15,1K
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24
Chapter One
EMMA MATHISON WAS ready to get wild.
She reached up and undid the top button of her blouse.
Well, at least as wild as she could get for someone who was still in the office at eight o’clock on a Friday night.
At some point during the last three years, it had become the status quo—dinner at her desk, working until eight or nine, home to bed, and returning bright and early in the morning to do it all again. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d had plans. With a sigh, she leaned forward over the sink, inspecting herself in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
She barely recognized the professional-looking woman in the mirror. Blond chignon, subdued makeup, conservative blouse. The result of years spent focused everywhere but on herself—fighting to keep it together both financially and emotionally as Alzheimer’s stripped her beautiful, vivacious, hard-working mother of her memories, her personality and finally her life.
Emma touched her thumb to the simple silver band she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. Ana Petrović-Mathison’s most prized possession—her wedding ring. The loss was still a gut punch, but she made herself breathe through it. Her mother had worn it as a tribute to a life well-lived. Emma wore it now as a warning that life was short.
Fourteen-hour workdays that barely made a dent in the pile of medical bills. A roster of acquaintances on Facebook, but no real friends. A tiny apartment where no one waited to welcome her home. It scared Emma, the realization that if she suffered the same fate as her mother, if Alzheimer’s came for her one day, she had no memories to lose.
But there was still time to change that, to reclaim the woman she’d been before hospitals and hopelessness and grief had worn her down to a meek, biddable shell of her former self.
Starting now.
She tugged the bobby pins from her hair, shaking it out so it fell in loose waves down her back. Dropping the pins into her secondhand Michael Kors tote, she pulled out a tube of red lipstick. It had been an impulse purchase, the opposite of the pinks and nudes she usually opted for, but like the sexy lingerie hiding beneath her staid blouse and demure pencil skirt, it had been carefully chosen to keep her courage up.
And yeah, she thought, painting her lips ruby red before tucking the lipstick away, maybe the bathroom at Whitfield Industries was not the most auspicious place to launch her emancipation, but if she’d learned one thing over the last three years, it was that life wasn’t perfect.
If you waited for the stars to align, you missed out.
To that end, she readjusted her boobs to get every dollar’s worth of “lift and separate” out of her extravagantly priced bra and gave herself a final once-over.
With a deep breath, Emma stared at the daring, crimson-lipped woman reflecting back at her. The one who was about to go and seduce her boss.
“Time to make some memories,” she told her reflection.
She undid two more buttons on her blouse, grabbed her bag from the edge of the sink and then strode across the tiled floor with visions of the kick-ass, take-no-prisoners life she planned to live from here on out.
Despite her bathroom bravado, her pace slowed the closer she got to her target. Ignoring the sudden rush of nerves, Emma lifted her chin. “Do not chicken out now.” She said the words aloud, half admonishment, half plea. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she forced herself to turn the corner and the object of all her lusty fantasies came into view.
Max Whitfield.
It was often said that the CEO of Whitfield Industries was as handsome as he was controlled. Mostly, Emma had taught herself to ignore it, to focus on work. But tonight, standing outside the glass wall of his office for the last time, she let herself notice everything about him.
He was tirelessly poring over the files on his desk. His charcoal-gray jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up his tanned forearms. He’d loosened his red silk tie enough to pop the top button of his collar. Behind him, the lights of Los Angeles twinkled like fallen stars, but he kept his head down and his back to the million-dollar view. His modern, masculine office was lit only by his desk lamp and his computer screen, his preferred lighting scheme once the sun had set.
Max had always reminded her of a panther—beautiful and predatory and not to be underestimated. It wasn’t just his ebony hair and amber eyes, but the way he moved, lithe and graceful. Purposeful. No wasted movement. The constant threat of danger, even in repose.
He was the kind of man who made a woman wonder—when she unwrapped him, would she find that slick, urbane control went all the way to the core, or did it hide something more dangerous, something desperate to be unleashed?
In her fantasies, she vacillated between the two extremes—sometimes imagining him as a fiery, insatiable lover, sometimes ice-cold and bossy, controlled throughout.
And tonight, she intended to find out which version of Max was real.
She set her tote on his admin assistant’s desk—Sherri had left over an hour ago—and pulled out her employment contract. Here goes nothing. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward.
Max looked up sharply when she knocked, but the tightness in his jaw faded when he recognized her, and he motioned for her to enter. With a glance at his watch, he added, “I didn’t realize it was so late. What can I do for you, Emma?”
