Page 38 of Beautiful Enemy

Harrison King might boast about his empire, but he has the goods to back it up, having built a massive company himself.

Would he be as capable if he applied himself to the challenge of a woman?

I know he would.

What I’m less sure of is whether he’d plow through her, demand she bend to his every need until she’s so caught up in his storm she can’t resist it…

Or whether he’d check his ambition long enough to learn what she wants. To explore and test and play, to step out of his need for power like I watched him step out of his clothes that night at the beach.

I swallow, affected by both versions.

Spending a night with him would be more than a quick fix. He’d get under my skin more than he already has.

If Callie knew this man was the object of my lust, she’d tell me to run away, and she’d be right.

“I don’t think so.”

His gaze narrows as he folds his arms across his chest. “You don’twantto spend an evening with me.”

I cross to his desk, lift the letter opener off the blotter, and hold it out. “In case you need help scraping yourself off the ground.”

But before I can turn, a hand closes around my wrist, hot and firm and strong.

“I said it would be more appropriate if you dated my brother. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Really? You’re so damned subtle it’s hard to keep up,” I taunt.

Bad idea.

His thumb brushes the underside of my wrist. Soft, deliberate.

My pulse leaps in response, and the letter opener clatters to the desktop.

“I need a date, and you owe me three favors,” he drawls. “Consider this the first.”

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until he releases me again. “So, what, I’m supposed to dress like a spoiled socialite for the evening and parade around on your arm as if I want your money and your cock?”

A slow smirk curves his mouth as he turns the letter opener in his fingers without breaking my gaze. “Not necessarily in that order.”

10

Rae

This is a bad fucking idea.

I take a deep breath as I turn back to the mirror. The dress is the color of tangerines, ripe and lush.

It’s cut high at the front, circling my neck like a collar. The back is nonexistent, starting above the top of my ass. The skirt has a high slit up one thigh, and the long fabric on either side ripples when I turn or walk.

Before I could ask Ash what to wear or browse shops on my own, the box appeared on my bed.

The sky-high wedge sandals that came with the dress are the same color as my skin. They’re uncomfortable as hell when I fasten them around my ankles, but before I can decide whether to take them off, a knock sounds on my door.

“I understand most women consider tardiness a virtue, but I didn’t expect it of you,” comes the grumpy British voice from the other side.

I pull it open an inch, and my chest contracts.

Harrison King is breathtaking in his tux. James Bond come to life, with a hard body, sculpted lips, strong hands, and eyes that promise to steal your secrets and keep them for himself.

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