Lottie: I’d agree with that.

Huxley: So then, the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done was undoing your robe and slipping my fingers inside your sweet cunt.

Blinks.

Swallows.

Nearly chokes on own saliva.

Okay, what’s happening? What is actually happening? Is he flirting? Is he just being blunt? What’s going on in that head of his? Inquiring minds want to know, because his answer is blowing my mind right now.

Lottie: There has to be something naughtier than that. Like, you know, taking someone on your office desk, or maybe whips and chains? I don’t know, I can’t be it.

Huxley: I crossed a line that night. You’re forbidden, off limits, part of a business deal, and I lost control. I allowed myself to give in to temptation. Be happy I only touched your pussy, because if I would’ve had it my way, that robe wouldn’t have stayed on. I have a meeting. I’ll see you for dinner.

I set my phone down and slowly look up. How the hell am I supposed to have dinner with him now?

“Steak and arugula salad with candied pecans, fingerling potatoes, peppers, gorgonzola cheese, and a balsamic glaze. Enjoy,” Reign says before leaving us to our plentiful salads. We had steak last night, but this looks different. Thinly sliced steak and potatoes in a salad . . . I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I’ll be honest, I’m here for it.

When I got back to Huxley’s house, I went straight to the tub, where I took a nice long bath and used one of my vibrators to take the edge off from the text messages. There was no way I’d be coming to dinner all worked up. Nope, I edged myself off and then let the warm water soak into my tense muscles until I was utterly relaxed.

By the time I got out, Huxley was rushing me with a text saying dinner was ready.

I threw on a robe—and a thong, for obvious reasons—and charged down the stairs to where Huxley was sitting at the table wearing a navy-blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone. Talk about someone who wears business clothes well.

“This looks so good,” I say while moving the food around on my plate, mixing everything together.

When I glance at Huxley, he looks tense once again, stiff as a board.

“Uh, everything okay over there?” I ask. What could he possibly be angry about now? It never ends with this man. I thought we’d made peace, that we were getting along. But with every dinner, it feels like two steps back.

“Why are you wearing that?” Huxley asks, his eyes falling to the robe.

“Uh, I was in the bathtub again when you texted. I got dressed quickly in the nearest thing. Don’t worry, I put on underwear this time.” I wink, as if that’s supposed to help.

Reign comes back into the dining room and says, “The kitchen is cleaned and set. If you just leave your plates in the sink, the morning staff will tend to them. I’m going to catch my daughter’s recital.”

“There are flowers in the pantry fridge for her,” Huxley says. “Enjoy your evening with your family.”

“Thank you,” Reign says with a smile and then takes off.

“He has a daughter? I didn’t know he had a family.”

“He does. It’s why I eat early, so he can get back to them.”

See . . . there he goes again, being thoughtful. Are you annoyed? Because I am.

After a few moments of silence, Huxley asks, “Are you going to ask your questions?”

“Oh, yeah . . . sure,” I say. “Umm, let me see. A question, a question.” I tap my chin as nothing comes to mind. Not a single freaking thing. All I can think about is the way his steely eyes shot to my robe as he asked why I was wearing it. Dark, sinister, as if he was about to rip the damn thing off my body with his teeth.

“We can skip the questions for tonight,” he says with a firm tone.

“No, no, just give me a second. Uh, what . . . uh, what can you cook?”

“Cook?” he asks, brows raised.

“Yeah, are you a cook in any way? Any dishes you lay claim to? Anything you’re super proud of? Like, let’s say JP is having a backyard barbecue and everyone has to bring something homemade—what would you bring?”

“JP would have it catered,” he answers.

“Play along,” I say.

“I don’t really cook, but if I had to make something, I’d grill, because that’s the only thing I’m decent at. So, if I were to bring something, probably burgers Reign prepared for me, and I’d grill them.”

“Wow,” I say with a laugh. “That was a very wealthy response.”

He barely smiles as he says, “I’ve lost touch with some things after being in the business for so long. Cooking is one of them.”

“What’s another thing you’ve lost touch with?” I ask.

“Is that your second question?”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s a good second question.”

He lifts his water glass to his lips and says, “What have I lost touch with? Probably everything a thirty-five-year-old man does. Dating, cooking, hobbies.”

“So, you’re all about work, then?”

“That’s what happens when you’re in a position like mine. It consumes you.” He looks over at me, eyes intrigued. “Have you ever had something consume you?”

I’m assuming that’s one of his questions, so I give it some thought. “Are we talking consume my time, or consume me as a whole, like work has consumed you?”

“Consumed you as a whole.”

“Hmm . . . I hate that I know what my answer is because I wish something else would consume me.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Angela,” I answer. “She’s consumed me but not in a healthy way. The relationship I’ve had with her has been toxic. At times, she’s made me feel important, special, only to throw me away as if I didn’t matter.” I shake my head. “I’ve allowed her to have too much of my headspace, and I wish I could find something else that would consume me, something that would make me forget everything that happened between me and her.”

“You still think about how she let you go?” he asks.

“Yes, all the time, because that’s the reason I’m here right now. And I don’t mean that to be offensive to you, but this is very unconventional. So, yeah, I just wish I could let it go, not give her any more of my time. Any more thought. I just need to find something that will take over that headspace, you know?”

He slowly nods.

“And even though I love working with Kelsey, I don’t want my headspace to be taken over by work. I want it to be something healthy. Something that brings me joy. I guess I’m still trying to figure that all out.”

Huxley’s tongue drags over his teeth and he pushes his salad to the side. What’s he doing? He pushes his chair out, putting space between him and the table. In a commanding tone, he says, “Come here.”

“Uh . . . what?” I ask.

His laser-sharp eyes meet mine. “I said come here.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to teach you something, something to help with that consuming feeling you’re trying to fulfill.”

“Oh,” I say. Simple enough. I stand from my chair, but before I can even set my napkin down, he grabs hold of my hand and pulls me over to between his legs and up against the thick wood of the dining room table. “What the hell?” I say as he sits me on the table in front of him. I squeeze my legs shut and adjust my robe so as to not reveal anything. “What are you doing?”

“You want something to consume you? You want those thoughts out of your head? This is how you do it.” His hands go to my thighs, and realization finally kicks in. His eyes stay on mine as he says, “Say it right now that you don’t want this and I’ll go back to eating my salad. If not, I’m going to eat you.”

Oh.

Dear.

God.

Mixing business with pleasure, always a bad idea. Huxley has said it so many times, but how on earth can I deny the satisfaction of having him make me come again? After the texts, the tense conversations, the revealing questions . . . how can I say no?