She covered her disappointment at his lack of reaction to her new look with a smile she hoped was more come-hither than professional.
His desk wasn’t ornate—the clean, simple lines of black onyx had always struck Emma as sleek and powerful, like the man who sat behind it. On a usual day, this would be the point where he launched into a rapid-fire series of orders, but tonight he said nothing, regarding her with the infamous poker face that Emma knew hid all manner of secrets.
She was careful not to let her hands shake as she set the contract on top of the files in front of him.
He ignored it, didn’t even glance down. Just stared at her from across the expanse of his desk, hypnotic golden eyes boring into hers with the intensity she’d come to associate with him. Max Whitfield didn’t do anything halfway.
“You didn’t sign it.”
It wasn’t a question.
She didn’t ask how he knew.
Max hadn’t taken his family’s scandal-ridden company from the brink of bankruptcy to a tech juggernaut within the span of five years by not knowing how to read people.
Only then did she realize she’d given herself away and was absently twisting the plain silver band on her middle finger. She dropped her hands and lifted her chin.
“So you’re really going through with this?”
“If by this, you mean quitting, then yes. I’m really going through with this.” Emma pushed a small metal statue of a horse’s head with a mane of flames out of the way so she could perch a hip on the corner of his desk before she crossed her left leg over her right. It was a bold move, not one she’d ever made before, but this was a now-or-never situation—and she was Team Now, all the way. At least until he cocked an eyebrow at the liberty she’d just taken.
Her heart thudded in slow, thick beats as he trailed his imperious gaze down her body and let it linger for a moment too long on her knee, making her excruciatingly aware of how far her dress had slid up her thigh when she’d sat.
God, if having his eyes on her could make her feel this good, she couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.
She waited patiently until he’d looked his fill and flicked his attention back to her face.
The raw power of him made Emma’s skin hum with potential, but she faced down the electricity’s source. Max didn’t respect cowards. He lived in a world of high-stakes negotiations where death was preferable to shows of weakness.
“I don’t know what more I can say.”
“That’s easy,” Max countered, leaning back in his chair. “Say you’ll stay.”
The statement hung between them, suspended in air so thick it brushed against her skin and left goose bumps in its wake. They’d always had chemistry. Since the first time they’d laid eyes on one another. And with the same sardonic expression on his face as he wore now, he’d given her the research and development job she’d so brazenly demanded. In the space of a handshake, the sexual awareness bubbling between them had been leashed, muzzled and banished by unspoken agreement to the dungeon of professionalism.
But ever since she’d handed in her notice three weeks ago, and he’d countered with the very generous terms outlined in the unsigned contract she’d just placed on his desk, the sensual beast had awoken, prowling in the shadows, growing bolder, encroaching more often and more forcefully as their time together drew to an end. And tonight, she was going to let it loose.
Emma didn’t move. And this time she would not speak first.
There was a note of respect in his voice when he conceded. “What will it take?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How much? Name your price.”
It was as close to begging as she’d ever heard him get. She didn’t like the answering flutter in her chest that made her want to stay. Max had a way of taking control, and she couldn’t afford to let him. Not tonight.
“This isn’t a negotiation. I don’t have a price.”
Max steepled his fingers, looking like every titan of industry in every anti-capitalist movie ever made. “Everyone has a price.”
Her answering laugh was tinged with scorn. “Really, Max? Resorting to tired clichés already? I’d always credited you with more stamina than that.”
The slow grin that dawned across his handsome features stirred something deep and primal in her belly, a silent refutation of her verbal jab that let her know that he could more than provide whatever she needed for as long as she needed it. It was a rare smile for him, not the feral one he used for business, but the charming one that slipped out sometimes when he was genuinely amused.
“What can I say? I have a deep appreciation for the classics.” Max dropped his hands, then sat forward in his chair. “Now, get off my desk. You don’t work here anymore.”
Emma had already followed the command before she realized she’d done it. Dammit. No retreat, she reminded herself, straightening the seams of her black pencil skirt, wishing the slit was a little more daring, achingly aware of the garters beneath. Ignoring the implied dismissal, she crossed her arms over her chest, taking care to enhance her cleavage as she did so. “You’re right. So maybe you should pour me a drink. We can toast the end of our working relationship.”
Oh God. Had she just said that?
He raised a contemplative eyebrow.
It was hard to breathe.
Without a word, he stood in that dangerously graceful way he had and walked over to the sideboard near the window. Her heart gave a funny little lurch at the realization it was the last time she was going to see him.
