Filthy Promises: Chapter 21

I wake up the morning after Vince’s date with Irina Petrov feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. A sexy, confusing truck that touched my thigh under the table while he was supposed to be wooing his future Russian mob princess.

God, I’m pathetic.

I drag myself through my morning routine, trying not to replay the events of last night. Especially not the part in the car where his fingers slipped under my dress and⁠—

Nope. Not thinking about that. Absolutely not.

By the time I get to the office, I’ve convinced myself that today will be completely normal and professional. Like nothing happened. Like I don’t know what my boss’s fingers feel like against my skin.

Diane gives me her usual corpse-like nod as I pass her desk. “He’s waiting for you,” she says.

Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

I take a deep breath, straighten my blazer (navy blue, sensible, absolutely nothing like the green dress that apparently makes Vince Akopov want to grope my thigh), and walk to my desk.

There’s a coffee cup waiting for me.

And next to it, a small note card.

My fingers tremble as I pick it up. The handwriting is elegant, precise.

I thought of you when I came last night.

Intense heat rips across my face, so scorching it’s a miracle my makeup doesn’t melt. I quickly crumple the note, glancing around to make sure no one has seen it. When I look up, Vince is standing in his doorway, watching me with that infuriating smirk.

“Good morning, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice is smooth as velvet, like not a single thing is amiss. “I hope you slept well.”

“Fine, thank you,” I manage, my voice impressively steady considering I’m on fire from the inside out.

“Good. I need you in my office for dictation in five minutes.”

He disappears back into his lair, leaving me to contemplate how many labor laws he’s currently violating.

And why I’m so desperately turned on by it.

Get it together, Rowan. Professional, remember? You’re being professional.

Five minutes later, I enter his office, notepad in hand, the very picture of efficiency. If you ignore my burning cheeks and the way my heart is trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest.

“Close the door,” he orders without looking up from his computer.

I do, then take my usual seat across from his desk.

“The Nakamura contracts,” he begins, completely businesslike. “I need you to review the terms before we proceed.”

He stands and walks around the desk, circling behind my chair. I can feel his presence looming over me like a storm cloud. His hands come to rest on the back of my chair, so close to my shoulders I can feel the heat radiating from them.

“The terms are… particular,” he continues, leaning down to speak directly into my ear. “You’ll need to pay very close attention.”

His breath tickles my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“I always pay attention, Mr. Akopov,” I reply, proud that my voice only quavers slightly.

“Do you?” His fingers brush against my neck as he straightens, the touch so light it could be accidental.

But nothing Vince does is ever accidental.

I spend the next hour taking notes while he paces around me, finding reasons to brush against me, to lean over my shoulder, to stand close enough that I can feel the heat of him. By the time we finish, I’m wound so tight I might shatter if he so much as looks at me wrong.

I’m halfway to the door when he clears his throat. It’s becoming a ritual now—just when I’m one step shy of safety, he throws something in my lap that he knows will sear its way through my brain for the rest of the day.

He enjoys the game, I think. No, I know it. All I have to do is meet those frigid blue eyes to see that he’s loving every second of me writhing at his mercy.

I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t love it, too.

Slowly, like it’ll be the last thing I ever do, I turn around again. He looks incredible like this, framed by the floor-to-ceiling backdrop of Earth’s greatest city. He is wealth, he is rugged, he is raw, masculine, beautiful, untouchable. His desk is an ocean of black wood that’s begging to be ruined by my moans. His eyes say he’ll never let me get close to that.

“It’s true, you know.”

I frown in confusion. “What is?”

“The note. I thought of you.”

Jaw, meet floor.

It’s one thing to write that stuff down. I mean, yes, it’s one filthy, naughty, toxic, irresistible thing.

But to have the balls to say it out loud? And to say it like that, no less? With a voice that’s pure sex and tattooed, capable hands that are pure sin?

It should be illegal.

I gulp, nod, and run.

The pattern continues for three more days. Each morning, I find a new note on my desk.

Thinking of your thigh under my hand.

Your blush is my favorite color.

Tell me what you’re wearing underneath.

Each day, he finds new ways to brush against me, to stand too close, to make me aware of him in ways that are distinctly unprofessional.

And each night, I go home alone, frustrated and furious with myself for wanting more.

On the fifth day, something in me snaps.

I stare at myself in the mirror before work, really looking at the woman reflected back at me. Mousy. Hiding. Playing it safe.

“No more,” I whisper to my reflection. “Two can play this game.”

I reach for the back of my closet, pulling out the pieces I never wear. The silk blouse with the daring neckline. The pencil skirt that’s just a bit too tight. The heels that make my legs look a mile long.

I take extra time with my makeup, too. Smoky eyes. Pink cheeks. And a bold red lipstick I bought on a whim and never had the courage to wear.

When I walk into the office, Diane actually does a double-take.

“Ms. St. Clair,” she says, something almost like approval in her voice. “Striking choice.”

I just smile and continue to my desk.

There’s a note waiting for me, as expected. Today’s is chaste by comparison.

Dinner with Katerina Volkov tonight. Wear the dress being delivered at noon.

I tuck the note into my drawer and get to work.

When Vince emerges from his office an hour later, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. “Ms. St. Clair,” he says, his eyes darkening as they take in my transformation. “This is a new look for you.”

I smile up at him, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster. “Is it inappropriate, Mr. Akopov?”

“Not at all.” His voice has dropped an octave. “It’s refreshing.”

I stand, making sure to brush against him as I reach for a file. “I’m glad you approve.”

His eyes follow me as I walk to the filing cabinet, lingering on the sway of my hips.

Game.

Fucking.

On.

For the rest of the day, I mirror his tactics. I find reasons to touch him—straightening his tie before a meeting, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, letting our fingers linger when passing documents.

I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. His eyes following the movement of my lips as I talk on the phone. He inhales sharply when I bend at the waist to retrieve a dropped pen.

When his coffee arrives at three, as it does every day, I intercept it.

“Let me,” I tell the delivery guy with a pouty, sultry wink that he’s powerless to resist.

I take the cup to my desk first. After making sure Vince is occupied on a call, I press my lips to the rim, leaving a perfect red imprint. Then I carry it into his office, setting it down directly in front of him.

“Your coffee, Mr. Akopov,” I say, making sure to lean forward just enough to give him a glimpse of what’s beneath my silk blouse.

He looks up, his eyes immediately dropping to my cleavage before moving to the coffee cup. When he spots the lipstick mark, his eyes narrow.

“Thank you, Ms. St. Clair.”

I turn to leave, putting an extra sway in my step.

“Rowan,” he calls after me.

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yes?”

He picks up the cup, his eyes never leaving mine, and deliberately places his lips exactly where mine had been.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says after taking a sip.

I smile, feeling bolder than I ever have. “I’m just following your lead, Mr. Akopov.”

“Be careful what you start,” he warns, but there’s heat in his eyes that makes my knees weak. “You might not be prepared for how it ends.”

“Or maybe,” I say, surprising myself with my daring, “you’re the one who isn’t prepared.”

I walk out before he can respond, my heart pounding a victory march in my chest.

For the first time since this cat-and-mouse game began, I feel like I might actually have the upper hand.