"I have a head for business and a body for sin."
— Working Girl. Director: Mike Nichols Summer I drag my suitcase toward the imposing door to what has to be
the most beautiful three-story house I have ever seen.
The street is off Primrose Hill. Celebrities live here... And of course, the Jerkenstein.
His chauffeur had dropped me off in front of the beautiful wisteria-covered townhouse and I had almost been sorry
to see Peter leave.
Not that we had spoken much. I’d been too taken in by the Aston Martin the alphahole had sent to pick me up.
It had smelled of Sinclair. I bring my sleeve up to my nose and sniff. Bergamot and p epper. Correction, I still smell
of him.
My stomach flip flops. A hot sensation coils in my chest.
I haven’t seen the man and already my palms are damp.
From hate. That’s all it is, right? I raise my fist and knock on the door. It swings open. Huh?
I push open the barrier and walk through, into the large foyer. Ahead, a stairway winds its way up.
To my right is an elevator. Huh? Guess when you’re rich you can't be bothered with climbing the stairs?
How much had it cost him to buy the place? Take a number and add at least another seven figures to it. My head
whirls. Guess all the money in the world can't buy politeness though, huh?
He is the richest, the snobbiest, the most infuriating man I’ve come across. And I am going to spend the next seven
days with him. Hell.
I bypass the elevator and head for the stairs. He could have been here to welcome me, guide me around. Of course,
not. Why had I expected that, huh?
At the foot of the stairs, I pause. I have no idea where I am going, and no way am I dragging my wheelie up the
st eps.
Hence, elevator...
Hell, does he have to be right even when he isn't physically present to rub it in? I pull my bag to the side, and
d eposit my tote on it. Then clomp past the foyer, taking a left, through the living room that opens out onto a
massive garden.
I pause at the decking that leads out onto a green lawn, flanked by cherry blossom trees in full bloom in the spring
sun. Rows of flower beds grace a garden path that leads down to a pond whose water glistens in the distance. I lean
forward on the balls of my feet, wanting so much to walk out and explore... I take a st ep forward when a sound
interrupts me. Huh? Was that a moan? I hesitate.
A rustle reaches me from somewhere behind. I pivot, move forward. Another soft sigh. No, I am not imagining
things. My heart begins to race. He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t have called me here to humiliate me.
No, actually, that would be exactly his style. Embarrass me further. I stiffen. Why should I hesitate? I haven’t done
anything wrong, have I? I head past the bay windows on the opposite side of the room, into the adjoining kitchen.
And pause. There on the side of the island, he stands, shirt unbuttoned, the lapels parted to show off that sculpted
eight pack.
Whoever has an eight pack outside of models and film stars, eh? This alphahole, that's who.
His stomach is concave, and the pants at his waist are unzipped. My mouth goes dry. The blonde hair of a woman
covers the most important part of his anatomy. Damn it.
Not that I’d wanted to catch a glimpse of his dick. Of course, not.
His fingers dig into her hair, he tugs on it, and she makes a humming sound de ep in her throat.
Bet her cheeks are hollowed as she takes him down her throat.
He drags her hair back, then presses her close. Her shoulders tremble and a sucking sound reaches me. My cheeks
redden. My thighs clench. The hair on my nape rises and I jerk my gaze up.
Indigo eyes burn into me. His features are hard, his jaw set. His gaze is hot, lust-filled, yet shuttered at the same
time. As if he were watching me watching him. I take a st ep forward, not able to stop myself. If I were closer,
would I see myself reflected in his eyes? Would I see how much he wants me? Would he sense how much the
entire tableau is turning me on?
I gulp. My scalp tingles. My toes curl. Every part of me seems to be alight with a strange fire. I shouldn’t find this
erotic. I shouldn’t.
A nerve throbs at his temple. He jerks his chin. When my foot slaps the ground, I realize I have taken a st ep
forward.
The hell? I blink. One side of his mouth curls.
His bic eps flex and he pulls her head back, then forward again. And again. I was wrong. She isn’t giving him a
blow job. He is taking it from her. He is using her mouth for his
pleasure. And yet it is as if he is completely dissociated from the entire proceedings. He set this up for my benefit.
He wanted me to find him in this position, of course, he orchestrated this entire scene.
I stiffen, angle my body. I should leave, should get away from him.
His grin broadens. His chest rises and falls. He yanks her away with such force that she falls on her arse.
"Hey," she protests.
"Leave." He says it without taking his gaze off of me.
She glances up, "But, I’m not done."
"I am."
He lowers his hands to the front of his pants. The harsh rasp of the zipper being pulled up, grates on my nerves. All
of my pores seem to pop at once. Damn him and his account.
Turning, I race to the door "Summer, stop."
His hard voice crashes into me. I shudder. My st eps seem to slow of their own accord. The hell is he doing to me?
I’d been wrong to indulge him this far.
Been wrong to think that I’d survive a week with him... Hell, a few seconds in his presence and I am unravelling.
Pinpricks of heat slice my skin and my thigh muscles spasm. I hate the man... No, I loathe him.
No way am I going to allow him to see how much he’s gotten under my skin. That I’d wished I had been the
woman on her knees in front of him. That he’d been using me to pleasure him. This is sick.
I don't want him. I don't want be part of this charade.
Reaching the front door, I wrench it open and race out.