One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

to admire her underwear, eyes narrow and intense, before peeling it from her body carefully. The man knew it was expensive.
He had magic hands, long fingers, wide knuckles, and they strummed over her body. He was full of dirty talk. Voice gravelly and low. It spilled from his imaginary mouth and made her tighten her hold on her vibrator.
“I can’t wait to get inside you,” he said. “Feel how good you squeeze my cock. Waited for you a long time and now I’m going take that good, good girl and show you what you’ve been missing all these years. Make you dirty again. Make you so wicked filthy, you’ll do anything for me.”
In her head, she was on her knees, showing him how filthy she still was, unzipping him, taking hold of his rigid dick, veiny and velvety. He had that delicious frenum piercing, right under his cockhead. She felt it against her tongue as she licked him, she imagined it against her clit as she sucked him. She made him moan and stroke her hair.
And that was enough to make her come.
She had it so bad.
There were other versions of the fantasy. They always took place in the boardroom. She always started off dressed as she would for work. He always started off dressed as if he’d come off stage and was high on adrenaline. There was music, there was the smell of warm leather and cigarette smoke and dark spirits.
Sometimes he spread her out on the table. Sometimes he had her against the floor-to-ceiling glass where anyone from the street or another office tower could see.
Every time she made herself come.
Feeling a little guilty for Stu, one time she tried to imagine it was him in the boardroom, waiting for her, tearing her clothes, talking dirty, face buried between her legs while she dripped onto the polished surface of the boardroom table like she did with Grip.
It didn’t work. It felt all kinds of wrong. She could barely imagine Stu without his suit on. She called him and broke it off. They weren’t building anything together if she couldn’t build a fantasy around him.
And now, back in the real world, she had to find a way to quarantine her imagination and treat Grip with the detached professionalism and attention to detail he deserved.
She’d examined his accounts and investment portfolio. Had met with his accountant and broker and understood his assets, sources of income, fixed and variable, and holdings, losses and—mostly losses. Now it was about building his profile as an investor, so she could restructure his portfolio to deliver to his expectations.
To do that she had to understand what he wanted from his money.
To do that well, she had to understand him.
And not in a fantasy, do-me-over-the-boardroom-table kind of way.
She’d chosen a smaller meeting room, so it was less intimidating, and not the scene of her self-directed orgasms. He’d shown up early looking more like an off-duty rocker in a tour T-shirt, black denim, and biker boots. He had a plaited cuff on one wrist and his hair was attractively every which way, as if he’d had someone’s fingers in it. There was a bike helmet on the empty chair beside him, which explained the hair, a leather jacket draped over the chair back.
In front of him he had his tablet, a stylus and a folder of papers. He looked at her warily, as if he expected her to set an exam he knew he’d fail. He was never wary in her sex play. It was sobering.
She managed to walk into the room without stumbling, dropping anything or losing her sense of self. They exchanged greetings like two competent adults who had never lusted after each other in her dream state.
She’d dressed carefully this morning. A dove-gray suit, pants and jacket, which she kept buttoned over a plain white silk tank. Her hair was in a neat twist and she ditched her usual heels for a shorter stack, conservative, lace up, the kind she wore when she expected to do a lot of walking.
Always dress for the job you wanted. That worked as much now when she didn’t want to make a statement with her clothes as it did in her groupie days when she did. The impression she wanted to give was neutral, safe, competent, trustworthy. Ethical with a capital E. A world away from sexy, slutty, do me.
He’d never know she was wearing her most risqué underwear, her own private joke and a concession to the weirdness of the situation. Fifteen years ago, she wasn’t wearing any underwear when they met, so this was a radical improvement in the modesty stakes.
“Nice to see you again.” She gestured to the helmet. “What happened to the truck?” It was her first question of the session and she hoped to put him at ease.
“I gave it to a friend.”
She double blinked. She’d expected him to talk about all the other vehicles he owned or say something about the joy of feeling the wind in his hair and choosing the bike to ride.
“I hope that friend was grateful.” That was a $90,000 gift when you considered depreciation.
“Friend was in need.”
How different their lives were. He knew someone who needed a monster truck.
“They wouldn’t accept money. Told them I was having trouble shifting the truck and it would be a favor to me if they took it off my hands to sell. We both know that’s a lie but it’s something they can live with.”
It shouldn’t have surprised her. A sizable portion of MG Holdings was given over to charitable causes and donations.
He didn’t look any more at ease for having told her that. It wouldn’t do. He had to relax so she could get a solid read on what was going on inside his head and his heart.
The choice