The conference room smelled like lemon pledge and ambition. The kind of scent I had learned to associate with corporate rot. It clung to the polished oak table, the glass water pitchers, the neat stacks of binders tabbed by quarter.

Legal had shown up in force, sleeves rolled, pens already clicking, sport jackets slung over the backs of their chairs like they planned to be there awhile. Compliance, on the other hand, had less of a turnout. There were two junior officers seated a safe distance from their VP at one end of the table, like they thought he might bite if they sat too close.

They had no fucking idea.

I tried not to clock the look of him, and failed.

Navy suit, cufflinks gleaming, smugness dialed to eleven—watching me cross the room like he already owned the next move. He wore that self-assured smirk as naturally as his precision tailored suit, and it had the same weaponized polish.

I slid into one of the only open seats—left side of the table, closest to the windows. Too close to Miles Wren for comfort. Maybe close enough to feel intentional, if not for the lack of availability.

Across the conference table sat his adversary—Liam Rourke, VP of Legal.

Compliance and Legal were two sides of the same coin. But the VPs? Polar opposites in method. Miles preferred ethically “grey” containment strategies; Liam was supposed to be his leash—all black-letter law and liability control.

Liam had seniority. Miles had operational pull. The balance between them wasn’t so much tense as it was constantly recalibrating, each waiting for the other to make a mistake.

I’d been on the other side of the table six months ago, working for Liam in Legal. Miles had found me buried under an avalanche of contract audits, and offered me “career advancement” late one evening after the office had cleared out of colleagues and anyone who could warn me against it. I’d mistaken it for mentorship, and was naive enough to think I could keep my head above water in a department where “ethics” was just another performance metric.

His thigh brushed mine. Warm. Solid. I angled my chair, crossed my ankles beneath the table. Tried to ignore that the touch had the skin on my nape and along my arms prickling.

Even a brush of his leg felt like a pawn sliding into place. Someone less versed may have mistaken it for fidgeting.

Miles didn’t fidget. He maneuvered. And right now, every inch of space between us, and every inch he stole, felt like part of the evaluation.   

I kept my gaze forward, pen poised. Miles leaned back in his seat as Liam began, all clipped efficiency and veiled condescension, wearing his superiority complex the way Miles wore that grin.

Another shift beneath the table. Slower this time. Less a brush, and more like a drag. Harder to write off as unintentional. Prowling with precision, testing my edges like he was learning the exact point where I’d snap.

My thighs clenched.

“It’ll be hard to take notes with your hand shaking like that,” he murmured, voice low enough for only me to hear.

“Careful, Wren. You might enjoy what I do with a steady grip.”

His lips barely quirked, but the smile was there.

I tried to focus on what Liam was saying—something about an update to a confidentiality agreement in light of the most recent merger between two of our contracted R&D firms.

Miles pressed harder. I could feel the heat, the hardness of muscle beneath his slacks. Commanding my attention again.

“Keep touching me and I’ll stab you with this pen,” I hissed between clenched teeth.

“Still wet enough to slide in smooth?”

My spine went rod-straight, pen skittering across the page. The noise was loud enough for Liam to pause, steely eyes landing on me. The rest of the room followed.

I forced a cough, reached for my coffee, took a long sip. Managed not to punch Miles in the throat.

“Something you’d like to add, Miss Maddox?” Liam asked dryly.

“No, sir,” voice even, pulse hammering.

His look lingered. Flicked to Miles. Back to me. Yeah, he knew something was off.

Miles was watching me. Maybe not directly, but he was measuring my steel. I could tell by his stillness. Not tense, but studious. Absolute focus.

It had been this way since my transfer. The constant needling. Could be hazing, could mean something else…

You wish…

Liam continued casually, like the interruption wasn’t born of contact not entirely unwelcome:

“The basement is full of pre-digital compliance files collecting dust.”

I knew exactly what that meant: cabinets and boxes, brittle paper to be turned by hand. No search bar. No Ctrl+F queries. Just weeks of digging through other people’s mess.

“That paper trail could wrap around the building twice,” Miles said, eyes sliding to me. “Any residuals will need to be labeled and filed in accordance with the merger. Sounds like an excellent place for my newest transfer to cut her teeth.”

Liam’s nod was curt. “Your attention to detail will be put to good use here, Miss Maddox. Just don’t get lost in the weeds.”

I shot Miles a pointed look. He didn’t meet it. The grin stayed. The heat of him still pressed against me.

Another test disguised as busy work. Burying me in old skeletons to see if I squealed, and who to. By the end of this he’d know where my loyalties lay.

Fine. Let him measure. I’d make sure he lamented the yardstick.

By the time we were filing out of the bullpen, my nerves were fraying. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

Miles stood, buttoned his jacket with one hand, collected his laptop with the other. Measured. Serene. Like we hadn’t just spent the last hour playing footsie.

I spent the rest of the day buried in my inbox, ignoring the occasional pass by my cubicle—the subtle shift of air as the space seemed to bend for his presence like it was owed to him. He liked to linger just long enough to let me know he was there.

