She shifts, turning on her heel. When she moves, I do too.

  In less than a second, I back her up against the elevator wall, cup her cheeks, and look into her gorgeous blue eyes.

  I can stop this madness right now.

  I can resist her and return to the way we were.

  But what was that? Friends, confidantes, business associates? We’re already more than client and bodyguard.

  We are blurred lines and danger.

  And this—contact—is how I get clarity.

  One touch. One taste. One night.

  There is a line.

  There is absolutely a line.

  And I’m crossing it. I’m vaulting over it.

  I could rationalize it. I could say I’m lost in the moment. I could pretend what I’m about to do is a mistake.

  But there is nothing about Ivy Carmichael in my arms that feels wrong. Everything about touching her feels like an inevitability.

  With my hands clasped to her face, I seal my lips to hers, kissing her passionately, pouring every last ounce of desire that has swelled and built between us over the last year into a punishing, bruising kiss. The kind that I’ve always suspected she wants. Her moans and gasps tell me she does as I draw her bottom lip past mine, nibbling. I thread my hands into her lush blonde hair, waterfalls of silk through my fingers, taking more of her kiss, tasting her lips, my tongue plunging into her delicious mouth. She tastes like gin and longing. And she responds like music.

  Moans and murmurs fall from her lips, imprinting on the air, singing through my body, as the elevator brings us nearer to her floor.

  I try to get closer to her. Impossibly closer. I push my pelvis against her, letting her feel what she’s done to me. She groans out a fevered yes as my erection presses against her.

  As the elevator slows, we break the kiss, and every thought, every wish I’ve kept locked tight wriggles its way out. I slide a thumb along her cheekbone. “Every night I want you. Every night I go home and I take you to bed.”

  “You do?” Her eyes widen, glimmering with a heated desire.

  “When I leave you, I go home and I fuck you,” I tell her, this elevator now a confessional booth. It’s my priest and I’m the sinner, letting all my transgressions fly free.

  “You fuck me in my home too,” she whispers, the air between us crackling like an electric storm.

  The elevator stops, the doors open, and this night is going in one direction only.

  Still, the gentleman in me hasn’t totally left the building. As the doors open, I gesture to the hall. “Your place?”

  I ask the question because it’s important to ask. It’s important to keep getting her yeses.

  Even though I know that’s what’s coming from her lips as she nods, crossing the threshold into the hall where she stops, grabs my tie, and wraps the silk around her hand in a fist. “Every night you have me, Callum.”

  I groan from deep inside my soul. A carnal, wild sound that rips from my chest. “How? How do I take you?”

  She grips tighter, the pressure squeezing around the back of my neck. “I spend my days crafting beauty, but in my nights, I want it filthy. Dirty. I want it every dirty way.”

  That word. It’s like a lightning rod, illuminating the night.

  Setting me to flames.

  My body is nothing but a brush fire, burning down the forest, flames eating everything in its path.

  I want it all with her.

  There are no sexier words under the sun, the moon, or the goddamn stars than every dirty way.

  I grab her, banding an arm around her waist, yanking her lush, trim figure against mine. My fingers skim over her hips, playing with the soft fabric of the dress that clings to her. It’s professional but still ridiculously sexy, because she can’t be anything but.

  “I will fuck you any way you want,” I whisper in her ear. “Hard, slow, dirty. Rough, soft. Loud, quiet. All I want is to make you come over and over, however the hell you want, Ivy. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

  She breathes out hard, and I swear I see something flicker behind her eyes.

  A question.

  A possibility.

  Her own wild fantasies.

  Will she tell me more of them?

  I have a feeling I know what some of them are. When you spend eight hours a night with someone, you get a sense of that person.

  I saw the way she looked at that trio earlier, but now isn’t the time to bring that up. Now is the time to bring up the other things I’ve noticed.

  “But I think I know what you want most,” I say in a rough voice, full of dirty intent. I’ve seen her browser history, noticed it when she’s asked me to look something up online before a meeting while she was finessing her makeup.

