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The Proposition
JC Harroway
A sexy proposition… Leads to six weeks of pleasure! Hot cars, reckless gambling, and gorgeous women – that’s how I’m spending my unwanted inheritance. So when Orla Hendricks propositions me with six weeks of hot sex and decadent travel, I can’t resist making the perfectly tailored CEO come apart at the seams. From skiing in Zurich to a gala in Sydney, Orla’s becoming more than a sexy diversion. But her heart might be the one thing my billions can’t buy.


CEO Orla Hendricks has a very sexy proposition for devil-may-care billionaire Cameron North in this third installment of The Billionaires Club quartet—six weeks to help her discover her wild side!
Handsome young men blowing their newfound billions in a decadent frenzy? I’ve seen plenty of them at the überexclusive M Club. But there’s something different about Cameron North. Tall, toned and tanned, he looks like he’d be more comfortable on a surfboard than in the boardroom… And imagining him without the constricting tux is waking up my long-neglected sexy side.
It isn’t long before I’m getting my wish as we explore the instant chemistry between us. But one night with him just makes me want more. So I give him a proposition—six weeks of hedonistic sex and glamorous destinations, then we’ll go our separate ways. He agrees—as long as I agree to give him control of our fun…
But as we jet from casinos to horse races to masquerade galas, Cam is becoming more than just a sexy diversion. When the six amazing weeks are up, Cam makes his own proposition. But how can I risk my heart on the only thing I’ve ever failed at—a relationship?
Mills & Boon DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.
Four new Mills & Boon DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!
Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com (http://jcharroway.com), Facebook.com/jcharroway (https://Facebook.com/jcharroway), Instagram.com/jcharroway (https://Instagram.com/jcharroway) and Twitter.com/jcharroway (https://Twitter.com/jcharroway).
And look for other DARE books by JC Harroway
Billionaire Bachelors
Forbidden to Want
Forbidden to Taste
Forbidden to Touch
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
THE BILLIONAIRES CLUB (#u330956df-66e4-57d6-8b94-2508f562a937)
Exclusive. Elite. Always discreet.
Welcome to the Billionaires Club! Join the members of this elite club—Ash, Seb, Orla and Imogen—as they get up to exciting, sinfully sexy and downright dirty naughtiness at exclusive, international and glamorous events. Let the debauchery begin!
Have you received your invitation yet?
Enter the world of the Billionaires Club:
The Debt by Jackie Ashenden
The Risk by Caitlin Crews
The Proposition by JC Harroway
The Deal by Clare Connelly
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The Proposition
JC Harroway


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08717-9
THE PROPOSITION
© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Note to Readers (#u330956df-66e4-57d6-8b94-2508f562a937)
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To the DARE team for their vision, guidance and
support—I have the best job writing these stories!
Contents
Cover (#u4b5957fc-2175-54f4-9174-e32c5bf60337)
Back Cover Text (#u20198bb3-3d1f-5bb9-9756-cc8f3c86c10f)
About the Author (#u4640f71a-dbd4-511c-8e2a-e5b2fe0cb16a)
Booklist (#u3c98c5e1-b2d7-5001-8c9b-8de40e83e48c)
THE BILLIONAIRES CLUB (#udabcddca-c99b-5444-934f-bd45709941cd)
Title Page (#u55113cd4-0ca6-5b17-87e5-128172a7d6ce)
Copyright (#u9cc4dfa8-a53b-5463-a90f-fc96bd4b62e8)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u877cbeb1-50a9-536e-9b07-dd723831b0cb)
CHAPTER ONE (#u1666e99e-8f91-5ffd-80b3-a1707453dae1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u4d60bae7-81da-5ad6-bd2b-c2fa81df2cfd)
CHAPTER THREE (#u877702cd-8355-5708-a0a4-10717d7d1f6f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u330956df-66e4-57d6-8b94-2508f562a937)
Orla
I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.
The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.
My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.
I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.
Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down…
Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.
A distraction.
I sigh, disgusted with myself. It’s been ten years since I was passed over for my younger and less qualified brother. Ten years of hard work, one successful global investment firm and one marriage casualty later and I’m still trying to prove him wrong. My father, that is.
My roaming attention is drawn to the group of excited onlookers around one of the roulette tables. Someone must be about to either lose or double a significant chunk of his net worth on a single spin of the wheel for the game to attract such interest. We’re all members of the M Club here, all wealthy enough for an invitation-only membership and therefore used to top-shelf hedonistic pursuits, so this big roller must be something else.
I click my tongue against my teeth at such reckless behaviour. To me money is sacrosanct—a means to live on my own terms and a marker of success beyond being from one of Sydney’s most affluent families. My entire livelihood is based on how much wealth I can generate for my clients, who trust me with their investments.
I crane my neck despite myself, curiosity winning over the distaste of witnessing someone about to gamble with daredevil abandon, if the crowd of onlookers is any indication, catching only a glimpse of the back of a blond head. His hair is a little long for the usual immaculate clientele of the M Club, but whoever it is who’s providing this evening’s entertainment, at least he’s enjoying himself and thrilling the crowd. At least he’s not moping at the bar with a barely touched drink, thinking about work. At least he knows how to have fun outside of endlessly striving to prove something to a father who happily overlooked his daughter in favour of having a son at the helm.
I finger the two-carat diamond stud in my ear, my mind dragged from the audacious stranger. The earrings were a twenty-fifth birthday gift from my father—a gift I consider a consolation prize. A gift I wear every day as a talisman, a reminder that what I’ve achieved in the ten years since, I’ve done alone and in spite of my archaic, misogynist father. A fresh layer of impotence settles over my skin, a familiar layer of prickly heat, one that drives me to be better, to aim higher, to prove him wrong…
The second sip of my Scotch fails to deliver the escape I crave. Now all I need to complete my misery is to ruminate on my failed marriage to Mark…
I release a sigh. For fuck’s sake, can’t I spend one evening having fun?
I glance back at the roulette table, more in need of a distraction than ever now that my thoughts have turned maudlin and focused on my greatest failure in life. The crowd around the man who seems to be causing the casino security team to sweat inside their pristine white collars parts, gifting me a full, uninterrupted view of the high-stakes gambler.
In the same heartbeat he looks up from the table, the chip he’s twirling between his fingers stalling as our eyes collide for a split second.
