“Oh, shit,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Like this?” I asked, pressing, circling.

“Yes, please, more, please, please.”

Our bodies were now covered in a thin sheen of sweat, leaving her hair sticking slightly to her forehead. Her gaze never left where we came together as we continued to move against each other, and I knew we were both close. I wanted her to meet my eyes in the mirror—and then immediately knew it would show her too much. I didn’t want her to see so plainly what she was doing to me.

The voices around us continued, completely unaware of what was going on in this tiny room. If I didn’t do something, our little secret would not be kept for long. As her movements became more frenzied and her hands gripped my hair tighter and tighter, I pressed my hand against her mouth, stifling her scream as she came apart around me.

I muffled my own moans against her shoulder and with a few more thrusts, I exploded deep inside her. Her body slumped into me as I leaned back against the wall.

I needed to get up. I needed to get up and dress, but I didn’t think my shaky legs could carry me. Any hope I’d had that the sex would become less intense, and that I would get over this obsession, was quickly being crushed.

Reason was slowly beginning to seep back into my consciousness, along with the disappointment that I had once again succumbed to this weakness. I shifted her up and off my lap before bending to reach for my boxers.

When she turned and looked at me, I expected hatred or indifference, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes before they snapped shut and she looked away. We both dressed in silence; the fitting room area suddenly seemed too quiet and too small, and I was overly aware of each breath she took.

Straightening my tie, I picked up the torn panties from the floor, depositing them in my pocket. I went to grab the door handle and stopped. Reaching out, I ran my hands slowly along the lacy fabric hanging from one of the hooks on the wall.

I met her eyes and said, “Get the garter belt too.” And without looking back, I walked out of the dressing room.

Five

There were eighty-three vents, twenty-nine screws, five blades, and four bulbs on the ceiling fan above my bed. I rolled to my side, certain muscles mocking me and providing undeniable proof of why I was unable to sleep.

“I want you to watch. And tomorrow when you’re sore, I want you to remember who did it to you.”

He wasn’t kidding.

Without realizing it, my hand had traveled to my breast, absently twisting my nipple beneath my tank top. Closing my eyes, the touch of my own hands turned into his in my memory. His long, graceful fingers ghosting along the undersides of my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, cupping me in his large palms . . . damn it. I let out a loud sigh and kicked a pillow off my bed. I knew exactly where this train of thought was headed. I had done this exact same thing three nights in a row and it had to stop now. With a huff I rolled over onto my stomach and closed my eyes tight, willing sleep to come. As if that ever worked.

I still remembered, with perfect clarity, the day almost a year and a half ago when Elliott asked me up to his office for a talk. I’d started at RMG working as a junior assistant for Elliott when I was in college. When my mother died, Elliott had taken me under his wing; not so much a father figure, but certainly as a caring and warm mentor who had me to his home for dinner to keep an eye on my emotional state. He’d insisted his door would always be open for me. But on that particular morning, when he phoned my office, he sounded uncharacteristically formal, and frankly I was scared shitless.

In his office, he’d explained how his youngest son had lived in Paris for the past six years, working as a marketing executive for L’Oréal. This son, Bennett, was finally coming home, and in six months would take over the position of chief operating officer at Ryan Media. Elliott knew I was a year into my business degree and was looking into internship options that would give me the critical hands-on experience I needed. He insisted I complete my master’s internship at RMG and that the youngest Mr. Ryan would be more than thrilled to have me on his team.

Elliott handed me the company-wide memo that would circulate the following week to announce Bennett Ryan’s arrival.

Wow. That was my only thought as I looked over the paper on my way back to my office. Executive VP of product marketing at L’Oréal in Paris. Youngest nominee ever featured in the Crain’s “Forty Under 40” list, published several times in the Wall Street Journal. A dual MBA from NYU-Stern School of Business and HEC Paris, where he specialized in corporate finance and global business, graduating summa cum laude. All by the age of thirty. Christ.

What was it Elliott had said? Extremely driven? That was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.

Henry had hinted that his brother didn’t quite share his laid-back personality, but when I’d seemed concerned he quickly put my mind at ease. “He has a tendency to be a bit stiff and completely anal retentive at times, but don’t worry about it, Chloe. You can handle his bark; you guys are going to be a great team. I mean, come on,” he said, wrapping his large arm around me. “How could he not love you?”

I hated to admit it now, but by the time he was set to arrive, I had developed a bit of a crush on Bennett Ryan. I was extremely anxious about working with him, but I was also impressed with everything he’d accomplished in his relatively short life. Looking up his picture online didn’t hurt either: the man was a specimen. We communicated through e-mail leading up to his arrival, and although he seemed nice enough, he was never overly friendly.

On the big day, Bennett wasn’t due in until after the board meeting that afternoon, when he would be officially introduced. I had the entire day to work myself up into a ball of nerves. Being the good friend she is, Sara came upstairs to distract me. She sat in my chair and we spent over an hour discussing the merits of the Clerks movies.

Soon I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my face. I didn’t notice that Sara stiffened when the outer office door opened, and I didn’t notice that someone was now standing behind me. And though Sara tried to warn me with a swift hand across the throat—the universal sign for “shut the fuck up”—I ignored her.

Because, apparently, I’m an idiot.

“And then,” I said, giggling and holding onto my sides, “she says, ‘Fuck, I had to take a fucking order off a guy I blew after junior prom once.’ And then he says, ‘Yeah, I’ve waited on your brother too.’”

Another bout of laughter hit me, and I stumbled backward a bit until I collided with something hard and warm.

Spinning around, I was mortified to see that I had just ground my ass onto my new boss’ thigh.

“Mr. Ryan!” I said, recognizing him from his photographs. “I’m so sorry!”

He did not look amused.

In an attempt to ease the tension, Sara stood and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Sara Dillon, Henry’s assistant.”

My new boss simply glanced at her hand without returning the gesture and raised one of his perfect eyebrows. “Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Ryan’?”

Sara’s hand slowly fell as she watched him, obviously flustered. Something about his physical presence was so intimidating she was at a loss for words. When she recovered, she stuttered, “Well . . . we are fairly casual around here. We’re all on a first-name basis. This is your assistant, Chloe.”

He nodded to me. “Miss Mills. You will refer to me as Mr. Ryan. And I expect you in my office in five minutes so that we may discuss proper workplace decorum.” His voice was serious when he spoke, and he nodded curtly to Sara. “Miss Dillon.”