The beep of the keycard reader sliced through the kitchen’s near silence, the sound sharp enough to make me jolt. My eyes flicked from the slow, steady brew of my coffee to watch the door swing open, my breath tight.

Not him.

Jesus, I needed to get a grip.

Okay, maybe I was paranoid. Definitely jumpy. Hungover too, thanks to the cheap whiskey still burning behind my eyes like regret. Sleep-deprived enough to feel it in my molars.

I’d spent most of the night tossing in sheets that clung in all the wrong ways. Every shift stirred the lingering scent—smoke, citrus, sweat. The smell of a man I wasn’t supposed to want.

By five, I gave up pretending sleep was an option. Rest was off the table. Control was all I had left.

And even that’s slipping.

I got dressed. Pulled my hair up into something passable. Rolled in early enough to flip the lights on, with under-eye concealer working overtime and a blouse that clung too tight under the arms. Early enough to hide behind the flimsy walls of my cubicle like a fortress, and look too entrenched to acknowledge anything around me—including him.

Especially him.

I tore open a sugar packet with my teeth, dumped it into the steam, skipped the cream.

I wanted hot, bitter, with the barest trace of sweet.

Sounds familiar.

Miles never showed before nine-thirty, and when he did, he didn’t just appear. He arrived. Late enough to make a statement, polished enough no one ever questioned it.

It was barely eight. I was safe.

Probably.

When I turned the corner and saw his office cloaked in shadow, door cracked like a breath waiting to be drawn, I felt something in my chest uncoil. Didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath until it slipped out slow.

Late to arrive meant late to leave. I should have known. He liked to linger, like a fever.

I took a sip of coffee: too hot. Blistering.

Good.

Pain was grounding, something I could own. Something solid to hold onto while everything else liquified.

My principles. My composure. My sanity.

I’d tipped my hand too far, too fast.

Desperate. So fucking desperate.

For what exactly?

Evidence? A razor-edged truth to threaten him with?

Or for the way he’d looked at me last night—eyes dark, voice low, like he could unravel me with nothing but a few choice words, and he knew it.

God, the way he’d touched me…

My thighs cinched together tight, an automatic defense, as a flicker of heat pulsed low in my core.

I could still feel the ache in my jaw. Still hear the quiet groan he’d made when I took him deep—when I let him fuck my mouth like we were past the point of pretending it was about control.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

Relished in the stretch, the sting. The desperate need to swallow him whole, like I had something to prove.

My hands tightened around the mug, scalding even to the touch.

“I want every sound you make to taste like me.”

I could have pulled back. I didn’t. I let him cum on my tongue, heavy and hard. Let him force my mouth to the root of him, burying himself deep while he pulsed and spilled down my throat.

Shame hadn’t bothered showing up last night, when it might have been useful. Maybe it could have knocked some sense into me.

And want? That had burned hot, raw and reckless—stupid.

I stared into my coffee like it might burn the memory behind my eyes. Like it could cauterize the part of me still throbbing where he’d touched me.

What was I desperate for?

The upper hand?

Or to feel the curve of his mouth on my throat again? The way his hand slid between my thighs like it belonged there. The low rasp of his voice in my ear like sin in a silk tie.

I took another sip; scalded my tongue on purpose.

Take your pick.

Tension spiderwebbed between my shoulder blades, a tight crawling sensation beneath my skin. Like breath skating too close to the back of my neck.

Something was off, and it wasn’t just me.

A folder sat near the edge of his desk—half-buried beneath loose reports and meeting agendas, like it had been dropped there in passing.

But that slash in the corner? Heavy, red, deliberate—that was unmistakeable. Not casual. Intentional.

I’d seen it in Legal. Shorthand that served as a warning: those files weren’t left out. Weren’t left casually on the corner of a desk in a darkened office, door ajar like an invitation.

Those files weren’t HR-confidential. Not workplace-whisper campaign confidential.

They were vaulted. Secured. Traceable.

They didn’t sit unattended, not even in executive offices. My feet were glued to the carpet, eyes locked on the folder like it might lunge for me.

Miles knew what the mark meant, had to know someone would recognize it. Like someone who used to work in Legal.

And the thought churned in my stomach—slow and sick:

Maybe he counted on me snooping. Maybe he wanted it found, and not just by anyone. By me.

I glanced over my shoulder, listened, watched. No footsteps. No shadows. The hallway was empty.

My hand moved before my better judgement could intervene.

The door clicked softly behind me.