My breath catches. I slide my parched tongue over my lips, seeking the remnants of the sip of Scotch to steady my pulse at the violent jolt of attraction. This place is crammed to the gills with wealthy, beautiful and successful people, but this guy…
Harshly masculine, from the cut of his square, stubble-covered jaw to his body’s uninterested lounge in the chair, he’s hotter than Hades, explaining at least half—the female half—of the attention he’s assembled. But he’s younger than I assumed—mid-to-late twenties—young, in fact, to be a member of the M Club, which is exclusively for billionaires.
Too young for me. But I did ask for a distraction, and they don’t come more eye-catching than a gorgeous man in his prime.
My finger traces the rim of my glass as I watch. He’s focused once more on the spin of the wheel, and yet I can’t drag my greedy eyes away, even though I’ve seen this kind of display before, met his type before. Playing hard and fast, they never last long as M Club members, no doubt blowing money they have no idea how to master, allowing it to own them until they lose every cent and their membership is delicately, but adamantly, rescinded.
But despite his flagrant display, my body warms, the delicious stirring of interest kicking up my pulse as I watch the latest easy-on-the-eye hotshot from my vantage point at the bar. From his appearance, the way he’s flouting the strict dress code of tuxedos for men and evening wear for women with his absence of a bow tie and his unbuttoned shirt collar, I’m surprised he was even admitted to the casino. Somehow, and for reasons I can’t fathom, his devil-may-care attitude adds to his appeal. My existence must be particularly dull at the moment for me to be impressed by someone who, on the surface, seems to be intent on making himself considerably poorer. After all, I, and most of the people in this casino, are in the money-making, not money-losing, business.
The rebel lifts a glass of amber liquid to his mouth and I’m caught off guard anew by his hands: the manly size of them—serious, capable hands that look more accustomed to manual labour than they do to running an empire from a smartphone as do most of the M Club’s members.
Teasing fingers of intrigue dance down my spine. What would those hands feel like holding my face as we kissed? Rough or smooth? Hesitant or demanding?
In unison the crowd around him sighs, snapping me from lusty fantasies about a younger stranger and informing me that his winning streak has dried up. But not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face. With less interest than if he’d tossed away a soiled napkin, he slides a stack of chips forward, placing another bet seemingly at random.
Then our eyes collide again.
I freeze, too startled to look away, although I should in case my intrigue is written all over my face, but I’m too fascinated by his expression of both boredom and challenge to do anything other than gape.
His eyes—I can’t tell from this distance whether they’re blue or grey—travel my face, dip lower and then bounce back up. In that second I know he’s appraising me as I am him, and by appraising I mean assessing availability clues, scanning for a wedding ring and generally lusting.
And why shouldn’t I lust? My sexy side is long overdue an outing; in fact, she’s probably desperate to break free, she’s been so neglected recently. This guy certainly looks as if he could bring a nun out of her shell…
I smooth a hand over my sleek chignon, adjusting a hairpin that’s slipped a fraction in a largely unconscious gesture.
The stranger’s expression shifts again, his lip curling with mild derision, telling me that he, with his overly long hair and his disregard for the club dress code, very much sees that I’m exactly the type of member the M Club was created for—wealthy, demanding, with an appreciation for the finer things in life. But rather than my membership earning his respect, I can tell he’s somehow judging, as if he thinks he has me all figured out.
I stare a little harder, sit a little straighter, spurred on by defiance and used to fighting my own corner against the men in my life. His mouth stretches into a sinfully sexy and lazy grin that seems to burn through my designer silk dress as if it’s made of cobwebs.
Perhaps professional exhaustion and sexual frustration is messing with me, because he’s definitely interested, despite his judgement, our age gap and our apparent differences.
For a split second, danger and excitement zaps through my bloodstream as if he’s delivered a potent shot of the Macallan directly to my system from across the room with that seductive smile. But before I can suck in a calming breath, he looks away.
My pulse plummets. What was I thinking?
I spin back to the bar on my stool, trying to shake off the uncharacteristic bout of sexual curiosity for a younger man. Curiosity for any man since my divorce is a rarity. If I’m not working or travelling I’m thinking about work. Yes, I wanted to blow off some steam, but not with his kind of distraction. I need something more forgettable, less consuming and more…fleeting.
The idea of a horizontal distraction takes root as I tap one fingernail against my glass. Why not? It would be more fun than drinking alone at the bar. I dressed and came downstairs in search of a change from the norm, a break from the long hours I habitually put in, a way to stop myself pushing my latest deal into the hands of my main competitor—my father’s company.
With the reminder that, in my father’s eyes, and despite my having built my own international firm, I’ll never be quite good enough. I’m back to square one. Instead of celebrating the successes which have brought me this far, I’m mired in the two great failures of my life. I take another sip of Scotch, fighting the bitterness I usually harness for motivation. Hell, my entire marriage was squeezed into an unforgiving schedule of meetings, world travel and time zones, my workaholic nature almost certainly the reason it failed. Another thing to credit my father with. If he’d been a little more emotionally present, a little less professionally demanding, maybe I wouldn’t be so distant, so goal orientated, so driven. Perhaps then I might have given my marriage the attention it deserved.
Come on, pull it together.
I’m not looking for another doomed relationship. I’m not looking for a relationship, full stop. Just an anonymous night of pleasure…
I look up from my drink again, scanning the patrons around me for someone more forgettable than the roulette rebel. Someone my age. Someone safe.
Then everything happens in a frenzied blur.
A commotion breaks out at a nearby blackjack table. A woman cries for help and before I’ve even swivelled in my seat, my sexy stranger dives from his laid-back slouch and strides towards the woman’s husband, who is pale and sweaty and an alarming shade of grey.
While roulette guy commands what is clearly some sort of medical emergency—tossing off his jacket, crouching down and loosening the older man’s collar—an air of panic settles over the entire room. The man clutching his chest accepts some sort of tablet from his wife, popping it under his tongue, his colour improving almost immediately. Security rallies and within seconds the blackjack table has been cleared of players to afford some space and privacy, the club’s in-house nurse is in attendance and an ambulance has been summoned.
I turn away, but from the corner of my eye I see roulette guy and the nurse help the man into a wheelchair and he’s wheeled from the casino, even managing a weak smile and handshake for his rescuer, who waves off the smattering of relieved applause around him as he scoops up his jacket. He returns to his table to collect his chips, passes an impressive stack to the croupier and saunters towards the bar.
A kind of forced normality returns to the room. The croupiers smile thin smiles as they resume games, the waitstaff clear already immaculate tables and members, myself included, breathe a sigh of relief that the drama was quickly and efficiently dealt with.
But then, this is the M Club.
I settle my own adrenaline surge with a shaky sip of Scotch. Then a male figure enters my peripheral vision, the space between us flooding with a spicy masculine scent and an almost palpable wall of testosterone.