She allowed her gaze to linger a moment, to fix the height and breadth of him in her mind. The quiet authority of him as, with quick, efficient movements, Max pulled the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured a drink.
Then he poured another, which caused a completely different kind of lurch, this one much, much lower than her heart.
This was going to happen.
Emma’s palms prickled as he grabbed both glasses and joined her in front of his desk. The fact that he stood about a foot closer than he’d ever stood before was not lost on her. She accepted the drink he held out to her, her skin slick against the expensive crystal.
Max regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he raised his glass. “To whatever comes next.”
His voice was deep, rich and more intoxicating than the premium liquor he’d handed her.
She clinked her glass to his and joined him in a sip of his preferred single malt Scotch.
The liquid was smooth and strong as it slipped over her tongue.
“Tell me it’s not Kearney.”
“What?”
“Tell me you’re not leaving to work for that son of a bitch.”
Emma was oddly touched by the surly order that namechecked his most hated rival, the CEO of Cybercore. In Max-speak, that might be as close as she would ever get to “It’s been nice working with you.” Not that she was fishing for compliments.
“Why would you think that?” she asked, taking another sip.
“Because business is war. You have to take what you want. And Liam Kearney has a long history of taking what’s mine.”
Emma choked on her mouthful of Scotch.
Surely he hadn’t meant...
She glanced up at his stern, handsome face, but his eyes were shuttered, focused on the liquid swirling in the glass thanks to a practiced flick of his wrist, like he was lost in an unpleasant memory.
Her voice was soft when she finally spoke, and despite her better judgment, held the reverence of a vow. “I’m not going to work for that son of a bitch.”
Emma was vindicated by the twitch of his lips that betrayed, if not outright relief, at least mild amusement, though she wasn’t sure if it was at the solemnness of her response or at himself for stooping to ask the question. “Drink your Scotch, Emma.”
It sounded almost like a warning. She stared at the contents of her glass. “We’ve never had a drink together before.” The words were unnecessary, obvious, but she couldn’t stop them anymore than she could stop her gaze from lifting to his.
If she hadn’t spent the last three years working with him, day in and day out, she might have missed the tick in his jaw, the subtle darkening of his eyes.
“You’ve never not worked for me before,” he countered, raising the glass to his lips.
Heat flared in her belly, incinerating the oxygen and making it hard to breathe. Her skin buzzed at the change in the atmosphere.
She fortified herself with another sip of the amber liquid that was as heady and intoxicating as the look in his eyes. Warmth tingled through her.
“And that...changes things?” she asked, testing the waters.
Max tossed back the rest of his drink and set the heavy crystal on his desk with undue precision. She felt him breathe, as though he’d stolen all the air from around her for a moment, before it came back in a rush.
“Change is inevitable.”
The urge to give into the pull of him, the magnetism, was overwhelming.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Emma stepped closer, raised up on her tiptoes, leveraging every inch from the platforms of her discount Louboutins.
Their breath mingled as she brushed her lips softly against his.
The sweet shock of what she’d done made her knees weak, and she steadied herself with her right palm against his chest. The hard muscle leaped beneath her fingers, like he was bracing himself for whatever came next. Emboldened by his reaction and warmed by the afterburn of the best Scotch the world had to offer, Emma leaned closer and pressed her mouth to his again, lingering this time to sample the delicious heat flickering between them.
She kept her eyes closed as she settled back into her black heels, cementing the feel of his lips beneath hers, the tingle of contact racing through her veins, even as she pulled her hand back from his chest. When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, controlled and handsome as ever, his face devoid of any particular expression. The way he looked at the negotiation table.
She let herself smile anyway. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. You’re right. Taking what you want is incredibly...satisfying.”
He stepped even closer, and Emma’s head swam from his proximity as she lifted her chin to maintain eye contact.
“Are you?” The question, delivered without emotion, caught her off guard.
“Am I what?”
“Are you satisfied? Because I’m not.”
She didn’t even realize that she was still holding the highball glass in her left hand until he tugged it from her numb fingers and set it on the edge of his desk. The muted thud barely registered on her consciousness as something wicked sparked in the amber gaze that held her rapt. “What’s happening right now has always been...”
She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move.
Time slipped by to the heavy thud of her pulse and her mind spun, desperate to fill in the blank.
Inappropriate?
Illogical?
Insane?
Max slid his hands in his pockets, the outward picture of relaxed male elegance, but when he spoke, his tone was low and rough.
“Inevitable.”