The basement files were supposed to be a long-term project. Something I could chip away at between “real” assignments. Which, I suspected, was exactly how Miles intended it—a slow bleed designed to test my patience and loyalty.

He obviously didn’t know me very well.

If he thought I’d let him set the pace, he was wrong. I didn’t need weeks. I needed hours. I’d skim and scan until I found something I could slide across his desk like a live wire, and watch him try to smile through the shock.

Even those who never saw anything but grey matter slipped. Somewhere there was proof that the VP of Compliance wasn’t untouchable.

Because the man was more than attractive. More than fuckable. He was fucking impossible. And I was going to prove it.

Not by batting my lashes or smiling sweetly—the way Miles probably assumed was natural for any female caught in his orbit.

Not my style.

I was going to find something with teeth. Something ruthless enough to cut through his bullshit and leave him bleeding, for once.

It was nearly ten p.m., and the building was a ghost town. No hum of printers. No shrill ring of phones to pierce the silence. Just me, downstairs in the basement, trudging through where the real skeletons were filed away.

Miles fucking Wren. Where to begin, exactly?

Corporate slick, magnetically charming. Polish sharpened in high stakes bullpen conference rooms, and honed while stepping over the corpses of his enemies careers, grin never wavering. Like he lived to exist in the wreckage, and ruin was his native language.

His cut-glass jawline carved by boardroom indifference, smug in the way only men who’d never been told no could be. Like God—or, more likely, Satan—had stitched him together from pinstripes and audacity, designed to walk into any room and own it.

The cabinets lined the far wall like soldiers standing at attention. Everything smelled faintly of dust, old toner, and secrets burned into aging eight-and-a-half by eleven. Every one buried under lock, key, and plausible deniability.

Compliance was skirting the edges of facts to maintain the facade. I had been used to operating within the rules. Now? I was expected to know them well enough to know which ones broke, and which ones bent. And just how far they’d flex before they shattered.

It wasn’t about right or wrong. It was about staying on the right side of things, and not being the dumbass left holding the bag when shit hit the fan.

I yanked another drawer open, flipped through the files with quick, practiced fingers.

This wasn’t about taking him down—not really. It was about showing him there was someone else who could play his game. That not everyone he turned that dazzling smile on was a pawn he could position and discard as he pleased.

The drawer slammed shut harder than it was meant to. The metal clanged, the sound echoing off the file room walls. I cringed and stared at it like it was the problem.

“Find anything interesting, Maddox?”

His voice rolled over me like static between silken sheets.

I stiffened, the tautness in my shoulders coming and going within the space of a breath.

Probably just long enough for him to notice.

Should have known…

“This your thing now?” I asked without turning, “Lurking?”

“I prefer observing,” he replied smoothly. “And only when the view warrants it.”

I turned slowly, keeping my expression flat even as my pulse ticked. Miles leaned in the doorway like he had every right to frame it—tie loose, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. All fierce angles whetted by dangerous ease.

All aimed directly at me.

And those eyes—cool blue, calculating, indulgent—slid over me from throat to ankle, blazing hot enough to melt my composure.

Asshole knew exactly what he was doing when he looked at me like that—a dare wrapped in a grin. Just to see if I’d flinch.

He had that careless kind of beauty. Dark hair kept long enough to tempt your fingers. Stubble too perfect not to be intentional. Sharp in all the places that mattered, soft nowhere.

Beneath all that smug polish was something worse—heat. A slow, deliberate pull that didn’t ask permission.

“You only linger when you want something,” I said. “So what is it tonight? Were you hoping to catch me elbow deep in rot, red-handed?”

His mouth curved. “Don’t get your hands dirty, sweetheart. I’d settle for catching you in any compromising position. Something worth photographing. Preferably while you’re on your knees, putting that sharp tongue of yours to better use.”

My teeth snapped shut before my jaw could drop, my pulse stuttering at the mental image he’d just dropped into my head.

And fuck me, the worst part was how fast my mind painted the picture for him.

I buried it fast—flattening it into a sneer before he could clock it.

“No wonder you’re always compensating,” I crossed my arms, my laugh short and sharp. “All that swagger… and I bet your cock’s the only thing smaller than your conscience.”

My gaze dragged down the length of him, pausing at his belt, dipping lower, lingering long enough to be rude.

That earned me a smile with teeth. The one that said he was moving pieces before I’d even seen the board.

“Mouthy Maddox.” He purred it like a title, rolling it on his tongue as he took a step into the room. Then another. “Keep staring like that and I’ll show you exactly how wrong you are.”

The file cabinet bit cold against my spine before I even realized he’d closed the distance. The air turned heavy—thick with heat, hostility, and something sharper I refused to name.

I held his gaze. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.”

Liar.

His eyes dropped, tracking the rise and fall of my chest, tight and shallow. His grin carved like a blade. He knew, and worse, he knew I knew that was bullshit.

His mouth was sculpted for ruin—always curved in that infuriating smirk. The kind that never apologized, but made most want to forgive him anyway. He knew it. Wore it like a weapon. As effortlessly as his tailored suits, cut to flatter every inch—broad shoulders, lean predatory frame. All height, heat, and menace woven into one sinfully dangerous package.