I hesitated near the threshold, a half step into his office, pulse ticking. The air was icy, over air conditioned. The room shadow-drenched, blinds still drawn. The morning light barely reached the floor, and yet that file folder screamed, glowing against the shroud.

I hovered.

I should leave it. Report it. Use it as my smoking gun and watch him burn for it.

If I had two brain cells left, I’d walk away. Pretend I didn’t see it. Definitely not touch it. Absolutely not open it.

Too bad those brain cells probably choked to death while I was on my knees last night.

The ache in my jaw flared when I clenched my teeth. I told myself it was tension—not the stretch of him.

I approached with the kind of reckless precision that felt practiced. My pulse tapped out a warning in my ears as I nudged the folder loose from the stack on his desk. I was careful not to disturb the rest. Careful not to breathe too loud.

It slid free without resistance, like it’d been waiting.

I opened it.

The top page read like any other compliance report—dry, clinical, buried in coded language and departmental jargon. But the top right corner gave it away. A logo in the letterhead, sans company name, that I didn’t recognize.

Not ours.

I stared at it, willing the logo to shift, distort, disappear. Blinked once—still there. Blinked again—clear as a slap. Like the universe wanted to be sure I didn’t miss it.

Not affiliated. Not even adjacent.

I knew every subsidiary under our umbrella. Hell, it was my job to know. This wasn’t one of them.

My stomach dropped, lead-laden. My grip on the folder tightened.

But my hands felt something else. The press of fabric, the feel of his collar twisted in my fists. The way I dragged his mouth back to mine. Not to shut him up; to taste him again.

I tried to ignore the heat pooling low. Stress, I told myself. Not the echo of him—of his lips at my throat, his fingers curling inside me. Or of that filthy sin-soaked chuckle when I came.

I turned the page.

It only got worse. Internal ethics complaints that were redacted, reframed, and tucked inside clinical trail data so dense they were easy to overlook.

This wasn’t just a breach of protocol. This was a fucking land mine, and I was standing on the pressure plate.

These were unauthorized documents. Internal studies we had no right to hold. Data that hadn’t been published, that belonged—very clearly—to a direct competitor. Pricing breakdowns. Projected profit margins.

Sweat slipped slick across my palms. My fingers trembled, but I couldn’t stop. My chest had gone tight, breath short and shallow, like my body was trying to brace before my mind could catch up.

There were comparative studies. Market strategy tables, risk mitigation, and launch timelines. Margins calculated to the decimal.

The next section stopped me cold. The kind of thing that turned whispers into wiretaps:

Undisclosed payments to medical consultants, watchdog groups, and federal regulators.

Jesus fucking Christ, Miles.

The blood drained from my face. My stomach twisted so tight I thought I might be sick.

Someone knew, and they hadn’t just buried it—they’d compiled it. Evidence packaged with a trigger instead of a lock. Maybe handed it off to a VP at a rival company, someone who knew how to bide his time.

Someone like Miles.

Arrogant enough to take it. Slick enough to survive the fallout. And calculating enough to hold it until the exact moment it would serve him best.

I couldn’t pretend this was just about chasing the high that came with pretending I had the upper hand. This wasn’t about leverage anymore. This was something else entirely.

Bigger than me. Bigger than him. Bigger than whatever fucked up dance we were still doing around each other.

I exhaled, breath ragged, and shut the folder. My hand rested on it just long enough to understand how monumentally fucked I was. Then I picked it up.

Maybe I was an idiot. Scratch that—I was. No maybe about it.

But now, having seen it, my plausible deniability had just flown right out the window. This wasn’t just going to burn him if the wrong person found it. I was holding a match too, already struck.

I slipped out into the hall, my pace clipped but quiet. My shoulders pulled tight as I pressed the folder flush against my side, red dash turned inward on my ribs like I could smother it with heat and pressure alone.

I found the copier, loaded the full stack, and hit Start before I could stop myself. The machine came to life with a mechanical groan. Every churn of paper was a gunshot. Every mechanized breath like grit ground into my fraying nerves.

Heat pulsed up from the vents. Too warm, too much like breath.

I stood over the copier like a sentry, willing it to finish faster. This wasn’t curiosity. This was theft. But it was also insurance. I wasn’t going to be the one caught without a dead-man’s switch.

I shoved the copies into a fresh folder. Stashed the original behind them. Returned to my desk, opened the drawer, and locked them in it.

I dropped into my chair, pressed both palms to my eyes.

Everything should have gone cold, but I was hot. Scorching and damp behind the low walls of my personal purgatory.

Whatever line I’d just crossed—there was no uncrossing it. And maybe it wasn’t even about self-preservation. Maybe I wanted to take a swing at him.