I look up. Way up—sexy roulette guy is tall.
Grey—the eyes are grey. And, up close, searing and intense.
‘You look pale,’ he says, his confident voice distractingly deep and resonant and exactly how I imagined it would sound. ‘Let me buy you a brandy—it’s better for the nerves than whatever it is you’re drinking there.’
I detect an Aussie twang to the accent. Although my private education rubbed the corners from my own lilt, I still have an ear for a fellow Australian.
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rush to the ladies’ room and check if, in fact, I am pale. ‘I’m good with my Scotch, thanks.’
As if deaf to my assertion, roulette guy signals the barman. ‘Brandy for everyone, please—the good stuff.’ He adds, although he should know the good stuff is all they sell at the M Club. Of course he would shout the entire casino a drink. The stack of chips I saw him tip the croupier with moments ago is more than most people will bet in an entire evening of entertainment.
But now I’m curious, although I try to affect boredom, which is out of sync with the raging of my pulse. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I want to blank him, to ignore the tantalising aura he seems to have around him, and return to my preconceived ideas of a privileged playboy intent on flashing his cash.
But if roulette guy wants to impress women with his affluence, he’s in the wrong joint. No one crosses the threshold of an M Club establishment without a string of zeroes at the end of their bank balance.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of the stool next to mine and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to expose strong, tanned forearms in a move that hints he’s dying to get out of his suit.
‘No, I’m not a doctor.’ The look he delivers seems to bathe me in the beam of a thousand floodlights. ‘But I’m no good at sitting back and watching things unfold either. I’m used to…getting my hands dirty, shall we say?’
He looks at my mouth while he says the word dirty. I press my lips together, already imagining the taste of his kiss. Bold, firm, all-consuming.
What is wrong with me?
He thanks the barman for his glass of brandy with a jerk of his angular chin and tosses back the liquor in a single swallow. ‘And I have some first-aid training—he’ll be fine, I’m sure. He just panicked because the angina attack was worse than usual. I’m sure most people here would have helped—I just got there first.’
‘I guess, although, as M Club members, we’re used to everything, medical emergencies included, being dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’
His eyes swoop over the length of my body from head to toe, and I feel his scrutiny again, as if he too has made a snap judgement on our differences.
We’re interrupted at that moment by a petite brunette in her twenties with a winning smile.
‘Excuse me, sir, I’m Ellie Little.’ At his nod, she holds up an M Club key fob. ‘The key to your new supercar, sir.’
I smile at Ellie and then look back to my smug companion, my eyebrows raised in question. I passed the display of sleek sports cars in the ballroom on my way to the casino, but I paid them little attention, short of wondering who would succumb despite their hefty price tags. I guess now I know.
‘Thanks.’ He takes the key and pockets it, his smile for Ellie wide and engaging.
Ellie leaves us, and I spy her joining Ash Evans, the club owner, at the casino entrance. When I turn back to face my companion my expression must speak for me.
‘What?’ he asks, all innocence.
I shrug. ‘You’re having a great night, if you exclude your losses at the roulette table. Which car did you buy?’ I may not know anything about cars, but I do know you can’t walk into a regular showroom and drive away with a supercar. They’re made-to-order, top of the range, one of a kind.
He looks away, appearing bored. ‘I’m not sure…the yellow one, I think.’
‘You’re not sure,’ I deadpan. Is he for real? Despite my growing attraction to him, I can’t decide if I feel appalled or delighted.
‘I bought the winning car—were you in town for the race earlier?’ he asks, and I shake my head.
‘No—I’m here on business.’ I don’t elaborate. The last thing I want to talk about is the deal that brought me to Monaco. The deal I’m trying to forget for one night.
He scoffs. ‘That figures.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You have that look about you—impatiently tapping your glass, frequently checking your phone. You look like a woman waiting for either a date or a business deal. Since no one in their right mind would stand you up, I’m guessing it’s work that has you distracted.’
‘Oh, nice recovery,’ I say.
He flashes another disarming smile. ‘So—’ he glances down at my still half-full drink ‘—is this a party for one, or would you like some company?’
I flush that he’s noticed my lacklustre attempts to let loose. Then I bristle that he’s judging me. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know how to have a good time simply because I’m not blowing a small fortune on a single spin of roulette or buying the latest thing on four wheels?’
I mash my mouth closed, irritated with myself for admitting I hadn’t been able to stop myself watching his little show.
He lifts one eyebrow in a look that says if the shoe fits, but then his eyes darken, the heat behind them kissing my skin wherever his stare trails. ‘Do you know how to have a good time?’
Why does it feel as if we’re talking about something more intimate than gambling or drinking? ‘I… Of course I do.’
He rests one elbow on the bar. ‘I assume you’re here to let your hair down in a safe, luxurious space—isn’t that why you’re an M Club member?’ He leans in. ‘Or is it all about the networking? All work and no play?’
His spot-on assumption leaves me squaring my shoulders with indignation, a move that in no way combats my attraction to his particular brand of insolent swagger. ‘Why are you a member? And why Monaco? Why so far from home?’
He shrugs, feigning boredom with my question, but I see a flash of hesitation in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability, rapidly blinked away and replaced with that roguish smile. ‘Can’t you tell?’ He tilts his head in the direction of the roulette table. ‘I’m on a bender, a pleasure spree, free and easy and hoping to broaden my horizons with luxury travel, fast cars and—’
‘Let me guess,’ I interrupt, ‘beautiful women?’ I try to laugh but I’m too attracted to him for the sound to emerge.
But he laughs, a deep rumble in his broad chest, and I flush hot at the power he seems to hold over my out-of-practice libido. His tongue swipes his bottom lip as he watches me more intently. ‘Well, what’s not to love about that combination? You’re a stunning woman, intriguing, alone—what are you doing here if not seeking your own kind of hedonistic escape?’
‘Arrogant much?’ I try to look away, but it’s as if we’re pinballs, bouncing and sparking off each other. I search his eyes, if only to show I’m not intimidated. But now he’s brought up pleasure it’s all I can think about… How can he tell I’d been sitting here contemplating exactly the kind of distraction he’s talking about? Would he be open to sex with an older woman looking to blow off some steam for the night? Isn’t that what the look of intrigue in those smoky eyes is saying?
He shrugs, a mocking twist to his generous mouth. ‘I saw you looking at me—you want something, and it’s not to drink or gamble like everyone else in this room.’
‘No, I don’t make a habit of risking my hard-earned money.’ I shrug. ‘Perhaps the occasional tame flutter.’
