Dirty (short stories)

The rain came down in sheets the morning Mara first met him.

She slid into the back of the black Range Rover at 7:12 a.m., already on a call, voice low and lethal as she tore into her COO about missed deadlines. The car didn’t move. She glanced up, annoyed.

“Seatbelt,” the driver said. Deep voice. No apology. No rush.

Mara blinked. The man in the front seat was new. Broad shoulders straining the seams of a black suit, short dark hair still damp from the rain, jawline sharp enough to make you second-guess staring too long. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror—steady, unreadable, the color of dark espresso.

She clicked the belt without breaking eye contact. “You’re not Marcus.”

“Marcus is out sick. I’m Jax. Started today.”

“Jax.” She let the name hang for a second. “Drive. I need to be at the tower in twenty-five minutes.”

He pulled away from the curb smooth as silk. No lurch, no drama. Just clean acceleration that pressed her back into the leather seat. Mara returned to her call, firing numbers and threats like bullets. She didn’t notice the way Jax’s gaze flicked to her legs when she crossed them—black tailored skirt riding up just enough to show the thin line where stocking met thigh. Didn’t notice his fingers tighten on the wheel when she laughed once, sharp and cold, at whatever bullshit excuse the COO was feeding her.

They hit the underground garage beneath Kane Tower. Mara was already reaching for the door handle when Jax was suddenly there—out, around, pulling it open before her fingers touched the metal. He held a large black umbrella over her head without a word. Rain drummed on it like gunfire.

She stepped under. Close enough now to catch his scent: clean skin, faint leather from the jacket, something warmer underneath. Woodsmoke, maybe. Or just the way his body ran hot.

“Thanks,” she said. Neutral. Professional.

He didn’t reply. Just walked her to the private elevator, swiped his access card, held the door. She stepped inside. He stayed outside.

“You’re not coming up?”

“Orders were drive and protect. Not babysit.” A ghost of a smirk tugged his mouth—the first crack in the stone face. “Unless you want me closer, Ms. Kane.”

The doors began sliding shut. Mara held his gaze until the gap was almost gone.

“Call me Mara,” she said.

The doors sealed.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The boardroom was already humming when she walked in—twenty suits, glowing screens, coffee going cold. She took the head of the table and spent the next two hours dismantling projections, rewriting timelines, reminding everyone why she ran the company and not them. Sharp. Unforgiving. Exactly what the shareholders paid for.

But beneath the table her thighs kept pressing together. Once. Twice. She could still hear his voice saying her name like he was tasting it.

When the meeting ended she took the private elevator down alone. The garage lights were low, fluorescent hum. Jax was leaning against the Range Rover, arms crossed, watching her cross the concrete like he’d been waiting all morning.

She stopped a few feet away.

“You always this quiet?” she asked.

“Only when I’m deciding something.”

“Deciding what?”

He pushed off the car and closed the distance. Not touching her. Just shrinking the air until she had to tilt her chin to hold his eyes.

“How long before you tell me to do something we both know I shouldn’t.”

Her pulse slammed against her throat.

“And if I do?”

That smirk again—slow, filthy, full of promise.

“Then we stop pretending this is just a job, Mara.”

She didn’t answer. Just slid into the back seat.

But when he closed the door and circled to the driver’s side, she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

Deliberately.

And she didn’t tell him to take the fastest route home.

Instead she said, “Take the long way. Through the waterfront.”

He met her eyes in the mirror for one long beat.

Then he turned left instead of right.

The city blurred past—rain-streaked windows, neon bleeding into puddles. Neither of them spoke. The silence felt thick, electric.

When they reached the empty stretch of road along the river, Mara leaned forward.

“Pull over.”

Jax didn’t ask why. He eased the car into a shadowed spot between two warehouses, killed the engine. Rain tapped the roof like fingers.

He turned in the seat to face her.

She didn’t move to get out.

Instead she reached up, slowly unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

His eyes darkened.

“Your move, Jax.”

He exhaled through his nose, like he was holding himself back by a thread.

Then he climbed into the back seat.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

And everything professional disappeared.