Page 2 of Fake Maid

“I’m more of an eReader kind of girl.”

“And what do you read on your eReader?”

She smirks, the expression sending a bolt of heat down my spine.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes. God, yes. Desperately. I consider ordering her to tell me. She’s my employee, is she not? But something tells me throwing my weight around this girl won’t bring me answers—only her censure.

I don’t want her censure. I want her silky red hair wrapped around my cock. I want to sink my thumb into the wet heat of her mouth, and I want her to moan around my knuckle.

Fuck. Who is this girl? I peer at her, mind racing as I try to put a face to the name. I glance over the resume and background check of every member of staff in this mansion; surely I’d remember a face like hers.

I snap my fingers. “Coral! You’re Coral Walsh.” Never have I been so pleased with my memory.

Just like that, the maid frosts over. The warm openness fades away, and she draws herself up. Her posture stiffens, and her smile turns polite.

“That’s right, Mr. Koven.”

“Call me Eli.”

She tilts her head. “Do the other maids call you that?”

“No.” I’ve barely exchanged two words with the other maids.

“Then I’d rather not, thank you, sir.”

Her words are polite but cold, and I don’t understand. Where has the teasing warmth of a few seconds ago gone? I frown at her, but she nods at me, unbowed, and crosses to the desk where she drifts the duster over the polished wood.

I clear my throat.

“What happened to your hand?”

She glances over at me, eyes quick, then looks back at her work.

“A cyclist came onto the sidewalk. And you?”

I look down at the plaster cast and snowy white bandages on my left hand. With her in the room, I’d almost forgotten its dull ache.

“A rock climbing accident.”

Coral hums, smile wicked. “Self inflicted, then.”

Yes.She’s back with me.

“Guilty, your honor.”

“Do you often bash yourself against rocks?” The teasing lilt to her voice has returned, and I can’t help myself. I wander closer, eager to be near her. As near as she’ll allow.

“At least once a day. Twice on Sundays.”

“Ah.” She nods sagely. “So it’s not for fun. You’re repenting your sins.”

I actually consider that for all of a moment before I dismiss it as a joke. I don’t climb to repent; I climb for the thrill. Everything I do—my work, my hobbies, my life—comes down to seeking that electric crackle of excitement.

That’s why I build the best tech. Drive the fastest cars. Jump out of planes and eat the spiciest food I can order.

“It’s true. I am a sinner down to my bones.”

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