Iris

Sold?

The word hit like a punch in the gut.

I wasn't for sale! Technically, neither was he, but how had we gotten here? Gridlocked, nose-to-nose, silent rage tearing through me, and pinned in his grasp.

All my frustrations bubbled up into our contact point. The air charged as more breaths passed between us.

Unlike my frenetic pulse, his squeeze was firm but encouraging. His presence, steadfast confidence, and the heat spreading up my arms pulled me closer.

The more calm he projected, the hotter I burned.

Overstepping, self-willed, headstrong bastard! This man was just so...so...whatever word meant doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

"Iris." His murmur vibrated between us. "It's just a question."

A question. My question, and yet I'd...gotten carried away again. Toward the man who provocation came as naturally as breathing.

Light contact on my wrists stole my apology. His thumbs rubbed back and forth. Like his arctic white shirt's contrast beneath his black suit, each wisp over my skin comforted and tumbled me into confusion.

Two passes. Four. The most aggravating man I'd ever met was...soothing me?

With each press, his thumbs' tendons rolled and receded beneath his skin. Raised veins led from his knuckles and snaked under his cuffs.

My eyes grew heavier as I raised them along his suit's lapel line. Solace, not smugness, waited in his expression. The calmness it invoked was as equally terrifying.

No resistance as I withdrew my hands like a slip of shame. His grasp's confinement was an illusion—control was always mine. I could've reclaimed it at any point.

This was so much to unpack. Too much.

I dropped into my seat and gouged my nails into my palms. Just like my unfiltered confessions, I'd surrendered my hands. Played right into his game.

Worse, he knew and settled into a commanding seated posture. Calm. Collected. In complete control of every inch of himself.

His tailored suit bunched around his athletic build. The chair cushion molded around his weight, because, evidently, he also turned my furniture submissive.

I touched my heated cheek. Surrendering the upper hand... What the hell was wrong with me when I was around this man?

After his 'Go ahead' hand gesture, I collected myself. If he wouldn't acknowledge the moment, neither would I. Fine.

"Next question." My breath overtook my voice, again, fine. "What are you looking for?"

"A relationship."

The subtle stiffness in his shoulders could have been self-awareness, but his emotionless, scripted answer spoke someone else's words. A packaged lie tossed in my face, tied with a neat bow for the camera.

"Expand, please."

"I'm not above acknowledging the appeal of forging a deeper relationship." A low rasp coarsened his voice with an emphasis on deeper. "Maybe, I'll find a personality in the process."

Another non-answer jab at me. Probing for his ideal partner was impossible. With every nerve frazzled, more bullshit deflections or tired words like 'someone like you'-type lines would send me over the edge...again.

"Your turn. Tell me what you're looking for."

My returned silence filled his eyes with mirth. By his perverse smile, he knew I was unraveled. Despite a lilt elevating his words playful, he'd won this exchange and—

"I'm not the only one uncomfortable with these questions, hmm?"

The question was invasively personal. Was this how my clients felt? Inspected under a microscope?

"Proving you wrong."

The crack in my voice betrayed me. I didn't want him to look through my professional armor and discover that I couldn't be further from what I aspired for my clients...

But my willingness toward a relationship wasn't the one that mattered.

The record time on my phone made me cringe. Normally, I would've asked all my questions, but I'd asked, what, two?

"We're out of time."

"Next time, then." Like a robotic, emotionless switch, the business smile returned. Sharp and satisfied, he stood, straightened his sleeves, and sealed my limp hand in a heated squeeze. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Ms. Miller."

A cheeky wink followed. So quick I would've missed it had I not been staring.

Such a minuscule movement shouldn't have rattled me, but my jaw dropped. No sound could come out. He strode out as if nothing had happened while I stared at the invisible impressions he'd branded on my wrists.

Like his cologne's remnants, his presence lingered like smoke. No matter how many breaths I heaved within the privacy of my office, I couldn't filter it out. My heart pounded harder.

So much for resisting his charms.

***

After my interaction with Xavier, only one place could help burn off my frustration.

The hunched-over bodies ahead of me blurred. Hinged over my bike, I choked the handles and pumped through the burn.