  This woman doesn’t want vanilla sex.

  She doesn’t want me to toss her on the bed and climb over her.

  “Tell me what I want,” she says in a needy whisper. Like no one has ever asked her that before. Like all she’s ever wanted is a lover to ask her.

  “You want it hard. You want it to hurt. And then you want me to come on your beautiful skin.”

  She shudders, like I’ve hit the jackpot.

  The internet knows everything.

  “Would you? Please,” she asks, trembling.

  It’s the please that unravels me. “You bet I will.” I scoop her into my arms, my legs eating up the carpet as I stride to her door and set her down.

  Even though I’m technically off-duty now, before we got in the elevator, I texted the guy who works the overnight shift. I told him I’d cover another couple of hours. He won’t show up till I’m inside.

  She unlocks the door, and the second we’re in her home I have her up against the wall. Her hands fly to my face, and she clasps my stubbled jaw. She meets my gaze. “I want your mouth first,” she says in a whisper.

  I toss my suit jacket on a chair. “You’ll get everything you want, beautiful.” I reach behind her and undo the zipper on her dress, letting it fall down to her waist. She trembles as I slide it off her body.

  My throat goes dry. I savor the sight of her bare skin. Her soft belly. Her curves. She wears pink lace, matching bra and panties. So seductively innocent.

  “Tell me how you picture it,” I say as she steps out of her dress.

  “Sometimes it hurts,” she says, her eyes wide, perhaps with nerves.

  I run my fingers down her belly. “The way I fuck you?”

  She gives a nod, her lips parted, breathing hard. “It hurts, but it hurts so good.”

  “You like it when I grab you, then? When I manhandle you as I’m fucking you?”

  She nods, her eyes glimmering with desire. My blood heats as I ask her more questions, dying to know all her fantasies. “When I bite you?”

  A gasp of breath. Another yes.

  “And when I take you so hard you can feel me for days?”

  “Yes, God, yes.”

  I’m vibrating with lust as I reach my hands behind her back, unhooking her bra. Groaning, I drink in the sight of her gorgeous globes, my hands reaching, grabbing, squeezing. “You want me to go down on you like that, Ivy? So you don’t have to think?” I ask, reminding her what she said at the bar. Reminding me of what she needs.

  “Yes. I don’t want to work. I want to be taken.”

  I pull back, arching a brow, then slide my hands to her hips. “You should never have to work in bed. Let me do all the work. It’s my goddamn job to take care of you. And I can make you feel everything you need. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  I glance around, picking a spot. In a flash, I know where to go.

  She wants me to decide. She’ll want to be put in her place in the seat where she makes decisions all day long.

  I lift her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her to her office.

  “I’m going to eat your sweet pussy on your desk. Spread you out right here, beautiful. Right where you make your calls, where you tell people what to do, where you negotiate. I’m going to devour you, and all you have to do is feel.”

  She lets out a carnal yes as she shudders all over, a full-body tremble that’s so gorgeous.

  I set her ass on the desk. “Lean back on your hands.”

  She moves her palms behind her, the position making her tits even more luscious.

  Beautiful blonde Ivy on her oak desk in nothing but pink lace.

  Lace I’m going to rip off.

  I unbutton the cuffs of my shirt, roll them up, then drag a hand down her stomach, past her navel, to the fabric of her panties. I grip the material, twist it, and rip it off.

  “Oh God,” she gasps.

  I toss the shreds to the floor and gaze at her perfect pink pussy.

  She might look innocent, but there’s nothing innocent about Ivy Carmichael behind closed doors.

  And I’m about to discover just how dirty she is.

  7

  Ivy

  All these months.

  Three hundred sixty-five days of longing.

  They distill into this.

  Into the breaking point.

  I’m there now.

  Truth be told, I was there when Stone arrived, teasing and laughing and poking and prodding, and maybe he was all we needed. That friend who is unfiltered, who says what he thinks and pushes two people together who want each other.