Just to prove I could.

Fact was: I was in this. And I needed to find out just how deep it went.

***

By midday, the sky had gone white with heat. The city outside stretched wide and sun-blind, its sharp edges softened by glare.

The terrace buzzed with the usual lunch crowd—designer suits, too-white smiles, laughter that sounded like clinking glass.

Everyone was pretending not to sweat.

He was already there, tie loosened just enough to say he didn’t have to try too hard, sipping hot coffee like the heat of the sun was nothing compared to the hellfire he walked through daily.

And it never so much as singed a hair on his head.

Liam was a backroom litigator, and damn good at it. That look of his—the one that always made me feel two inches shorter—would make most wilt.

He inhaled weakness, and like any good legal shark, could smell blood in the water from miles away.

Pun fucking intended.

I sat. Didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“I need a hypothetical.” I said flatly.

Liam arched a brow. “And I’m the lucky recipient?”

“You’re the only one that won’t ask why I’m not taking it to my boss.”

“Mmm,” he stirred his coffee slowly, watching me over the rim. “I assume this hypothetical isn’t about quarterly bonuses. Or sexual harassment.”

If he only knew.

I leaned in, kept my voice low. “Let’s say someone finds something they shouldn’t. Something that could burn someone high up.”

“Still so careful with your words.” He smirked, the curl of his lips wolfish. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Wonder who taught you that.”

His gaze dropped to my rumpled collar, to the skin beneath it. Lingered just a second too long. “Wren hasn’t blunted your instincts. Just your conscience.”

Yeah remember when we used to have principles? Me either.

My jaw ticked. “Would you report it?”

“Depends,” he sipped slowly. “Are you trying to take them down… or just hoping not to go down with them?”

I flinched inwardly. Caught between two men who could eat me alive just as soon as look in my direction.

Wonder which should have their turn first?

I let the silence answer for me.

Liam sighed, a breath weighted by irritation and pity. “You think Wren’s going to shield you if this hits the fan? He won’t. He’ll watch you bleed out and call it a strategic pivot.”

I swallowed hard, forced my eyes to hold his stare.

“I didn’t say it was him.”

But his name sat heavy on the back of my tongue like the memory of his taste—bitter, sharp as a blade. I didn’t say it. Not because I was protecting him, but because once I did, there’d be no pretending this wasn’t already personal.

It was, and I fucking knew it.

From the minute his mouth was on mine and I didn’t shove him away—just crushed myself against him while telling myself the line between want and need still existed.

Naming him would’ve made it real. And I wasn’t ready to give that part away. Not to Liam. Not when I still didn’t know if I wanted to ruin Miles… or just wanted him.

A part of me wanted to keep what we had between us quiet. A liability I couldn’t disclose.

The weight of Liam’s stare pressed against my sternum like a stone.

His tone had cooled. “Let’s call this what it is: a clean-up query from someone knee-deep in shit.”

I didn’t sit back. Didn’t fidget. Just folded my arms on the table like armor. “Then help me clean it up, counsel.”

He leaned forward, elbows hitting the table with practiced ease. “I’m not in the business of mopping up messes for someone smart enough to know better.”

He laced his fingers—calm, lethal—the same way he did right before eviscerating an opponent during an out-of-court settlement negotiation.

“But fine. Run the scenario.”

“Let’s say someone finds confidential internal documentation. Not just sensitive, privileged. Data direct from a competitor. The kind of thing that could crater reputations. And worse: payments you wouldn’t want a paper trail for.”

Oh, fuck.

That look could have frozen my veins. His expression didn’t crack, but his whole body tightened. I felt the color drain from my face just looking at him. His jaw ticked once.

I cleared my throat, tried to dislodge the rock I’d just swallowed. “Hypothetically.”

“How hypothetical?” he asked, voice taut. He lifted his coffee again, but the motion was stiffer. Not nerves—calculation.

“Hypothetical enough to leave names out of it.”

He lifted a brow like that surprised him.

“If someone found that and didn’t burn it the second they saw it?” His voice dropped—quieter now. Sharper. “They’re already fucked. Out of a job. Best case? If they’ve got decent counsel, they’re testifying under oath with their career in a shallow grave beside them. Worst case? They’re felony-level, prison-time fucked.”

I didn’t blink.

He tilted his head. The movement was subtle, but I’d seen it before:

When Miles was circling checkmate.

My stomach dropped.

Liam’s eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t find this in some forgotten drawer in the basement, Delaney. This kind of thing doesn’t just turn up.”

