Page 69 of His Hold

“Any other requirements?”

“Just her. Now.”

My phone goes quiet, but the restless itch doesn’t ease. I can’t get her out of my head.

It’s been years since I’ve let anyone past my walls. And somehow she tore through them like they were nothing.

She’s going to be the end of me. And I’ve never looked forward to anything more.

Finally, I dismiss Pavel and tackle one last round of urgent calls before heading to the hotel. The Continental serves as neutral ground for our kind of business. Discrete. Expensive. Perfect for meetings, both legitimate and otherwise.

The suite offers a spectacular view of the city skyline, but my attention is fixed on the door. I loosen my tie, pour two fingers of whiskey, and wait.

***

I can’t believe she’s fifteen minutes late, which isn’t a lot, if I’m being honest, but still enough to set my nerves ablaze. I pace around the hotel room, brandy in hand, the glass slick against my palm as I try to figure out why Katya could be late. I have a myriad of thoughts and likely scenarios run through my head, each one darker than the last, but none of them stick. I try her cell phone and come up short.

Maybe she just isn’t coming. It’s the likely scenario. Maybe I’ve scared her off by wanting too much from her, by craving her in ways that feel unhinged even to me. Shit! I’m not usually like this with anyone, so this leaves me pretty winded.

Then, I hear a knock, and the blood rushes back to my body. I’m weirdly elated at the prospect of meeting her away from the house and familiar territory, of acting out a fantasy that’s been in my head for days.

I move to the door and open it. Katya stares back at me sheepishly, holding her purse in front of her like a shield.

I take in her clothing first, my eyes raking over her with greedy intent. She’s wearing a black business shirt with two of the buttons undone, a tease of skin that makes my mouth water, paired with a crisp grey skirt that hugs every curve, and low heels that beg to be kicked off.

Her hair is sleek and tied back into a neat ponytail, a perfect handle for later. To complete her look, she wears glasses, and fuck, they make her look like every depraved office fantasy I’ve ever had.

We walk inside, and she sits across from me.

“Mr. Ramensky? I’m your temporary assistant.” Even her voice is different, dripping with a sultry edge I didn’t know she could wield. I don’t know how she does this—how she’s able to completely push down lengthy tones to sound both breathless and confident—but I like it, no, I fucking crave it.

I lean back in my chair, admiring how the sunlight catches her hair. “References?”

“Excellent oral skills.” She crosses her legs slowly. “Very dedicated to pleasing management.”

“Prove it.”

She stands and slides into my lap. “How would you like me to demonstrate?”

I trace her lower lip with my thumb. “Use your intuition.”

Her kiss burns away the frustrations of the morning. She tastes like coffee and promises, familiar yet thrilling. My hands roam under her shirt, finding bare skin.

“This is very unprofessional,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“File a complaint.”

She laughs, the sound brightening the sterile hotel room. “With HR?”

“With me.” I unbutton her blouse slowly, savoring each inch of exposed skin. “I take feedback very seriously.”

“I bet you do.” Her fingers work my tie loose. “Maybe we should discuss my performance review.”

“Definitely needs a thorough evaluation.” My lips trail down her neck. “Multiple assessments required.” But I stop, gently push her off and stand, walking away from her. This is torture, but I’m also aching with the need to punish her for making me wait.

“Is anything wrong, sir?”

“You were fifteen minutes late. I’m sure you heard I hate being kept waiting. I should fire you right now.”

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