He inches closer, drops his voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘I’d bet the stack of chips I have in my pocket—’ he shakes his jacket, the telltale rattle indicating his point ‘—that you don’t even know what it is you want.’ His teeth scrape his bottom lip and, despite myself, my body leans a fraction closer to his imposing masculinity.
‘But I’m guessing I do,’ he stage-whispers, his breath gusting over my exposed shoulder and sending delicious tingles down to my fingertips, which itch to reach out, to tangle in that slightly too-long hair and tug him down to my kiss…
‘Is that so?’ I hold my breath, trying to avoid his delicious scent, but my body has other ideas, my thighs clenching and my underwear growing damp at the mere thought of what he’d be like as a lover. Can he really see me so clearly? See what I want when I’ve spent the past thirty minutes sitting here trying to figure it out for myself? And do I care who’s right? Wasn’t I, only moments ago, contemplating what his deep voice might promise?
An anonymous night. A delicious distraction?
My heart leaps against my ribs. I wanted to unleash my sexy, playful side for the night. My ex gloried in telling me how uptight I was, that I didn’t know how to be a wife, how to switch off from work. Well, I came to this casino to do just that. But with a man like him? Arrogant. Reckless. Some sort of fly-by-night success intent on brashly disposing of large chunks of his wealth…
He nods, his fingers drumming out a beat on the bar only he can hear. ‘You want to let down that gorgeous but tightly leashed hair. You want to slip out of yourself for a while, loosen up a little.’
I do, not that I can admit it to the perceptive man who thinks he has me all pegged. My throat tightens, hot and achy. It’s as if he can see straight through me, as if he can see that, for just one night, I want to break free of it all. But why shouldn’t I have my sexy diversion with a stranger I’ll never meet again?
‘Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?’ I say, defensive. No matter how hot, how confident, how intuitive he is, I’m not rushing into something I’ll only regret in the morning, for all his persuasive skills.
He grins, but his eyes harden a fraction, telling me he’s fully in command of all his faculties and won’t be slighted. ‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying. And I prefer to stand.’
‘So women have to look up to you?’ I might be currently captive to the unexpected revival of my hormones, but I’m not in the market for a cocky young buck, all talk but lacking in substance.
He smiles as though he knows the effect he’s having on my erogenous zones, as though he can read how I’m drawn to his brand of lazy confidence simply by looking into my eyes.
‘Who am I to spoil anyone’s fun when I could be the source of it?’ he says.
I swallow. Hard.
I’m so tempted. I promised myself a little fun. Who better to let loose with than a man who looks built for sin and seems to see what I need tonight as some sort of personal challenge? I’d bet my anticipated deal with Jensen’s that his confidence is justified and he could deliver a night of hedonistic sex designed to make me forget everything but my own name.
Don’t I deserve an unforgettable, anonymous night? A way to recharge the batteries? A reminder that all work and no play does not a happy Orla make?
But first I need to suss out his intentions. Make him work a little harder. ‘So you have a cougar fantasy, is that it?’
I expected an arrogant shrug at best, but he leans closer, stares more intently, as if seeing deep inside me to my darkest desires. ‘I’m twenty-eight, but don’t get hung up on the numbers when we could already be heading upstairs.’
I scoff at his arrogance, even as my nipples turn to hard peaks beneath the silk of my dress. Do I really care that he’s eight years younger than me? ‘I’ve met your type before—’
He interrupts. ‘I very much doubt that. And if by type you mean the kind of man who can give you the anonymous night of your life, then you’re right. Admit it—you knew we’d be good together the minute you looked at me and you’re even more certain now, which perhaps tells me the reason you’re fighting it so hard—fear.’
‘Fear?’ I laugh, although the sound lacks conviction, just like my shaky resolve. He’s spot-on, but really, what do I have to lose? I wanted a distraction and he’s irresistible. The urge to step off the hamster wheel for a moment and become lost in the pleasure I’m certain would follow is tantalising. His challenge is irresistible, because it aligns so perfectly with the one I set myself tonight: to let go.
‘There’s not much I’m afraid of,’ I say. My heart, banging against my ribs, proves me wrong and him right.
He nods—slow, confident, almost luring me to kiss the smooth smile from his lips. ‘It’s fear all right. Fear of letting go of your tightly leashed control. Fear that you might actually have a good time. Fear I’ll ruin you.’
His eyes slide to one of my earrings. ‘You and your four-carat-diamond, one-glass-of-single-malt life.’
Instead of the outrage I should feel at being so neatly dissected and accurately pigeonholed, even insulted, every nerve in my body fires alive with electricity.
Fight, flight or fuck? I should definitely take option one or two…
I roll back my shoulders and stare into his cool grey eyes, seeing the hint of challenge. ‘Are you suggesting I’m uptight? I’m amazed you, with your devil-may-care attitude, even know what the concept means.’ I should walk away, go back upstairs and check on Jensen’s—but oh, the temptation to prove him wrong is overwhelming…
‘Hey, princess, if the shoe fits…’
We face off, sparks flying and heat building.
I can let go. I can have fun. He’s right, I do want him. I want to be ruined for one night.
And I always get what I want.
‘The earrings are two-carat,’ I say. ‘And, okay. I have a suite upstairs—let’s go.’

CHAPTER TWO (#u330956df-66e4-57d6-8b94-2508f562a937)
Cam
HER WORDS—WORDS that shatter my certainty that she’d toss her Scotch in my face—bounce around inside my head to the beat of my pounding heart as she slides her drink away, unfinished. Yes, she’s my type looks-wise—tall and willowy, naturally rich red hair, and a body whose every inch I want to acquaint with my tongue. But, by the earrings, the immaculate hairdo and the general air of class around her, I assumed she was way too buttoned-up to take our flirtation to the next level.
She reaches for her clutch and prepares to slide from her stool.
Eager, now she’s stopped fighting herself. Another fucking awesome surprise.
‘Wait.’ I stall, my dick throbbing in revenge. ‘I think we should at least introduce ourselves so you know whose name to scream later.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Cam.’
She purses her delicious-looking full lips and strokes her hand over her sleek chignon as if mildly annoyed by the interruption of formal introduction. She takes my hand in hers, her greeting as firm as I’d expected.
‘Orla.’
