Page 25 of Dirty Damage

Or maybe I’m just thinking with my dick.

“You gonna tell me what this is really about?” Artem asks quietly as soon as the door slams closed behind the others.

I meet his knowing gaze. We’ve been through too much together for me to bullshit him.

“My mother wants a grandchild. The board wants me settled before they’ll consider my proposals for expanding the tech division.”

“And you think the daycare girl is the answer?”

I lean back, leather creaking beneath me. “I think she’s desperate enough to consider an arrangement. And I think having a woman like her on my arm won’t hurt when I’m trying to convince old-school Bratva gargoyles that I can lead us into the future.”

It’s a business arrangement. A deal we both benefit from. I’ll get my votes and Sutton won’t end up back in one of the shelters she crawled her way out of.

Artem’s expression darkens. “She’s not some pawn you can sacrifice, Oleg.”

“No,” I agree, standing and gathering the file. “She’s my solution.”

I pull up to the marina and climb out of my car. Salty wind whips off the water, carrying the scent of rotted wood and diesel fuel.

Usually, the rows of gleaming yachts along the horizon calm me, but tonight, my blood runs hot with anticipation.

Irritation spikes when I glance around the lot.

It’s empty.

She’s late.

Ten minutes late, to be precise. She canceled our meeting this morning, sending off a formal resignation to HR instead. Then I extend a lifeline and she doesn’t even show up?

She’s ungrateful.

If it were anyone else, this would be the end of the road.

Actually, the end of the road would’ve been when I found them half-naked in the locker room.

Somehow, fate and convenience have intervened to give Sutton Palmer another chance. Somehow, she’s become my best option to satiate the board and turn my father’s company into the success it always should’ve been.

Somehow, I find myself tied to her.

If she agrees, it could all be so simple. Clean.

So I find myself doing something I haven’t done in nineteen years: I wait.

Another five minutes pass, then her piece of shit Ford rattles into the parking lot, belching exhaust and dripping oil.

The car looks even worse up close—paint peeling, rust creeping along the wheel wells. It’s the kind of vehicle that screams “notice me” in all the wrong ways. Not the image I need for my future wife.

She sits behind the wheel for a long moment, and I can practically taste her hesitation. Whatever she thinks she’s walking into, she has no fucking clue.

When she finally opens the door, she uses it like a shield between us.

Maybe she has a small clue, after all.

I arch a brow at her over the door until she steps behind it. When she does, I almost wish she’d stayed in the car.

My eyes drop to her body, to the way her white t-shirt clings to her breasts. Those photos didn’t do her justice.

In person, she’s a fucking siren—all soft curves and haunted eyes that have me wanting to protect her almost as much as I want to corrupt her.

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