Page 26 of Dirty Damage

I drag a hand through my hair to center myself. My voice comes out cold and controlled even as my cock twitches.

“You’re late.”

A blush stains her cheeks pink. “I sent in my resignation before you asked for this meeting. I don’t work for you anymore.”

There’s that backbone again. Her voice shakes, but she levels me with eyes as blue as the ocean behind us.

The mix of strength and vulnerability makes me want to test her, to push her to her limits just to see how she’ll break.

“Then why come at all?”

I take a step closer, gravel crunching under my Italian leather shoes. She tightens her grip on the car door, knuckles going white. The gesture is small but telling: she’s afraid of me.

Good.

She should be.

The scars on my face are just the beginning of my darkness. But something tells me she’s got shadows of her own.

“It’s because you’re here to listen to my job offer.”

She stiffens, letting me know I’ve hit the mark. She needs this job as much as I need her to accept it.

“I wasn’t sure if you were serious, to be honest.”

“I’m a serious man, Ms. Palmer.” I let my gaze drift over her deliberately. When our eyes meet again, her breath catches. “And I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

After a beat, she slams the car door closed with a rusty shriek that cuts through the soft hush of the water lolling against the dock.

She lifts her chin, and there’s something in the quiet strength of her that calls to the beast in me.

It makes me want to claim and possess and mark. To show her what kind of man she’s dealing with.

Nothing about her slimy ex-boyfriend prepared her for what’s about to happen.

“Come with me.”

I turn toward my yacht, not bothering to check to see if she follows. I know she will.

She may act defiant, but she’s curious—or desperate—enough to play my game. Now, I just have to make sure she understands the rules.

And what happens to little girls who break them.

8

SUTTON

“Let me give you a tour.”

His leather shoes pound against the shiny wood of the deck. “Lounge,” he announces, flicking a hand out of his pocket long enough to gesture to the leather couches, fully-stocked, mahogany bar, and massive TV.

Each room we see gets a couple words—engine room, salon, captain’s quarters. Any other day, I’d want to know absolutely everything about who made the yacht and who shuffled through whichever home good stores billionaires shop at, looking for gold sconces and rugs plush enough to double as beds.

I picture Oleg with a Pinterest board titledYacht Goalsand have to stifle a delirious laugh.

It’s posh, obnoxious luxury in every direction, but he doesn’t stop long enough for me to admire things.

Not that I could, anyway. I’m on my own tour—a mental journey through every mistake that has paved the way to this moment.

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