‘Irish Australian?’ I say, prolonging the handshake, deliberately sliding my roughened thumb over the back of her hand to gauge her reaction to my touch, because I’m certain that under normal circumstances, in our everyday lives, she wouldn’t give a man like me the time of day. She’s too polished, too precise and undoubtedly super-high maintenance. There’s not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight, but I have the driving urge to see her all dishevelled and undone. She’d look twice as sexy rumpled and satisfied, those sea-green eyes pleasure-drunk…
‘Yes. I’m from Sydney.’ She looks down to where my thumb swipes across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, her small smile masking a look bordering on aversion while her free hand toys with the diamond stud in her ear.
In spite of my work-roughened skin, there’s excitement drawn all over her ethereal face, but her eyes say she’s all too aware I’m not her usual type. No doubt she’s used to the type of man who belongs in this club. The type who’s certain of everything in his life, especially where he comes from and where he’s going.
‘I grew up in Sydney, too.’ If only she knew that we came from opposite sides of the tracks before I inherited enough money to be thrust into her sphere. I look down at our joined hands, the sick slug of satisfaction at my rough and calloused hand swallowing hers, which is by comparison as delicate as a bird’s wing and impeccably manicured, adding to the thick desire humming through my veins.
Prior to my current fucked-up predicament—the very reason I’m here in this club for the elite and obscenely wealthy, having earlier this evening bought a supercar I’ll likely never drive and gambling as if I’m spending Monopoly money—I worked in construction.
And now?
Now I’m frittering through as much of the unwanted inheritance my no-good asshole of a father left me as I can. Oh, how he’d hate to see me now, wasting the money he sacrificed his family for, travelling the world in a private jet, gambling, bedding beautiful women in the most exclusive club in Monaco.
The familiar nausea I get whenever I think about my father takes hold, a part of me repulsed at becoming his puppet. I focus on the exquisite woman in front of me, a strong urge flaring up to push her out of her buttoned-up comfort zone until I know exactly how far she’ll go for her night with a stranger.
She glides from the stool, her hand still in mine. Instead of pulling away, she sidles up close until I see the golden streaks in her green irises, streaks that perfectly match those in her silky auburn hair, and I’m overwhelmed by how fantastic she smells. Classy and expensive.
She presses a fingertip to my mouth. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Anonymous, remember.’
I nod, dislodging her soft fingertip from my mouth while I wrangle the thick thud of my desire under control. She may as well have kissed me for the effect that simple touch from a solitary fingertip has on my body.
Yes, she’s way too rich, too straitlaced for my blood, but damn is she sexy. I want to haul her slender frame up in my arms, press every inch of her against my body until those eyes glow with the desire I see lurking in the shadows.
But could she let go enough to embrace this fierce chemistry?
‘Give me your phone.’ My voice is low but firm enough to encourage a frown of defiance from her stunning face. She likes being challenged, but wants to be in control. She’s clearly used to giving the orders.
I can handle that.
‘Why?’ She purses perfect lips. Lips I’m dying to taste.
‘Because I’m a stranger you’re about to invite into your hotel room. I’ll take a photo of myself, and you can send it to someone you trust, giving them your suite number and mine, too, if you like—two-seven-six-six.’
She nods, hands me her phone and I snap a quick selfie before handing the device back. I watch as she fires off a text, fascinated with the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating and how, despite the safety-conscious turn of the conversation, her nipples are hard peaks beneath the tight-fitting, backless black dress that hugs her toned frame and caresses the gentle flare of her hips.
‘So, shall we?’ She looks up, her chin tilted and face relaxed, but there’s vulnerability in her eyes, and I wonder what her real story is. Not the sanitised version she probably tells herself every day as she peruses her markers of success. But the version deep inside, hidden vulnerabilities which, if probed, wobble the confidence she wears like a tiara balanced on her regal head and perhaps the reason she’s alone in a bar in Monaco, far from home, toying with a drink she barely touches in the first place.
But then, who am I to judge? I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. Fuck knows what I’m doing here apart from running, hiding, while dispensing of the blood money I can’t stomach even thinking about.
I want to form a fist as the anger that chased me from Sydney swells inside. But I’ve tried and failed to keep things normal for six months, tried to ignore the inheritance sitting in my bank account accruing more interest daily than I formerly made in a year of building houses with my bare hands, but somehow my life, who I am and what’s important to me have still changed beyond recognition.
I swallow down the acidic taste and focus on beautiful Orla and her mesmerising eyes. Perhaps we’re both hiding from something bigger than us, and that’s perfect. Perhaps we’ll succeed in fucking it from our systems, a perfectly timed distraction, and tomorrow go our separate ways, usual service resumed…
Damn, if only it were that simple for me. My stomach rolls at the reminder that normal is a distant memory. I ignore the gnawing pain, the yearning for my old life, and nod. I grab my jacket and follow her towards the bank of lifts. When we’re inside the empty car and she’s selected the correct floor I move closer, my restless body demanding action and the need to touch more of her than her wrist driving me hard.
I expect her to back up as I invade her personal space, but she holds her ground and simply levels bold eyes at me while her chest rises and falls with the excitement I want to see.
I keep my hands by my sides. My reward is waiting for me and I want to string out the anticipation for as long as I can, knowing the moment will be twice as sweet when we both, finally, surrender.
But neither can I stay away.
I look down, loving how small she is in comparison to me and the way it defies her bold and confident manner. Damn, I bet no one ever says no to her. I bet she’s always had things exactly on her terms.
That part of me, the part that wants to test her, rears up.
‘How do you want this to play out, beautiful?’ I suck in an Orla-scented breath, my blood pumping harder. Despite our chalk-and-cheese differences, I wanted her the minute I saw her walk into the casino—a beautiful woman, composed, alluring and sexy as fuck. But the fact she tried to fight her obvious interest…well, that simply added another level of challenge. I’m a scrapper who’s spent every day of his life until six months ago earning his honest, comfortable place in life, earning every cent of what he deserves—beautiful women no exception.
She takes a shuddering breath and licks her lips, the first hint of hesitation. ‘You know, just the usual…’
She clearly doesn’t do this often—sleep with a stranger—and for some reason she’s decided tonight’s the night and I’m the lucky guy. But there’ll be nothing usual about our night together.
I nod, noting the slow ascent of the lift and deciding we have time to start this right here, because I’m done waiting. She knows what she wants and I plan on giving it to her. That and more.
‘Ask me to touch you.’ Her full, kissable mouth draws all my attention. I’ve wanted to taste those lips since she spotted me at the roulette table, her mouth twitching with intrigue. And why shouldn’t I taste? Now, when I can have anything I want in life, is not the time to begin denying myself a damned thing, beautiful Orla included.
She too glances at the digital display and back, and before I can ready myself for the impact she grabs the back of my neck and drags my mouth down to her kiss.