When his gaze met mine again, it burned.

“Who said anything about fucking?”

He leaned in, his breath skating across my cheek like a spark over kindling. “I could ruin you without even unzipping.”

Heat flared in my gut. I pressed my thighs together and fought the urge to bite my lip.

“You’re full of shit.” The words came out too breathy to be convincing, even to my own ears.

It didn’t matter that I hated the way he talked, or the way he moved like the room owed him the space. My body hadn’t gotten the fucking memo.

He hummed low in his chest, grip tightening on the file cabinet behind me, caging me in.

“And you’re begging to be full of something, sweetheart.” He pressed closer, lips brushing my ear, the threat of a heavier touch crackling between us. “Is it my cock, my fingers… or just the attention you can’t admit you’re starving for? Let’s find out.”

And then his mouth was on mine—teeth, heat, collision—violent in the way a storm breaks. He didn’t coax. He claimed. And I hated how easy it was to kiss him back, fingers fisting in his hair before I even decided if I meant to pull him closer or shove him back.

His hand found the hem of my skirt and yanked it up without ceremony. No prelude, no warning, just a deliberate violation of space I hadn’t meant to give. My breath caught, and my legs spread before I could think better of it.

The quiet pressed in, the file room amplifying every rustle of fabric, every sharp inhale. The silence made it worse. No witnesses, no distractions, and that was the point. Just him and me, and my refusal to say stop.

He stepped in, closing the last of the distance. His heat was its own entity, pinning me to the cold metal harder than his weight. Seductive, sinful. Everything I wasn’t supposed to want.

“Tell me to stop.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a fucking dare. His eyes burned like he already knew I wouldn’t.

He offered me the out.

So why couldn’t I tell him to back off?

Why would you? So you can go home, and wish you hadn’t?

Because then at least I could sit under the piss-yellow light of my kitchen and still pretend to have principles.

His grip slid up the back of my thigh, hooking my leg over his hip, hauling me open. My skirt rode higher, baring me to him, and then he ground against me—slow enough to feel every throb, hard enough to leave no doubt this was personal.

Because it was, and we both knew it.

“You’re a bastard,” I bit out, because it was safer to hide behind hostility than acknowledge the heat pooling between my thighs.

“Keep barking like you’ve got something to prove,” he purred like he was praising performance metrics, rolling his hips again as though hatred were foreplay. “I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

I felt the shape of him through too many layers, but there was no mistaking what was pressed against me, grinding exactly where I needed it. Hot, hard, and smug enough to carry its own NDA.

Men like Miles didn’t exist with this kind of swagger without a cock to match. He probably used it like he used everything else: turning want into leverage until you were the one making concessions.

His teeth caught my lip, sharp enough to sting.

I fisted his Cucinelli—subtle, stupidly refined. Bastard wore the kind of clothing that cost more than my rent.

And still, I didn’t shove him off. I dragged his mouth back to mine. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a hostile takeover: wetter, rougher, messier. Teeth, tongue, air stolen and traded like a non-compete clause buried in fine print.

He shoved my panties aside, fingers sliding through the slick already waiting for him. His smirk was worse than the touch—confirmation that I’d made a move in a game I didn’t even know I was playing, and he was already capitalizing.

My teeth scraped his jaw; he answered by thrusting two fingers inside me. My world blurred. He didn’t fumble, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask for permission again. He’d given me an out. I hadn’t taken it.

Now it was all ruthless precision, finding the origin of my ache and pressing against it with every curl of his fingers. Like he’d studied my architecture and already knew exactly which load-bearing walls to knock out to reduce me to rubble.

And my body—fuck—betrayed me at every opportunity.

“I hate you,” I gasped, breath breaking around the words.

His lips brushed my ear, voice low, breath scorching.

“Funny thing—you say you hate me, but your pussy says you want me.”

Heat slammed through me. The obscene sound of my wetness filled the quiet, my body betraying me in the loudest, most humiliating way. My hips rocked into his hand, grinding my clit against his palm like I’d forgotten how to resist.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” His chuckle was dark—the same one I’d only ever heard when he drew blood in a negotiation. “Sweetheart, listen to yourself. You’re the one making a mess, soaking my hand.”

I twisted like I could outrun the truth, but his body pinned me against the cold metal, immovable.

“Go to hell.”

“I’ll take you there myself.” His grin pressed against my throat as his fingers flexed, curling cruelly until I gasped, hips jerking against my will. “But first, you’ll come for me.”

The words seared hotter than his touch. My jaw locked, teeth clenched against the moan threatening to slip.

“Fuck you.”

That grin couldn’t have been worn better by the devil himself.

“That’s not a no.”

He drove his fingers knuckle-deep, grinding his palm against me like he could squeeze the fight out of me. My composure cracked. A moan broke in my throat, jagged and shamefully raw. Every flex of his hand was a stamp of his signature on a contract I hadn’t signed. My cunt signed it anyway with every slick, desperate clench.

He hummed low in his chest. “You’ve touched yourself thinking about my hands, haven’t you?”

My voice broke on a growl that melted into a gasp....