I’d already considered the possibility I’d been baited. That was the real horror. I picked it up like it was meant for me. I copied it. Locked it in my desk drawer and kept it like that might absolve me. Like intention still mattered.

Liam crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back like he was afraid to breathe the same air. Like he was sitting downwind from rot, and wanted to make sure it didn’t linger on him. Smart.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game.”

A bead of sweat slid down the back of my neck.

“It’s not my game,” I muttered.

“Then why the hell are you so close to the board?”

I swallowed hard. Felt it catch halfway down.

“You used to be cleaner than this,” he said softly, like a private musing spoken aloud. “Sharp. Principled. Or so I thought…”

It hit like a gut punch. Not loud, not dramatic. Just disappointment, edged with something colder—contempt. Worse than any reprimand.

“You think I planned this?”

“No,” he said. “I think you went looking for something with teeth, and didn’t plan on it biting back. You’ve always toed the line. You just needed someone to tell you it was okay to step over it.”

“And you think that’s what Wren did?”

His smile was grim. “You let him rope you in. And somehow, you thought you’d be the one walking him.”

A slow burn smoldered in my belly—anger and shame. I almost stood. Almost walked away just to keep it from catching fire. But I didn’t. Because part of me knew he was right.

“If you were me,” I asked, quieter now, “what would you do?”

Liam set his cup down, eyes locked on mine.

“Burn the evidence,” he said. “Pray you’re never subpoenaed. Because when the feds come sniffing—and they will—they won’t care why. Just that you touched it.”

He leaned in, voice dropping so low it barely carried across the table.

“They always come looking for the one holding the match.”

His eyes raked over me again, slower this time.

“And you reek of smoke, Delaney.”

***

I didn’t knock. I took a page from Miles’s playbook and lingered.

The door was shut—but unlocked. Blinds still drawn.

My hand hovered over the handle while I listened to the low murmur on the other side of the door. His voice, smooth and unbothered, was pitched just low enough I could only catch every third word.

It sounded natural. Effortless, even. But that kind of control didn’t come easy. It was practiced—a predator’s cadence. Just loud enough to draw you in. Never clear enough to know what you were walking into.

I waited for the sound of another voice, just long enough to ensure I wasn’t about to walk into a conversation I didn’t have the bandwidth to navigate.

The file was pressed flat against my chest—the original, not the copies. Those were still locked up tight. My contingency plan was safe.

I wasn’t here for answers. I was here to put him on notice.

The latch clicked behind me like a threat. I stood there for a moment, back pressed to the door, clutching the folder like a live wire, staring him down like I hadn’t just walked into a wolf’s den.

He didn’t look up, at least not immediately. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, one hand on the mouse, scrolling like I wasn’t even there.

When his eyes flicked to mine, the curl of his lips was subtle. Maybe instinct. Probably calculation.

He didn’t bother saying goodbye—just let the phone slide from his shoulder into his opposite hand and ended the call in one smooth, silent motion.

Jackass.

He looked at me like I hadn’t just walked in with a bomb strapped to my chest. The whole building could go up in flames with what I was holding, and the heat wouldn’t touch him.

Probably because he vacationed in the seventh circle.

“Delaney,” he said, drawing my name out like a taste he didn’t want to swallow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I didn’t answer with words. I took three deliberate steps forward and dropped the folder dead center on his desk. That red slash might as well have been a marksman’s laser.

“I’m just trying to figure out what currency you paid in,” I hissed. “Dollars? Promises? Or something a little more… persuasive?”

My eyes dragged down the length of him, pausing at his belt.

He didn’t even flinch. Just leaned back like he was already bored. His eyes skated over the file folder like it was another meeting agenda to add to the stack.

“You left it out,” I growled.

“Did I?” he drawled lazily.

His smile carved deeper—slow, familiar, entirely unwelcome. And I realized: I wasn’t rattling him. I was playing my part.

He stood slowly, hands sliding into his pockets like we were about to have a friendly little chat. He was tall enough I still had to look up, even in three inch heels. Bastard loved that. And this close, I could smell him—earth and cedar and smoke. Like sin in a tailored suit—clean, expensive, and still somehow filthy.

My throat tightened.

He tilted his head like he saw it. “As for payment—”

One step around the desk. Two. Each one measured. Intentional. Predatory. Until he was standing in front of me, close enough to steal my air.

“Some things are worth more than money.”