Faster than the pounding bass. Through the frustration. Through the possibility that, for once, I'd over-challenged myself. Through the look in his eyes when he'd put me right where—

"I hate exercise." Emma huffed, the curls in her ponytail bouncing. "Can't believe you...talked me into...vaginal torture."

"If you came more often, it wouldn't be torture."

"I hate you." She moaned a different kind of frustration into her towel. Since her feet barely reached the pedals, the seat rubbed her in a very particular spot.

This class promised two things: a kickass workout and slapped-up lady bits.

"You love me."

"I feel sorry for you." Without glasses, she squinted at the class display board, where my name blinked first. "Mr. Dalton got to you again."

My mouth pressed at his name. The man who flipped my questions, toyed with me, wasted my time, and prevented me from helping clients who wanted healthy relationships. How flustered he'd made me, locking myself into his hold, folding submissive—ugh!

A handsome face and a dominant grip shouldn't have unraveled me. Especially not his.

"Time!"

The instructor's call sent a deluge of relief through me. My legs cheered as I slowed them.

One business perk was I knew the best people in the city. Spin Boston took up the first floor of Fit Boston. A yoga studio and a privately owned boxing gym filled the top floors, but this was one of my stress relievers.

Humidity proved it was the only air you could wear. In the swamp-like studio, thirty bodies dismounted and cleaned their bikes.

My calves wobbled like overstretched rubber bands as I followed Emma into the sauna.

"It's work-related stress." I plopped onto a towel beside her. "Which, yes, he's the primary cause of."

It was more than a botched interview, which I needed to reschedule for actual answers. It was every business in the building puddling into a relocation deal. It was him removing all my conveniences under the same roof.

The coffee shop, dry cleaners, attorney's office, and the florist. Sellouts, the whole lot of them.

After his mind game left me braindead, Chloe and I went snooping. Adjacent businesses created lucrative, mutual benefits. With the florist, my clients could pick up first date, second date, birthday, anniversary, or just-because flowers. And the legal office gave prenup advice.

While I didn't know the other businesses' terms and conditions, any deal with Xavier would be in his favor. The situation stunk worse than, well, me.

"You've still got us," Emma's offer fell flat under my stink-eye.

Did I? Chloe practically drew my and Xavier's names in a heart. My business partner here looked ready to give me another 'you got yourself into this mess' lecture.

Dry heat pricked my damp skin inside the wooden oven. Limp, I felt as drained as Emma looked—eyes closed, every curl wilted, devoid of life.

"At what point did we become our mothers?" I asked as we waddled into the locker room and stripped off our clothes with unattractive grunts.

Before she answered, her phone chimed. "Stephen's expecting me." She dressed without putting on a bra and grabbed her bag. "And I need oral support."

"Enjoy eating out," I teased and slipped under a shower's relief.

The only college sweetheart pair in our group still together were stronger than ever, but my reality compressed under the silence she left behind.

My clothes felt ten times heavier to put on post-workout. A dark sky and noodle legs didn't deter me from the six-block walk to the North End. The cold soothed my heated skin.

Bakeries teased my empty stomach, but I opted for a more sensible, less enjoyable Cobb salad. As usual, I ate and worked.

Database and in-person matches were going well. Seventy-eight percent of Apex clients enjoyed a third date. I was doing something right.

I finished today's queue finished and grimaced at Xavier's folder.

Despite all the intel we'd gathered, I'd learned nothing new. On business, Xavier Dalton was an open book, giving free lectures for hopeful entrepreneurs and venture capitalists, but a vault with his personal life.

Five years ago, he inherited the conglomerate Dalton, Inc. Instead of rolling in inherited wealth, the twenty-seven-year-old insta-millionaire shocked the stock market when he moved the company from public to privately owned.

I didn't understand the details, but the number of articles touting the move as risky but game-changing meant he wasn't playing around.

A point further emphasized by his company-wide investigations. The press had fun with those headlines—Corruption burned at the stake: Dalton's modern-day witch hunts strike green.