  Callum’s desire is like a waft of smoke, floating through the room, spicy and sexy. I want to inhale it, inhale him.

  I want him even more now that I know he’s so willing. Not just to have me, but to have me the way I want. To make my private thoughts become real. I’ve never shared my wishes with a man before. Never voiced them—my fantasies have always stayed in my head.

  But he knows them, and he wants to give them to me.

  Tonight.

  He spreads me open on the desk, hands on my thighs, then parks himself in my chair.

  And I tremble.

  “Oh, God,” I gasp, and I can feel myself growing wetter just from this position, from the way he’s taking over.

  “You like this, beautiful? You like being eaten right where you make all those important decisions?”

  “I think I do.”

  He hikes up my legs and sets my high-heeled feet on the edge of the desk. I’m wearing nothing but ridiculously expensive shoes, he’s fully dressed, and I relish the imbalance. I crave it, him in his white shirt, tie, and crisp slacks.

  “I love that I’ve seen you at this desk, in these Louboutins, making calls, telling people what to do. But right now, your sexy body is begging for me,” he says.

  The look in his eyes is dark, intense. I see everything in them I’ve been hoping to find—longing, lust, all the desire that matches my own and then some.

  As he bends his face to my thigh, my body hums with need. I’m awash with a desire so powerful it feels like it’s going to eat me alive. “Now. Please. Make me feel dirty. Make me feel a little pain, then make it turn to pleasure.”

  He looks up, his expression wicked. “You are dirty. And I can make it hurt so good.”

  He turns his face to my inner thigh, grazing me with his lips, and I arch my back, turned on beyond words, beyond measure. He licks my right thigh, then moves to my left. “So soft. So smooth. You smell delicious,” he murmurs against my center, then he blows a gentle gust of breath over my clit.

  I bow my back, moaning like a cat.

  It feels good, this teasing, and the tingles are spreading over my skin. But I need more. I need more than softness. I need—

  He nips my inner thigh, and I gasp.

  “Yes!” His teeth. My God, the sharp sting is so good I shiver.

  He moves higher, murmuring against me, nipping as he travels along my skin. “Like that, beautiful?”

  “Yes. Oh, God, I do,” I say, and my brain is buzzy and happy as he works his way up and down my thighs, kissing and biting.

  I’m pulsing between my legs, and I need his mouth so damn soon. And, bless him, he gives it to me. Sliding his lips across my wetness in a bone-melting kiss.

  That’s the only way to describe it—he doesn’t lick or stroke.

  He French-kisses my pussy. He feasts on me, bestowing a hot, open-mouthed kiss right where I want him most, then he flicks his tongue against my clit.

  I buck up, seeking more of his mouth, more of his tongue, craving a little extra something.

  “More,” I plead softly.

  I’m not sure what I’m asking for. I just know that as good as this is, it won’t be enough unless he makes it hurt a little bit.

  He slides his hands under my ass. His big hands curl over the flesh, grabbing tight, squeezing hard. The way I’ve imagined. The way I’ve never quite had it before. The way I only recently realized I crave desperately.

  “Oh God,” I gasp.

  He looks up, his eyes blazing with lust. “You want it even harder? Rougher?”

  “I do. I do, so much.”

  He grips me, twisting, tugging at my flesh as he licks and kisses me.

  And the twin sensations rocket through my body—the sheer ecstatic bliss of his lips on my center coupled with his powerful hands grabbing, kneading. Leaving marks.

  His fingers inch closer to my ass, and he’s pulling at my cheeks, digging his fingers in.

  A bolt of lust crashes into me.

  I arch against his face, rocking against his wicked mouth, seeking more contact, and more friction too.

  Grabbing at my body, he works me over with pleasure and a touch of pain.

  Together, they knock out all my worries, all my tension, all the litany of things I have to do, decide, attend to.

  Right now, I don’t have to do anything but be consumed, be worshipped, and be taken hard by a man who knows how.

