28. Darcy

Max

How's Project Ambush going, sweetheart?

I haven't made a move yet

Do you even have his number?

No. I'll get it off Maddy

What are you waiting for? That greedy pussy won't fill itself…

You say that, but I have a fine selection of silicone at home

A poor imitation of the real thing(s) and you know it

I'm growing quite partial to your thing, actually

Get over here and suck it then

Hahaha

I'M SERIOUS. GET OVER HERE AND SUCK IT.

Which is how I find myself, an hour later, freshly showered and trotting across the palatial marble lobby of Wolff Holdings' Mayfair headquarters. It's eleven on a Tuesday morning and all I can think is that I'm actually losing my marbles.

Or I'm just horny.

Why is it that the prospect of being summoned to Max's office to suck him off is so fucking hot? Because it really, really is.

It's the power thing, probably.

He's ordered me here to service him at his Big Dick desk in his Big Dick office where he works on Big Dick deals.

See what I mean?

Hot.

Although I probably wouldn't have agreed to come if I'd accepted that twenty grand from him. That would have been too close to being his actual whore. There was no way I was leaving with a cheque the other night after letting him fuck me senseless (if cheques still even exist. Though I bet Max is old enough to have a chequebook). Instead, I told him to give it to charity.

Yes, I deserve a fucking halo.

A scarily poised and elegant brunette who introduces herself as Rix collects me from reception and takes me upstairs, depositing me at Max's open door.

Well, well, well.

I was right.

The Big Dick-ness of this entire setup is truly epic.

He's standing behind a huge, old, expensive-looking desk, grinning at me. He has on a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. His hair is slicked back and he looks every inch the corporate legend he apparently is. I may be tall, but in my sundress and flat sandals I feel vulnerable and even a little gauche. Maybe not gauche, but I'm definitely not of this world.

He doesn't want me to be of this world, I remind myself. I bet Rix can't work a pole like I can. Max has invited me here precisely because he wants an escape from work.

‘Well, hello there,' he says, still grinning as he rounds his desk and comes towards us, his hands in his pockets. ‘Thank you, Rix. Miss Carew and I are not to be disturbed. We have some very important business to attend to, don't we, sweetheart?'

‘Of course, Mr Hunter,' she replies smoothly as I flush. I'm not sure if it's the endearment or his allusion to why I'm here that's getting me flustered. It's definitely not for business—though I suppose I have an important job to do.

Still, it's all a bit intimidating. I've come here for a booty call at the behest of the CEO of Europe's biggest private company, and the old-school art on the walls and the thick white carpet on the floor and the deferential way Rix addresses Max all conspire to make me feel a little out of my depth.

He's on me as soon as the door clicks shut behind us, wrapping one hand around my neck and clamping the other to my bum so he can pin me against him. I look up at him, at the approval in his blue eyes and the arrogant smirk on his handsome face.

Yep. This is definitely a better plan than my original one of arranging all my romance paperbacks on my sister's bookshelves.

‘I enjoy it when you do as I say,' he murmurs against my mouth before kissing me. I decide responses are overrated and open for him instead, winding my arms around his neck and revelling in the decisive force of his tongue pushing into my mouth, and the possessive way the hand on my neck moves upwards to grab a fistful of my hair, and the hard press of his lean body against my curves.

It's not until he's released me that I retort, ‘I only do what you say when it suits me.'

‘Of that I have no doubt at all,' he says drily. ‘Except I'm amazed it didn't suit you to take twenty grand off me.'

‘It didn't suit me to take money for sex.'

‘It wasn't for sex,' he says slowly and deliberately against my lips, as if I'm being deliberately obtuse. ‘It was for the dance. The very, very sexy dance. You earned it.'

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘like I'm going to dance for you and fuck you and then walk off with your money. I don't think so.'

‘Suit yourself.'

‘I did. And I will, thank you very much.'

‘So, today it "suits you" to take some cock, does it?'

‘It's that or rearrange my bookshelves,' I deadpan, and he throws his head back and laughs.

‘Un-fucking-believable.'

He manages to slap me on my arse before I wriggle out of his arms. I toe off my sandals and set about exploring his office. Oh wow, this carpet is like velvet. I could happily go to sleep on it. I could?—

Oh, shit.

‘Is this Anton's old office?' I ask suspiciously, whipping my head around to look at him.

‘It is,' he says. He's crossed his arms and is watching me with an expression of amused hunger, which seems to be his default when it comes to me. It's as if he can't decide whether to pounce or to leave me to my own devices a little longer for his entertainment.

I make a face. ‘Ew. So my sister knows this carpet well, then?'

Another hearty laugh. ‘Yep. And that boardroom table.'

‘Oh, God.' I grimace, though I don't really blame her for rolling over in here. She was probably as powerless against this room's Big Dick Energy as she was against Anton's. I stand in front of a chic dark grey bookcase housing not only a terrifying amount of business books but tonnes of awards for Wolff. Ethical Employer of the Year: Winner. B-Corp of Year: Finalist.

Impressive.

For some reason, I didn't expect Wolff to be anything more than a big, fat, dirty conglomerate. I wonder if anyone on the marketing side ever dared suggest to Anton that a company name that sounded like a ravenous predator might not be the smartest branding decision, even if it is his surname.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe Anton's reputation precedes him in the business world.

I don't really care, because Max has walked up behind me and is sliding the straps of my sundress off my shoulders. It's one of those long, boho ones made from a kind of white cheesecloth that looks like a baby's muslin. It has elasticated smocking all across the chest and then flares out.

Basically, it's very easy access.

He buries his face in my neck and inhales sharply against my hair. ‘Believe me, I didn't invite you here to reminisce about your sister.'

‘No?' I manage.

‘Nope.' He winds an arm around my waist, tugging my back against his front.

‘If sending a young lady a text saying "Get over here and suck it", in capital letters, I might add, is your way of inviting her over, then you might want to work on your etiquette. Maybe watch some Bridgerton.'

He laughs softly against my hair. ‘You're not a lady. Or you won't be by the time I've finished with you.'

‘Rude,' I say with difficulty, because his hand has snaked up from my stomach to close over my right boob, and I really, really love the way he's touching me.

‘I'll watch it if you come over and watch it with me,' he whispers. ‘No fucking way am I sitting alone in that godforsaken flat and watching some period drama.'

‘That's a good idea. You might need me there to take the edge off for you. It's very raunchy.'

He nips at my ear. ‘Sounds like a date, young lady. And you look fucking beautiful, by the way.' His fingers flick at my nipple through the smocking, and I arch against him, but he removes his hand and backs away from me. I turn, pouting as he looks me up and down.

‘You should have a crown of wild flowers in your hair,' he murmurs, reaching above me to grab the bookshelf and effectively caging me in as his gaze darts over my face. ‘You're a beautiful, ethereal, untamed nymph. If I was a man of paint you'd be on every surface of every wall I own—I'd never get tired of trying to capture you.'

I stare up at him in astonishment. This man gives me whiplash. He orders me over to suck his dick and then spouts compliments Julia Quinn herself would swoon over. Who the hell does that? ‘Um, thank you,' I say haltingly.

His grin turns wicked, and now I swoon, because that's the Max I know and, um, lust after.

‘But I can't paint for toffee,' he drawls, pushing off the bookshelf and strolling over to his desk, ‘so, instead I'll take a striptease and your very best blowjob, if you please.'