Old money wasn't immune to modern problems, as he uncovered deep pockets of corruption within his own pants and gutted key personnel like a kid bored with unwanted toys...and earned a reputation of being ruthless, heartless, and unapologetic.

As well as astronomical success.

"You cut off your own mother," I said to my empty wine glass and made a note for Emma about Cynthia Dalton's lavish spending. "Is it time, mistrust, or both keeping you from dating?"

The impressive businessman's personal life was a ruse. Photo-staged extras showed he preferred young, slim models who doted on him. Their smiles were all business. Rehearsed.

His only repeat sidepiece was a beautiful brunette, Isabel. Together at two public events, she draped her claim over him, but his stoic body language screamed pure misery.

An ugly feeling settled in my stomach. "Xavier, you need a woman who can light up a room and enrapture your attention away from the cameras, not look pretty for them."

I paced, brushed my teeth, and mulled through possible candidates. Someone beautiful, well-educated, and spirited. She could hold her end of a conversation. Or better, challenge him out of his stiff-suit comfort zone.

Devastatingly handsome comfort zone if I gave him a slight makeover. Nothing drastic, just a little more color and less hair product.

My cheeks warmed the longer I studied Xavier's profile. His ideal match would want him but not need him for security—financial and emotional because the man had the empathy of a barnacle.

Someone successful in her field, who worked for a cause not applause, separate enough from his arena so there wasn't any competition or resentment.

"Who, though?" I asked my night cream jar.

Many successful women candidates filled our database. Normally, my mind churned through potentials, but it was as blank as Xavier's personality. Doctors, teachers, nurses, lawyers, businesswomen, investors, and entrepreneurs—our screenings revealed their professional success, intelligence, grace, and beauty...and yet?

"Nadda."

I brought his search into bed. Anything. Some breadcrumbs had to be here.

The man's favorite hobby was tormenting me, and while he owned dozens of enviable properties, none served as his permanent residence. His brother's crumbling marriage with gossip editor Samantha Paine was splashed everywhere.

"You're another intriguing case." Newly single, but for my challenge, Derrick Dalton was the closest family member. "But why has your brother not had a relationship since college?"

Instead, projecting the image of being a serial playboy for years. Except...

A thread of sympathy tugged in my heart. Atop a mighty pyramid, admired in his profession, and serviced by an endless line of beautiful women sounded isolating. Where others saw enviable success, I saw a lonely man who appeared out of obligation.

Speculation would get me nowhere.

With an exasperated breath, I stretched and eyed one of his fundraiser pictures. Dressed sharply, a black tux hung just right and contrasted with his white shirt. And a smirk like the world was his playground.

"Such a control freak."

Irritation crawled over my skin. I kicked my legs straight, then raised my knees and grounded my feet. No position felt comfortable.

I rolled my wrists. The image of Xavier's hands binding them plunged me into the most ridiculous fantasy.

Of those fingers pinning me again. Imprinting my skin. Dipping inside me. Twisting me with pleasure.

The hell was wrong with me?

I squeezed my eyes closed, but the naughty thrill raced through my veins, overwhelming the fight against why this was wrong.

Fuck inappropriateness.

My throbbing clit made the first finger brush electric torture. I stroked harder, circling and pressing into the nerves.

"Ahh." Each jolt of pleasure coiled me tighter.

Tighter. So close.

When my fingers tired, I settled for my bedside vibrator. The arousal in me quickly drenched it slick. Electric lust bolted on contact, bunching my insides.

"That's I," I moaned when my clit reciprocated the vibrations. A swell of pleasure seized my body until it released a quick, hollow orgasm.

While exactly what I needed—irritation already receded like waves returning to the ocean—it was shallow. One scrape over a continuous itch.

I panted as the haze cleared. Stark loneliness crept in between the beats pounding in my face. Except for a stubborn blush remaining, a chill coated my skin.

The euphoria glowed dimmer as I shut off the vibrator, cleaned it and myself, and turned off the light.

"Shouldn't have done that," I confessed into the darkness.

Yet, I had. Worse, I couldn't make myself regret it.

As a client, he hadn't passed Emma's scrutiny, and we had an interview to finish. After unraveling me with a reassuring touch, how could I face him with a straight face?