  His tongue flicks over my clit as he puts a finger against my ass, pushing, pressing, all while squeezing me harder still.

  Pleasure coils low and tight in my stomach, a wild pulsing sensation gathering strength and power. It’s building, rising, and in seconds, it yanks me under as I toss my head back and lose myself in the bliss of his tongue, his hands, him.

  “Oh God, I’m coming. Coming so hard.”

  I shudder, my whole body shaking. I’m practically convulsing on my desk as an orgasm rips through me. And the aftershocks are so powerful they nearly knock out the Las Vegas electrical grid.

  At least it feels that way to me.

  I’m so blissed out from the way the climax ravages my body that it takes me a minute to realize what he’s doing.

  My eyes flutter open to find Callum unzipping his charcoal pants, taking out his cock, and stroking it.

  My mouth falls open. A moan comes from the very depths of my soul. I bite my lips as I watch him run his hand up and down his length.

  Like he knows this is my guilty pleasure, this is my paradise.

  I love nothing more than men jacking off.

  Big, powerful, muscular men taking their thick cocks in their hands. Shuttling their fists up and down their lengths. And then coming all over the women they want to have.

  I gush, the lust in me kicking up a thousand more notches, even after that wild climax he wrung from me with his mouth.

  “Fuck me and come on me,” I blurt out.

  “Whatever you want, beautiful. Whatever you want, you’ll get.”

  He grips his dick, rough and tight, sliding a fist down it, and I shudder from the erotic thrill of watching one of my top fantasies unfurl before my eyes. He slows at the head, brushing a bead of liquid, catching it with his thumb.

  I say nothing.

  Nor does Callum.

  Words aren’t needed.

  He knows what I want.

  He’s always anticipated my needs, and with sex it seems no different. He brings his thumb to my mouth, sliding the evidence of his arousal along my lips. I move with him, savoring his salty taste and moaning around it, then I draw in his thumb, nipping it, and he pushes all the way in my mouth.

  I groan around him, relishing the way he pushes farther into me with his thumb as his other hand strokes his thick length.

  Soon, I’m writhing on my desk again, an ache between my legs as I stare shamelessly at his hand moving up and down his length.

  He removes his thumb, brings his mouth to mine, and crushes my lips in a fierce kiss before he pulls back, reaches for his wallet and pulls out a condom. “You need to bend over your desk now.”

  I slide off, stand, and turn around. He presses a firm hand on the center of my back. Down, down, down I go.

  He pushes my face against the hard, wooden desk, rolls on a condom, then presses the head against my wetness, and I cry out.

  It feels so good.

  And I need it so much.

  The rightness of it. The wrongness of it. The forbiddenness of us.

  We cross all the lines in my suite atop the hotel, the lights of the Las Vegas Strip twinkling below us as Callum jerks up my hips, spreads me open, and slides into my hot, wet center.

  I close my eyes, sinking into this feeling, this wild sensation of hot sex with my bodyguard in my office, no one knowing what we’re doing. He curls his strong frame over mine, covering me completely. And he sinks in, burying his cock deep inside me.

  It’s intense, and it’s nearly everything I fantasized about.

  It’s almost, almost all my dirty dreams.

  Then, as he slides his hands around me and up my body, he grabs my breasts, and yes, holy hell, yes.

  Now it’s everything.

  Now it’s all I want. Pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure. A cocktail of both flooding my mind, sweeping over my body.

  He’s not gentle. Not at all. He squeezes my breasts without mercy. Ruthlessly. Pinching my nipples so damn hard that I yelp.

  “Tell me if it hurts.”

  “It hurts, and I love it,” I say, my mind going all kinds of hazy and warm, like it’s bathing in endorphins, like I’ve taken a shot of liquid intoxication.

  I moan like an animal, my face against the desk, sensations washing through me.

  He grips my breasts harder, rolling and pinching my nipples, then he lets go of one of my breasts and his hand travels down my body.