The Master Stroke

The managing director from the lead investment bank cleared his throat, tapping his microphone to bring the room back to order. "If we can focus on page fourteen, clause six. We need the primary signatories—Mr. Ethan Vance, Mr. Damon Vance, and Ms. Robin Vance—to initial the execution pages before we proceed to the press release."

"I told you, I'm not initialing clause six until Annex C is modified," Ethan insisted, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair with a stubborn, sullen scowl. "Robin, back me up here. You know how much this affects our personal portfolio post-wedding."

I took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the frantic, hot rhythm of my pulse. I reached for my Montblanc pen, my fingers slightly damp against the cold resin.

Across the black granite, Damon slowly shifted his position. He slid his hand off the table, dropping it beneath the edge of the granite top. His eyes never left mine. Through the open gap under the center of the broad table, I could see his hand moving down toward his thigh, his long fingers unbuttoning the bottom button of his waistcoat, resting his hand heavy and low on his lap.

He parted his knees slightly beneath the table, his dark eyes commanding my attention with a fierce, quiet authority that made my knees feel like lead.

Sign the paper, his eyes said. Stop playing with him.

I looked down at the heavy bond paper in front of me. Page fourteen. The signature line for the principal representative.

"Robin?" Ethan pressed, his voice rising in irritation. "Are you going to say something, or are you just going to sit there?"

"I'm going to sign," I said softly.

Ethan’s jaw dropped in disbelief. "What? Without the escrow adjustment? Are you insane?"

"The deal is solid, Ethan," I said, capping my pen with a sharp, metallic snap that cut through his protest. "And unlike you, I don't waste time arguing over terms that have already been settled by adults."

Damon let out a low, almost imperceptible breath through his nose, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, savage satisfaction. His hand beneath the table stroked slowly down his inner thigh, mimicry of the exact spot where his mark was burning high on my leg.

I uncapped the pen, leaned over the granite table, and signed my name on the execution line with a firm, unbroken flourish.

"Unbelievable," Ethan muttered, shrugging his shoulders in defeat and grabbing his own pen to hastily scrawl his initials beside mine, unwilling to be left out of the final document even as he pouted. "You two are entirely too eager to run over my authority."

"Your authority exists on paper, Ethan," Damon said softly, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that made my toes curl inside my heels. "Out here, things get executed by people who actually know how to take control."

Damon picked up the master pen, leaning forward over the table to affix his sweeping, authoritative signature to the bottom of the page. As he leaned forward, his suit coat parted slightly, his broad chest pressing close to the edge of the table, his scent—pure cedarwood, crisp cotton, and underlying male heat—filling the air between us.

For a split second, as his pen completed the final stroke, Damon raised his eyes. Through the narrow space above the dark granite, his gaze locked onto mine with a raw, explicit intensity that made my body go completely rigid.

You're coming back to the penthouse tonight, his eyes promised, a dark, filthy command written in the absolute stillness of his expression. And I'm going to tear that suit right off your skin.

A hard, involuntary shudder ran down my spine. My core wet completely, the heavy slickness soaking through my underwear as the gravity of his unspoken demand settled over me like a heavy weight.

"Well," the managing director announced, clapping his hands together as he gathered the signed pages into a leather binder. "The merger agreement is officially executed. Congratulations, gentlemen. Ms. Vance."

The room broke into polite applause. Board members began standing up, buttoning their jackets, and gathering their briefcases. Ethan immediately stood up, leaning over his analyst’s shoulder to vent his frustration about the escrow clause, his voice fading into the background noise of shuffling papers and small talk.

I stayed seated for a moment longer, my hands resting on the edge of the granite table, waiting for the trembling in my legs to stop before I stood up.

Damon stood up smoothly, buttoning his navy jacket over his broad chest with practiced, aristocratic ease. He gathered his single leather folder, stepped around the head of the table, and walked past my chair.

He didn't stop to talk. He didn't look at Ethan.

As he brushed past the back of my chair, his hand slid casually behind his back. For a fraction of a second, his broad, warm palm pressed firmly against the small of my back, his long fingers spreading wide over the wool of my jacket, his thumb digging hard into my spine with a brief, bruising pressure that made my breath catch in my throat.

Then he walked straight out the double glass doors without looking back.

I sat there, my pulse racing at a terrifying speed, my skin burning where his hand had touched me, and my body completely, hopelessly hooked on the thrill of the man who held total dominion over every inch of my physical self.