Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(57)

She gasps, and I do it again.

“In fact,” I murmur, easing the underwear over her hips and all the way down her legs. “One might even say it’s a little bit dirty . . .”

Spreading her legs wide, I lower, hooking my forearms beneath her thighs.

I look up her body. “You may want to get comfortable.”

“Ian—”

I flick my tongue over her.

She lets out a long breath, dropping back onto her elbows.

“You were saying?” I ask with another teasing lick.

This time when she says my name, it’s a plea, not a protest.

I take my time with her, tasting her with languid strokes of my tongue. Having spent most of yesterday getting her naked and keeping her that way, I’ve learned she likes it slow and gentle right until the very end. I do exactly that, soft licks over her most sensitive areas as she writhes beneath me.

Her hand comes down to mine, and I link my fingers with hers with my right hand, my left hand spread low across her stomach to hold her still. It’s intimate in a way I’m not used to. I don’t often have women in my kitchen, and I certainly don’t eat them out.

But it’s more than the location and what I’m doing. It’s the way I am with her, the way she is with me. As though we’re just getting started, and the best is yet to come.

Her hips tilt up, her thighs tightening around my shoulders, and I know she’s close.

I’m tempted to make it last, wanting to prolong every moment with her indefinitely, but her nails find my head, digging in in a way that tells me she needs release now.

I give it to her. Circling my tongue faster, I slide a finger inside. The second I do, she comes with a quiet cry, tightening around my finger as her body arches up in helpless release.

I stay with her to the end, not pulling back until she drops limply onto the counter, the perfect picture of a satiated woman.

My woman.

Straightening up, I ease her into a sitting position, smoothing her hair back with a tenderness that belies my next move. Bending down at the same time I pull her forward, I hitch Lara over my shoulder so she half-dangles over my back as I walk to the bathroom.

She shrieks in protest. “What are you doing?”

“Showering. With you.”

“I already—”

“Yes. But ”—I interrupt her with a quick smack on her bare butt—“you’re about to be a very dirty girl.”





28

LARA

Week 5: Monday Morning

Objectively, I know I don’t look any different. Same ponytail. Same glasses. Same pink lipstick. Same basic pumps, same black skirt I’ve worn a million times before, same blue shirt that’s been in my workday rotation for years.

But I feel different, and as I walk into the SEC elevator on Monday morning, I’m paranoid that someone will notice. That someone will look at me and not only think, oh, she got some, but that they’ll know who I got some with, and they’ll know I want more, and . . .

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, since there’s nobody in the elevator to witness my lecture. “People have sex every day. It doesn’t have to be a thing.”

It is a thing, though, because sex with Ian wasn’t just sex. It was lots of sex, definitely. But it was other stuff, too. Meals. Conversation. Laughter.

It’s the other stuff that has me tangled in a knot of happiness and terror.

It’s the fact that I like him, not just in the bedroom but out. It’s the fact that he’s funny and smart and considerate in ways I never expected. It’s the way that even now I’m wondering when I’ll see him next, wondering if he’ll call.

“Pathetic,” I mutter, stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby of the SEC offices. Although lobby is a strong word for the entry area. It’s more like a couple of sad chairs and an ugly coffee table topped with a few magazines that are three months old, at best.

I smile and wave at Ida, the front-desk receptionist, and she gives me a tired wave back without stopping her conversation with whoever’s on the other end of her phone call.

I’ve taken only about five steps when I realize that my worst nightmare about this morning is true. Everyone is looking at me. And there are more than a few whispers.

They know. They know that I hooked up with a suspect.

No, not a suspect, my brain screams. He didn’t do anything wrong, and you waited until after you’d determined that to let anything personal develop.

That’s the rational, black-and-white part of my brain. The other part, the part that deals in nuances, merely raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, McKenzie,” one of the other investigators calls out, coming toward me with his hand outstretched. “Nice work.”

I shake his hand, a little perplexed, because his tone is genuine; there’s no trace of mockery. This isn’t a nice work for toeing the conflict-of-interest line, it’s a nice work for . . .

I don’t know.

Generally, turning in findings on an informal investigation recommending against a formal investigation doesn’t warrant more than a nod and a what’s next? in the eleven o’clock status report meeting.

Even more puzzling, I get similar reactions on my walk to my cubicle, including a couple of thumbs-up from people on the phone.