The first taste is rich and decadent, just like Orla, the hint of Scotch lingering on her soft but demanding lips. While she seems too prim and proper for a simple, spit-and-sawdust kind of guy like me, my body clamours for more, because I can already tell there’s another level to this woman, a tightly leashed wanton ready to be coaxed to reveal her uninhibited side. And I’ll take as much wildness as she’s willing to give, in my current mood—anything to stop the endless feeling I’m trying to outrun something while wearing lead shoes.
Her lips part and she slides her tongue to meet mine with a throaty little moan that screams woman. My pulse roars with triumph, centring me with the assurance sex brings. In this moment, I’m me and in control.
I walk us back to the wall, and she drops her clutch and hikes up her dress so she can spread her thighs to accommodate my hips, which pin her in place. She tugs my hair and moans as if she wants to be fucked right here in the elevator, and bloody hell, I’m tempted.
We part for breath and she reaches for my fly, her teeth trapping her bottom lip as she rubs my cock through my trousers. Then her eyes roll closed and her head hits the wall behind her. ‘Oh, I knew you’d be good, exactly what I need.’
I clench my jaw, fighting the rush of pleasure her palming my cock brings. I can be what she needs for one night—easy. Our backgrounds don’t matter for what we have planned.
I lift her thigh and press closer until my dick and her hand are crushed between our bodies. She looks at me then, and I grin.
‘I’m happy to be your man toy for the night, gorgeous.’ I scrape my mouth up the soft, silky column of her neck, sucking in her scent as I reach her earlobe and the massive rock sitting there, a beacon to our stark differences. My hand on her thigh slides north as I tongue the stone, tugging her earlobe, complete with earring, into my mouth. I finger the lace of her underwear, which is stretched across the gorgeous handful of ass cheek I have in my hand, while I press my erection between her legs, where she’s hot and damp and grinding against me.
‘Your hot little clit is hungry for what I can give you.’ I slide my hand forward, finding her underwear drenched. ‘Question is, can you take it?’
‘Yes…oh, yes.’ She doesn’t flinch at my candour or deny my assertions, simply tugs my mouth back to hers with a frustrated yelp.
Her yes thrills me. We might be from different worlds, but tonight our goals are aligned and all about pleasure.
The lift pings and we quickly straighten our clothing to perform the hurried walk to her top-floor suite. Inside, a quick glance confirms it’s a carbon copy of mine—the best money can buy—but then, I’m too focused on the woman in front of me to care about décor or square footage.
While I shrug out of my jacket, she tosses her bag, turns to face me and begins to undo the clasp of her dress at the back of her neck, but before she gets anywhere, I grip her waist and back her up against the wall once more—I have plans for Miss Buttoned-Up and they don’t involve staid missionary position with the lights off.
Let’s see how much she wants to let go.
I kiss her, coaxing more of those greedy little whimpers from her throat as my hand travels under the dress once more to find her drenched and scorching hot.
I break free from the kiss as I slide my fingers past the crotch of her underwear to the silkiness beneath. I rub one fingertip over her clit, watching her eyes grow unfocused.
My other hand grapples with the tiny, frustrating clasp at the back of her neck. It feels like a bra clasp but the hooks may as well be welded together for all the luck I’m having. I reluctantly remove my hand from the delicious, soft slickness between her legs and try with two hands, my frustration to see what the dress conceals building and making my fingers clumsy. On my third attempt, while she’s given up waiting and is clearly intent on driving me insane with the kisses she’s pressing over my neck, jaw and mouth, I say, ‘Are you particularly attached to this outfit?’
Confusion registers, chasing away the lust, but she shakes her head. ‘No, why?’
I press my mouth back to her arched neck—I can’t seem to get enough of her taste and scent. ‘I said I’d ruin you.’ I look up. ‘I wasn’t joking and I’m afraid this dress is going to be the first casualty.’
‘I don’t care. Hurry!’
I grip the low neckline of her dress, tearing the fabric clean in two from neck to waist so her fantastic, braless breasts spill free.
She gasps, but the sound turns to a low moan because I cover one bare breast with my mouth, sucking hard on the firm, pink nipple. While she twists handfuls of my hair between her fingers as she cradles my head and watches my mouth devour her breast, I hoist up her skirt and perform the same trick with the crotch of her underwear, tearing it in two so I can access my reward unhindered.
I pull back, surveying my handiwork while my knees grow weak. She’s perfect. Mouth red and swollen from our kisses and the three-day scruff I couldn’t be bothered to shave earlier; her clothing bunched around her waist so all that creamy skin dotted with golden freckles is on display; my hand wedged between her pale thighs, the strip of reddish hair on her mound a beacon guiding me to paradise.
Fuck, I’m not sure who will ruin whom. Her willingness to ride this storm with me spurs me on to keep pushing… Perhaps I’m wrong about her being straitlaced.
‘Put your legs around me,’ I say, my strangled voice gruff. But she doesn’t seem to care that I’m giving orders, any more than she cares that I’ve torn what must be an obscenely expensive outfit. I fully intend to replace it, of course. In fact, tomorrow I’ll buy her a whole new wardrobe in compensation.
I carry her the short distance to the suite’s living area to a wide armchair, where I deposit her delectable ass. She tries to tug me down on top of her but I resist. I want to look. To gorge my fill of this incredibly sexy woman, who’s smashing all my assumptions to bits.
She’s still debauched, her hair mussed as I wanted it and spilling free of the uptight chignon she wore, her eyes glassy with desire.
‘Fuck me,’ she says, still in control.
I quickly strip off my shirt while she watches, her tongue wetting those lush lips as her eyes trace the ink on my shoulder and across one side of my chest. But she can’t have everything her own way.
‘All in good time.’ I drop to my knees and spread her thighs wide open so she’s completely exposed to me and my own greedy stare. ‘First I want a little taste.’
She nods, then her head drops back. ‘Oh, my God, yes.’
I chuckle at her enthusiasm. ‘Cam will do.’ But then I’m done talking because her pink, wet pussy calls to me and I dive in.
The erotic scent and taste of her drags a growl from deep within my chest, but it’s her thighs clamped around my shoulders and her hands tugging at my neck and head as if trying to urge me closer that thrill me. If I wasn’t already there, she’d bring me to my knees with her passion and honest desire.
My dick is dying to be buried in the tight, warm haven greedily sucking at my fingers, but she’s fully embracing this, watching me eat her out, her mouth slack with pleasure as she rides my face. Orgasm number one is going to have to happen right here for Orla, and I’m going to enjoy every second of watching this woman detonate. She may not remember my name, but I’ll make it my mission to ensure she’ll remember every orgasm of our night together.
