Page 60 of The Owner's Temptation

I hear the screech of brakes as the train barrels around the corner, slowing.

“Gotta go,” I say. “Train’s here and you know I get zero reception in the tunnels.”

“Fine,” she relents, dramatic as ever. “But mark my words—by next week you’re either solving your Lucian frustration or letting the Devil rail you into next Thursday. Honestly, go for both. Split the difference. One at each end.”

I bark out a laugh. “Bye, Harp.”

“The Devil would totally get the caboose. Youknowhe’s an ass man.”

“You’re horrible. I love you.”

“Love you too, baby girl. Text me when you’re free.”

I hang up as the doors slide open and step inside, still grinning.

God help me, she might be right.

The Devil probablyisan ass man.

The train ride is a blur. So is the walk from the station to my building, my heels snapping against the pavement, every step rattling with residual irritation—and something else simmering beneath my skin. Not anger. Not really.

Tension. That’s what it is. A slow, constant hum beneath my skin, sparking in my blood like a fuse that refuses to burn out.

My apartment is quiet when I step inside, the late afternoon light spilling through the gauzy curtains. It’s warm. Peaceful. Soft. The creams and dusty rose tones I picked for the decor hug me like a favorite sweater. It should settle me.

It doesn’t.

I drop my bag by the entryway and head to my bedroom, but I don’t begin changing my clothes. Not yet. My short black dress hugs my thighs and still clings with the faintest imprint of my body heat. My sheer hose—gartered beneath—give the illusion of innocence and sin stitched into one as my heels lengthen my legs.

I collapse backward onto the bed, my arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling.

His voice rings in my ears.

Sit.

Eat.

His voice is a command. Always is. But when it turns soft?

Good.

You did well.

Those words—low and gruff, shaped by that perfect mouth—slip into the silence and turn molten inside me.

God, I want to hear him say that with his lips against my skin. Right behind my ear, where it’s most sensitive. I want to feel the scrape of his stubble along the base of my neck. His hands—big and rough, so different from mine—sliding down my bare back. I want to feel those calluses dragging across smooth skin.

My own fingers run up my stomach. Around the curve of my breasts over my clothes.

Chills run up my arms as the thoughts deepen. The images become clearer.

I sit up slowly, breath catching in my throat.

My fingers close around the cool knob of my bedside drawer and grip the matte handle of my vibrator. I pull it out and stare at it for a moment, my pulse ticking in my throat.

I’m still in my work clothes.

Short black dress. Sheer stockings suspended by delicate straps that hook onto lace. No one knows what’s underneath. No one but me.

---