The elevator doors glide open with a soft whisper. A large hallway decorated with abstract art, monochromatic rugs, and futuristic furniture comes into view.
I strut down the corridor and make a smooth stop in front of the last door. I swipe my key card and push in.
The room is dark, with only a faint light sneaking through the velvet curtains, not enough to illuminate the place.
I step in, blinking while trying to adjust my eyes when the hard frame of a man stops me a few feet away from the door.
There’s not enough time to react before he cuffs my wrist and spins me around to face the wall. My bag drops from the other hand as he twists my arm and presses it against my back.
He grabs both wrists, wraps them in his fist, and pulls them up above my head.
My jacket slides off my shoulders.
Jerking back as hard as I can, I smack him in his chest.
“Don’t move,” he growls, pressing my face against the wall.
His thick, low voice courses through me, followed by an instant shudder.
A scent of fresh paint lifts off the wall. It fills my nostrils and brings bile to my mouth. As if it’s not bad enough, strands of hair get stuck to my lip gloss, tickling my nose.
I try to blow them away without success.
He winds his arm around my chest and clamps his hand over my mouth, his fingers smearing my lipstick. More hair slips into my mouth.
Fuck.
His fresh scent obliterates the smell of paint, and all I feel right now is the heat coming from his body and the distinct aroma of his aftershave.
He lets go of my wrists, locks one arm around my waist, and slides the other over my chest, his forearm resting between my breasts.
His callous thumb rubs across my lips, the scent of his cologne exploding in my mouth. I writhe against him, my back hitting his chest a few times.
Laughing quietly, he hardens his grip, thick ropes of muscles wrapping around my neck.
I get warm and wet between my legs.
“Keep your hands on the wall,” he barks in a guttural voice.
I listen, doing exactly what I’m told.
His body presses against mine, his bulge rubbing against my lower back.
He lowers his head, his hot breath fanning over my neck.
Slowly, his lips graze my jawline, his hands moving over my body, rough, without much finesse.
Covering my breasts with his hands, he squeezes and kneads them harshly before pinching the puckered nipples.
Sparks fly between my legs.
Rushed, he slips his hands inside my cleavage, yanks the fabric to the sides, and in one sharp motion, tears my dress open.
A tremor sweeps through my body.
Tense, I grunt.
“Chill, baby. Chill. We’ll get to that...” he says. “You’re fucking late,” he groans in my ear.