I add another finger and suck down on her clit, grinning when her thighs begin to judder and eyes widen with ecstasy.
‘Cam, yes…oh.’
So my put-together princess is not above begging or riding my face to get what she wants. She comes, her sex squeezing my fingers and my name a protracted cry on her lips. I milk every spasm from her and then withdraw, leaving her sprawled and spent on the chair while I loosen my belt, unzip my fly and take a condom from my pocket before lowering my trousers and briefs. All I want now is to be buried inside her, to forget my woes for a few mindless minutes, and just be the old Cam.
She sits up and takes my cock in her hand, tugging my length and then helping me with the condom. When I’m sheathed, I take her hands and yank her to her feet, spin her around and bend her over the wide arm of the chair.
‘Hurry,’ she says as she braces her arms on the cushion and spreads her feet wide, staring back at me over one shoulder. My knees weaken at the exquisite sight, her red hair splayed down her pale back, her post-orgasmic flush staining her cheeks and her ruined clothing bunched around her waist—a sign that neither of us had the patience to do this primly or properly.
Who knew the poised woman delicately sipping her drink hid such a sensual being? Such an unexpected siren?
I position myself at her entrance and grip her hips, every cell urging me to rush while my brain clamours to go slow and enjoy every second.
But we have all night.
Patience spent, I surge forward, my cock swallowed by her tight pussy. I fist the fabric of her dress and thrust in the last inch until our joint moans tell me I’m as deeply seated as possible. For a few glorious seconds I suck in calming breaths and simply enjoy the view. Her skin is like porcelain, her pale ass cheeks round and her hair a wild, tousled mess across her bare shoulders. The dress ruched around her waist gives the impression of bonds, a reminder that, despite being the most put-together woman I’ve ever met, Orla was as impatient to let go as I was to help her.
I grip the dress and her hip tighter and begin to thrust, every slap of our flesh together and every gasp of her pleasure riding me harder until sweat stings my eyes.
‘Touch yourself,’ I say, because I’m not going to last much longer and I want her coming with me. I want to make her come all night. I want to prove to her that we’re the same on one level. That, like this, we fit together perfectly.
She whimpers but complies, her hand disappearing between her thighs, where I feel her stroke my balls before she sees to herself. I grit my teeth, the drugging pleasure sucking me down. ‘Are you close?’ I grit out.
She cries out but doesn’t answer, and I’m running out of time.
I widen my feet, still thrusting at a punishing pace, abandon my grip on her dress and slide my finger along her crack to tickle her asshole. That does the trick, and as she screams a hoarse cry, her muscles clamping around me, I let go, fiery heat rushing down the length of my cock as I fill the condom.
We slump forward over the chair, although I’m careful to take my own weight and not crush the fantastic woman under me as I catch my breath.
She recovers first, wriggling free and turning to cup my face and smatter hot kisses over my lips.
‘Wow.’
My chest burns but I grin.
‘Glad you had a good time.’ I just didn’t know she’d embrace it so thoroughly, so honestly and so fucking sexily.
‘I hope you didn’t plan on getting any sleep, because we’ll be doing that again.’ She tugs me towards what I know is the bathroom, and as I watch the sway of that gorgeous ass, I concur.
Yes; yes, we will.

CHAPTER THREE (#u330956df-66e4-57d6-8b94-2508f562a937)
Orla
I RISE FROM the desk chair in my hotel suite, a triumphant smile making my cheeks ache while a surge of adrenaline leaves me searching the bed for Cam. I want to share my news with someone. With him. Jensen’s made up their mind and signed on the dotted line this morning.
Then I remember that he’s gone. After the sex marathon, I spent half the night working while he slept. He woke around six, crept up behind me where I worked and kissed me goodbye. Such a gallant, old-fashioned gesture, I practically swooned…
As I look at the debauched but empty bed, my sense of achievement dwindles a fraction. It shouldn’t matter—I don’t need to share my success in order to feel its validation, but a celebratory orgasm might have been nice…
I stretch out my back muscles, frowning when I realise how long I’ve been sitting in one place. I’ve hustled this deal for the past three months, a deal snatched from under the nose of my main competitors—the firm now run, rather sloppily, in my opinion, by my younger brother under the critical tutelage of my father. A firm that should have been mine to run by rights after my years of hard work and the long hours that cost me my marriage. Another casualty of my father’s expectations…
Thinking of my ex, and how he bailed after seven short months because he couldn’t handle a wife who worked harder than him, sours my mood further.
I ignore the well-worn path of anger and rejection that courses through my body every time I think about how I was overlooked, passed over on the basis of my sex, as if my years of commitment and my qualifications counted for nothing in the eyes of my old-school father. What century does he even inhabit? I’m the eldest. I put in the most work. I’m the best qualified—the company was mine by rights.
When the sting in my lip tells me I’m taking out my frustration with my own teeth, I relax my jaw and sigh. Even this success with Jensen’s feels somehow tainted by the past. No matter how hard I work, I can never quite reach the finishing line.
Casting a look of longing at the empty bed, I head for the shower, recalling the pleasure I shared with a stranger to sweeten this morning’s professional victory.
Cam—my reward.
Yearning builds in the pit of my stomach. He claimed my body, used it and his to drive us both mindless with desire. His obscene stamina. His wicked, inventive challenges and almost impossible positions… I’ve never experienced anything like it. He effortlessly brought out the sexy side I wanted to embrace the minute we stepped into the lift.
Who even was I with him?
I ache, aware of every step I take, every muscular twinge—all Cam’s fault…
But he was gentle too. Thorough and attentive and considerate. My breath catches as a feeling of invincibility courses through me. After a night like that, I can accomplish anything. Alone and without validation.
The hot water spray buffets my skin, reminding me of Cam’s rough, calloused hands gripping and possessing. The water on my breasts and between my legs mimics the glide of his demanding tongue, the caress of his dirty mouth, and when I press my fingers to my clit, trying to banish the renewed flutter of hunger, I relive every single orgasm of our decadent night together.
This is what well-fucked truly feels like.
I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.
I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.
But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks… A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.
My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.
If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.
A sex-only arrangement.
‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.
The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.
I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.
I’d show him I could let go.
I’d ruin him.
Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.
I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.
In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.
That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.
Enough looking.
I’m on a plane out of here shortly. Time is money. I want his answer.
