Her Dirty Little Secret

She scanned the two-hundred-strong audience, sipping her champagne to chase away the demons that lurked beneath her polished exterior. Although her eyes focussed on the show, her mind wandered.

Back to Jack.

Her initial shock at seeing him again had faded quickly. Her annoyance at him holding the sale of Morris Building to ransom simmered. But the few stolen moments in his apartment this afternoon...? They played in a continuous looped film reel behind her eyes, every intensely erotic, libidinous moment relived over and over.

Surely she’d exhausted her supply of female hormones? She shifted, pressing her thighs together and leaning back against the wall in case she slid to the hardwood floor in a puddle of lust.

Just like the first time he’d touched her so intimately, he’d commanded her body, turned her inside out, thrust her so hard into an intense orgasm she’d literally seen stars.

She’d never known anything like it, not even with her ex-fiancé, not since the first one, also at Jack’s hands. And what talented hands they were.

She swallowed, face flushed with heat. Of course, there’d been one or two others since Jack. Not many, her troubled teens merging with her underwhelming early twenties—a time when most girls spread their sexual wings. But Harley had been too preoccupied with overcoming her dyslexia enough to prove her father wrong and get her college degree, albeit in a subject Hal considered more of a hobby—fashion design.

She’d even come close to marrying, again in an attempt to improve her standing in her father’s eyes. If she couldn’t be a Jacob Holdings’ executive, she could marry one... But she’d quickly realised her error—she and Phil, although he was Hal-approved, were ultimately too different. And she had no intention of becoming a Hal Jacob puppet by proxy. Hal and Phil, cut from similar cloth, shared too many opinions about Harley’s career, or, as they saw it and frequently commented, her lack of one.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted seconds before the warm breath whispered across her skin. She froze, either instinct or her body’s imprinting onto the only man with whom she’d discovered such overwhelming pleasure warning her it was Jack.

‘Still stalking me, I see.’ His low voice vibrated against the sensitive skin of her neck, tingles spreading to her toes via her in-sync-with-Jack clit. It seemed she possessed an inexhaustible supply of hormones where this man was concerned.

She spun so quickly, she sloshed champagne from her glass over the back of her hand, a few spots landing on the front of her dress. Jack gripped her elbows, steadying her, his eyes amused in the red and green lighting bouncing off the loft’s every, whitewashed surface.

Jack’s stare pinned her and his lips twitched; he was clearly enjoying her rattled composure. He reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a crisp white handkerchief. He pressed the square into her free hand, and she wiped the spill from her dress.

‘What are you doing here?’ She scanned the crowds behind him. Had he come here with a date? There were plenty of stunning women in the audience and Jack was by far the most handsome, put-together man present—not a bad accolade considering the number of male models present.

Harley’s pulse thrummed in her throat and between her legs as she flustered around with the handkerchief, avoiding his stare.

She’d come propped against the wall in his well-appointed living room this afternoon, writhed and bucked against his hand, getting herself off like a sex-starved nympho. Trouble was, she was sex-starved, at least starved of the high-calibre variety of sex she was sure came as this man’s standard. Not that her and Jack had ever hit a home run. Not nine years ago, and certainly not now.

‘I have a ticket.’ He tapped his breast pocket and her fashion-tuned eye took a few indulgent seconds to admire the cut of his suit—this one steel blue. His tailor really was excellent, but then Jack was every designer’s dream model. Tall, athletic, muscular but not buff—every inch of him expertly and expensively attired. His black shirt, open at the neck, brought out his fair good looks and highlighted the gleam in his eyes. A gleam levelled directly on her.

‘I see your label is up after the interval?’ He accepted the return of the handkerchief, slipping it back inside his breast pocket.

She nodded, marvelling at the way he could speak on such a mundane topic, all the while his eyes seemed to be stripping her bare. Was he recalling her libidinous display earlier?

Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking on her part, the wisp of silk she wore transforming into a bulky, itchy straightjacket, begging to be tossed so she could get down and dirty with him again.

‘Yes.’ So he’d done his homework. The Give Foundation she’d established after college comprised an ethical fashion house, a cruelty-free cosmetic line and a charity arm. The dyslexia school, if the purchase of the Morris Building proceeded, would be her latest acquisition and, she hoped, her most rewarding endeavour to date. If only she could pull it off.

If only the paperwork had been properly filed.

She kept her mind on business, perhaps then she’d stop eye-fucking him or drooling over her vivid imaginings of the real deal.

‘So have you reconsidered? Will the sale go ahead?’ She might as well work on rectifying her mistake while she had him here. It took her mind off dragging him backstage and stripping him out of that suit and demanding a replay of this afternoon.

His sinful mouth quirked up.

‘So you don’t trust me, but you still want my business?’

She swallowed. A hundred answers forming on her tongue. Trust him? She barely knew him. She just wanted their deal back on track so she could forget she’d ever...reacquainted with him.

Kissed him as if the world were ending. Used his incredible skills to get off and then slapped him back.

‘I’ve spent six months searching for the perfect building. I have an architect on standby for the renovations and I didn’t say I didn’t trust you.’

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