He brushed a knuckle under my chin, lifting just enough to hold my gaze. The touch was feather-light, but the burn lingered. The coil in my belly cinched tighter. I squeezed my thighs together like that might make a difference. His eyes dipped. Over my mouth. Down my throat. Pausing on the tension in my shoulders, like he knew exactly what it cost me not to lean in—then lower. Lingering.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He liked me mean, and I wasn’t about to disappoint.

“If you’re asking if I fucked someone for it…” His voice dropped, rich and dangerous. “…maybe the better question is: what would you do for information like that?”

“I’d make sure you burned with it,” I snapped, sharp as a blade. But I stepped back anyway—until the backs of my thighs brushed the edge of his desk. I leaned like I hadn’t just given him ground. Like I wasn’t offering more, and daring him to take it.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he murmured. “Not before you let it compromise you, just to understand the rules of the game.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, just loud enough for him to clock it. And he grinned like he’d just won something.

“You came in here to light a match, sweetheart.”

He planted a hand on either side of me, caging me in with the kind of precision that didn’t rush—cold at my back, his heat pressing in at my front. Then he leaned down until his mouth hovered over my pulse, and when he exhaled, the warmth of it dragged across my throat. Like he wanted to watch the tick of my heartbeat. Like he was deciding where to bite first.

“Did you forget what fire tastes like?”

Bet he could jog our memory.

The stab of heat between my thighs made my breath hitch. It throbbed low and insistent. Another betrayal of body. I hated that I wanted him closer. Hated the part of me longing to tilt my head and bare my throat, even knowing exactly what it would cost me. Like I wanted to offer more, knowing he’d take that and then some.

I forced my chin up, voice steel-edged. “I remember.”

A low hum vibrated in his chest, and—fuck me—I felt it in mine. He turned his head enough that I could sense the proximity of his mouth at my jaw. Not brushing, but the threat of contact was enough to make my whole body tighten. “Of course you do.”

My hand twitched with the urge to slap him. My thighs clenched again without my fucking permission. I stood stock-still. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing his effect on me again.

“You done?” I whispered.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, looming over me like a predator savoring the scent of his kill.

“Not even close.” he whispered back, lips grazing the shell of my ear.

He lifted one hand off the desk to lean against the other, opening the exit for me.

I turned to leave, hands curled into fists to hide the shake. Almost made it to the door.

“Delaney.”

I paused in my reach for the handle. Didn’t look back.

“You’re attending the CareForward Ethics Conference with me next weekend,” he said, voice flat. Like it wasn’t up for debate. “I’ll send you the itinerary.”

Fuck me.

Probably his plan.

“Why me?” I asked, half turning.

I didn’t have to see the grin to know he was wearing it.

“Because it’s more fun when you watch.”

He let the words hang deliberately. Long enough for my mind to paint a picture: Miles at the edge of the bed, fingers at his collar, slow and practiced, drawing each button free like he was undressing for an audience of one.

He held my gaze as his hand slid through his hair, then lower. Muscle tightened across his abdomen as he reached for the buckle on his belt.

The low metallic bite of the clasp undone. The soft hiss of leather sliding free.

He didn’t rush. His cock was heavy in his grip, already hard, already leaking. He stroked from base to tip and back—measured, deliberate, fist tight. Like he wanted me to see exactly how he liked it.

He watched me watching him, like the sound of my breath—hot and ragged—was what got him off.

His eyes tracked my slow turn like he could see straight through my clothing, like he knew exactly how flushed I was beneath it.

“And no one calls me on my shit quite like you do.”

I bit back the full-body shiver crawling up my spine at the look of him. He lounged against the desk, one leg cocked over the other, hands tucked away like they hadn’t starred in every filthy fantasy I’d had for months. He was smug enough to know it too, and enjoy every second of it.

He didn’t look dangerous. He didn’t have to. I knew better.

Lecherous bastard.

His gaze dipped, catching the way my breath stuttered, and his voice dropped an octave. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Miles at an ethics conference. The irony wasn’t just rich—it was fucking gold-plated and diamond encrusted.

“If I end up thigh-to-thigh with you at cruising altitude,” I muttered. “I’m jumping.”

His brow arched, mouth curving slow. “Without a parachute?”

My eyes flicked to the folder, then back to him.

Four hours. Pressed against that body in a tin can in the sky? Recipe for disaster.

Sounds like a hell of a ride.

I met his gaze, chin-lifted. “Head first.”

His chuckle was low, velvet smooth and lethal.

“Relax, sweetheart. You couldn’t hope to be that lucky,” he  said, smirking like the thought of me going splat was hilarious.

Then, smug as sin: “You’re in economy. I’m in first.”

Oh, of course he was.

Fucking prick.