I approach with confident steps, although my belly twists with uncharacteristic nerves. What if he turns me down, or has a life to get back to in Sydney, or thinks I’m too old for him beyond one anonymous night? The pinch of disappointment speaks of the calibre of Cam’s brand of fucking. But I’m a big girl. A grown woman. I tell myself his refusal would be no big deal, that there are plenty of other Cams in the sea, although the shaky quality of my breathing confirms it’s a lie.
But I’m not giving up yet. I’m used to getting what I want, and this will be no exception.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, and just like last night the eye contact feels like a physical waveform buffeting me with his aura. With all the eye contact we’ve shared since, the physical intimacy, I should be over the starry-eyed phase by now. Bloody hell, I’m not sixteen.
Cam drops to the ground, not a hint of surprise on his face, as if he’d been aware of me staring from the doorway. He’s probably used to women hounding him for more sex the morning after.
My brain scrambles to recall exactly why I’m here, other than to watch his ripped body work out while I drool.
‘Has working all night refreshed your appetite?’ he says, grabbing a towel. He wipes sweat from his face and chest and then slings the lucky piece of towelling around his neck. ‘Women don’t usually hunt me down before breakfast.’
I drag my eyes away from the bulge of his cock, visible through the thin fabric of his workout shorts, all but panting at the memories of that spectacular part of his anatomy. ‘I only worked half the night. The other half—’
‘I remember what you did the other half,’ he interrupts, flashing that grin that reminds me he’s in his twenties.
‘And I didn’t need to hunt you down,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘After your antics at the roulette table last night, purchasing a bright yellow supercar, you’re something of a celebrity—all I did was ask for your whereabouts at Reception.’
He tilts his head in acknowledgement of my statement, his own stare taking a similar swoop of appraisal down the length of my body. ‘Did you receive the replacement dress and lingerie?’ I can tell that, like me, he’s remembering what he did while my ruined dress and torn panties shackled my waist.
I free a groan in my head, the remembered sound of fabric ripping sending delicious spikes of pleasure to my core. I fight the urge to kiss him in that way that seems to drive him crazy—my tongue surging against his, a scrape of my teeth along his decadent lower lip.
‘I did. Thank you.’ At the crack of dawn this morning, shortly after he left, there was a knock at my door. I rushed to open it, secretly hoping to find Cam on the other side, but it was a hotel porter delivering a garment bag. ‘The replacement wasn’t necessary—how did you even do that? It’s Sunday morning.’
He arches one brow in that noncommittal way of his. ‘I have my methods. As you know, money opens doors.’ His mouth flattens, a hint of cynicism in his expression.
‘So, did we leave something unfinished? Did I leave my boxers in your room…?’ He laughs and I join him, more certain than ever that spending time with him will be good for me and therefore good for business. It’s been an age since a man made me laugh, since I laughed full stop. I deserve to celebrate such a landmark victory over my father’s firm, and I want to celebrate with Cam.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ I say, letting him have it straight between the eyes. Now I’ve seen him again in the flesh, I’m even more set on my course of action. I need the next few weeks to run as smoothly as clockwork, professionally speaking, and, with Cam around as an after-hours distraction, my mind would be clear, my focus sharp and my energy restored.
Bloody hell, Orla, he’s not a multivitamin!
‘Oh? Sounds intriguing,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we discuss it over breakfast? I’ll just jump in the shower and meet you in the restaurant.’
My body clamours to join him in the shower, my mouth parched for another taste of his talented, thick cock. I swallow, suddenly ravenous. ‘I don’t eat breakfast, and I’m flying out to Zurich in—’ I check my watch ‘—ninety minutes.’
He’s not remotely disappointed with this news. My stomach plummets. No woman wants to be so easily forgotten.
‘Okay—well, shoot, then.’ He leans one hip against a nearby weights machine, the fabric of his shorts stretching across his crotch leaving nothing to the imagination, and grips the ends of the towel around his neck. A perfect pin-up pose for a raunchy, get-you-wet calendar. And I don’t need my imagination—I have fresh and vivid memories to keep me warm.
Of course, I’d rather have the real thing…
‘You said last night you were on a pleasure spree of luxury travel. Does that mean you’re free of other commitments at the moment?’ We haven’t talked about what we do for a living. We haven’t talked about anything.
‘I’m free as a bird. What do you have in mind?’
‘I wondered if you’d like to join me on a tour of some of the other M Clubs. I’ll be travelling for work for the next five-to-six weeks… Perhaps we could have some fun along the way…?’ I trail off from my perfect sales pitch, concealing most of the desperation from my voice, and I silently thank every single business proposition I’ve ever made for getting me through this sexy proposition without so much as a voice wobble.
‘Well, that’s intriguing.’ His eyes glow. ‘So you enjoyed your walk on the wild side, huh?’
I arch my brows. ‘And you didn’t?’ He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I have the soreness between my legs as a trophy of his insatiable stamina.
‘Fair point.’ He grins. ‘But aside from the obvious pleasures,’ he looks me up and down, ‘what’s in it for me?’
I splutter. Gape. I didn’t expect him to play hardball. I’m used to telling people how high to jump.
‘You said it yourself—you spent half the night working. Have you even slept? You don’t have time for breakfast…’ He shrugs, his point illustrated.
I roll my shoulders back, defensive—his censure reminds me a little too closely of my ex-husband’s complaints. ‘I don’t need more than a couple of hours’ sleep.’ But he’s right; my work habits do make me rather a dull travelling companion.
‘As good as last night was,’ his eyebrows flick up in that roguish way, ‘I’m not interested in spending the next six weeks watching you working in between snatched naps only punctuated by the odd fuck. I prefer my dates—’
‘We wouldn’t be dating.’ My temperature soars. How dare he see me so…clearly?
He ignores my interruption. ‘I prefer my hook-ups to have a pulse, to have the energy to offer me a few scraps of attention and to be awake long enough for us to have a good time.’ His lip curls in that playful way he’s so good at. ‘I’m old-fashioned like that.’
I bristle, lifting my chin. ‘I know how to have a good time. You just said so yourself about last night.’ It wouldn’t sting quite so much if his assumption wasn’t true, but I’d never admit such a thing.
He steps closer, his beautiful eyes holding me captive. ‘You’re right,’ he looks me up and down in a way that makes me feel naked again, ‘you look too put together to be as hot as you are, but once you let your hair down the sex part was great.’
‘But…’ I say, because I know it’s coming, despite his compliments.
‘But, when I woke up and reached for you because I wanted more, you weren’t there.’
I fist my hand on my hip. ‘I work odd hours because of international time zones.’

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