The Price Of Scandal(31)

“Fallen CEOs can’t be choosers,” I reminded her.

The action around the gym had picked back up, leaving the two of us in the ring.

“My job is to paint a new picture for the public. And the only way I can do that is by putting you out there.”

“The man grabbed my VP of finance’s ass and called me a stupid whore at a fundraiser for clean water in sub-Saharan Africa.”

Asshole. “An open bar, I presume?”

“I’m not going. Which brings me to the most important agenda item: I now require approval on every event you’re adding to my calendar.”

“Forget the party. You stabbing Ellison with a Jimmy Choo wouldn’t do much to repair your reputation. But you are going to have to do things you don’t want to do if we’re going to clean this up.”

She took a step forward and lifted that aristocratic chin. “All I do are things I don’t want to,” she shot back.

Her lips curled in on themselves as if she was trying to take the words back.

“Tell me,” I pressed.

But the walls were back up. The temper banked down.

We were standing too close. She was in my space, and I could smell whatever delicate perfume she wore, feel the energy crackling off her. If anyone needed to go a few rounds, it was the wounded, frustrated Emily Stanton.

“I want vetoes,” she said.

“Fight me for them.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” I tapped my gloves together. “Fight me for them. We’ll go a round.”

I expected her to scoff at the suggestion. To toss her hair over her shoulder and storm out. To fire me.

“I’ll change,” she said with a brisk nod.

My client was full of surprises.

I should have known I was in trouble when she returned to the ring in short shorts, a sports bra, and her own headgear and gloves in hand.

But I was a man. A stupid, stupid man.

I was too distracted by that lithe, athletic form. Her breasts were small and firm. Her abs were spectacular. Those long, long legs were strong and lean. Her skin had that Miami sun-kissed glow. Who knew an athlete existed under all those designer clothes?

“I’ll go easy on you,” I promised.

The dragon stirred behind those cool gray-blue eyes. It was my last warning.

She decked me in the jaw, threw a body shot, and dropped to the mat to sweep my legs out from under me.

I went down like the big, dumb asshole I was.

She rolled, sliding her body over and around mine. My flight or fight system couldn’t decide whether to be incredibly turned on or terrified. By the time I realized the danger, she’d locked her legs around me from behind and wrapped an exquisite arm around my throat.

There were hoots and chuckles coming from every corner of the gym.

I was no slouch in the ring. But I’d underestimated my opponent.

“I want vetoes,” she enunciated in my ear.

She squeezed tighter, and my vision grayed a bit around the edges.

“You’re not even sweating,” I gasped out. My fingers were working at her arm around my throat.

“I kickbox for fun,” she said evilly. “Now, about those vetoes.”

I didn’t have much at my disposal against her Muay Thai, but I’d be damned if I let her win that easily. Digging my heels into the mat, I worked myself into a bridge and forced all of my weight onto her chest. She could strangle me, but I could suffocate her.

I found the pressure point on her wrist and shamelessly stabbed it. Her grip loosened, and I rolled, mounting her on the mat.

There was nothing cool in those eyes of hers now. The dragon was awake and possibly even enjoying herself.

She hitched her hips and wrapped her legs around my waist, locking them behind my back. And then she realized her mistake. Those eyes widened again.

Biology reared its head. Jude and I didn’t throw blows below the belt. There was no need to wear a cup when I sparred with him.

There was also no danger of me getting a hard-on in the ring with him.

We lay locked together and sweating, our breathing heavy. My weight was pressing her into the mat, my cock hardening to concrete between her open legs where I had her pinned. I could feel the heat from her core through the spandex of her shorts and the mesh of mine.

Her legs never lessened their pressure.

She bucked against me once, perhaps to dislodge me, perhaps to feel the shallow thrust against her sex.

I was gritting my teeth. I was on top, but I sure as hell wasn’t the one in control.

The feel of her beneath me was toying with the part of my brain that wasn’t fully civilized. I wanted to close a hand over her throat and thrust like an animal. To feel her let go. I wanted to dominate her. Submit to her. Please her.

Her left hand fluttered on the mat, and I glanced in that direction. I never saw the right that she plowed into my face. It was enough to shift my balance, and then we were rolling and grappling again.

This time she won the top.

I outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds. I could throw her off. Probably. But she was straddling me, her thighs squeezing my hips like a boa constrictor.

Her chest was heaving with effort.

I’d taken a respectable number of women to bed. I thoroughly enjoyed sex. But never in all of my forty-three years had I seen anything as sexy as Emily Stanton, sweaty and victorious on top of me.