My newest, shiniest toy is standing in the centre of the room. At the sound of the lock turning, she spins back to face me.

I cock my head as I assess her.

Long, blonde hair loose and perfectly styled.

Stunning white dress.

Willowy figure.

Legs to die for.

And the expression on her face somewhere between wariness and abject panic.

Hmm.

Where to start?

CHAPTER 20

Marlowe

The soft metallic shunt of the lock slotting into place has me spinning around where I stand. And when I do, I’m in no doubt as to its significance. Brendan settles his huge frame against the doorframe and slides his hands into his pockets as he assesses me. Sunlight dances across his face, across that broad, white-shirted chest, as he lounges with the easy assurance of a predator who has his prey cornered and knows dinner is moments away.

Because the indulgent shopping trip was just a prelude, and I should make no mistake about it.

This is why I’m here.

He extricates a hand from his pocket and crooks his finger at me. ‘Come here.’ His voice is much lower than usual, and it sends an ominous thrill through me.

‘Turn around,’ he says when I reach him, and I do. He smooths his hands down my hair, twisting it into a rope and placing it over one shoulder. ‘So pretty,’ he coos as he eases the chunky zip all the way down my back. ‘Remember when I said we’d have to be quieter in here?’

‘Yes.’ He said that jokingly in the club when he was still inside me, but it feels important now, because it’s broad daylight, and there are dozens of people getting on with their jobs mere metres from us, and thick glass walls don’t strike me as the most robust privacy measure.

‘Keep that in mind,’ he says against my ear before he bends to undo the zip all the way down to my hem so he can straighten up and slide the dress off my shoulders like a coat that’s on backwards.

He’s seen me naked in the club, in that opulent dressing room, but here I am in nothing but heels and lingerie in the sunlit office of a kinky CEO, and it all hits me at once—the vulnerability of my position. The shame of it. The unavoidable truth of my being paid to be here, to do this. To let him strip me and use me. It sluices over me like a bucket of water, and I’m glad he can’t see my face. I feel stricken; there’s no other word for it. Stricken and alone and uneasy.

Brendan caresses my waist, my hips, like he did in the changing room earlier. He sighs, and it’s warm against my shoulder. ‘Turn around.’