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Alistair laughs, drawing my attention. “Yes, Rory, like knowing that.”
“I noticed Rogan was working on coding, the same coding that’s scribbled on your whiteboard. Will I be required to help in that aspect of the business?” I inquire as I push my fake, black-rimmed glasses up my nose with a single finger.
Rogan follows my every movement, his gaze darting from the whiteboard and back to me. “No one touches my fucking board.”
My eyes widen at this. I don’t like to be told what I can’t do. That’s been my existence my entire life. I can’t buy clothes or pay bills because I don’t have any money. I can’t work these jobs because I have no experience. I’m fucking sick of it.
I fucking can, and I fucking will.
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I take another sip of scotch, then push myself off the couch. I head for the workspace to get a better look at the whiteboard, stopping just before it. Behind me, I can hear whom I assume is Rogan chasing after me.
“Don’t,” he growls, his chest pressed into my back. The wire shorts again, and I jump, unintentionally pressing my ass into his groin. I ignore him, which is fucking hard to do because not only is his erection happy to see me, but he smells like heaven—rich alcohol, fresh leather, and…Sharpies?
Shaking my head, I stare at the formulas on his whiteboard and immediately target the abnormality. Seems all that sudoku has come in handy.
Turning to face Rogan, I press my back against the wall and push out my tits, letting them see my pebbled nipples through the wet fabric. This is the reason the temperature was lowered, to make me uncomfortable. Well, it’s not going to work. I’m proud of my body, all toned curves, all real, all mine.
So I let them stare at the red lingerie through my cold, soaked white blouse. I allow them to stare at my hardened tips, knowing how arousing that is to a man and how empowering embracing my sexuality is for me as a woman.
Biting my lip, I reach down and grab a dry erase marker from his desk—a pink one—then pull the cap off with my teeth before placing the top on the nonworking end. I pull my glasses halfway down my nose, catching his gaze over the rim. “You got this wrong, Rogan.” Before he can stop me, I turn quickly and scrub off the incorrect figure, replacing it with the right one.
His eyes widen in shock, and I hear him mutter, “Son of a bitch,” under his breath when he sees I’ve put down the right answer. His dark eyes shift from the board to me, and a flash of hunger flares in them. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he growls into my ear, his chest pressed against my back. “I told you no.”
“And I don’t listen all that well, Mr. Dixen,” I snap before turning to face him. He traps me with his arms placed on either side of my head, caging me against the whiteboard. His eyes flash with emotion—desire maybe? Frustration? Or is it satisfaction?
“There are consequences for being defiant, Ms. O’Brien,” he croons.
“Like what? Gonna bend me over the desk and spank the naughtiness right out of me?” His mouth drops open in shock, and his eyes focus on my lips.
Fucking idiot, Rory!
I can never keep my fucking mouth shut, even when it matters, and I probably just blew this whole thing.
Rogan pushes off the wall and takes a step back, his hand on his chin as he looks me up and down. “That can be arranged.” Now it’s my turn for my mouth to drop open. He smiles wickedly at my reaction. “My brothers and I have things to discuss. Please wait for us on the couch.”
He turns and heads over to the men in question, who are standing near his other desk by the entrance. I can see them huddled together, but I try to ignore them, staring out the window instead.
I can see everything, from Fenway Park to the Black Bay Fens. Grabbing my glass, I sit back against the cool leather, cross my legs, and hold one arm around my middle while sipping the scotch, allowing its heat to warm me from the inside.
Since I can’t afford to drink, I can feel the effects of the alcohol already. I feel happy almost. At least I think that’s what this emotion is. It’s been so long since I’ve truly been happy that I’m not so sure.
Allowing my eyes to unfocus, I stare off into the bright sky, watching the fluffy clouds pass over the sun. I could see myself here, getting lost in the views and allowing all my cares and stresses to melt away, if only for a few moments a day.
The sound of footsteps pulls my gaze from the windows and over to the men who are now prowling toward me. Like before, Rogan and Alistair sit on the couch, while the third man leans against the armrest.
Alistair downs the rest of his scotch, letting out a long, “Ahh,” then rests back against the couch, one ankle crossed over his knee. “We’d like to offer you the job.”
I blanch. This is not what I was expecting. I want to dance and scream and shout and celebrate, but I need to keep my fucking cool. “Thank you,” I manage to mutter.
Rogan runs his fingers through his messy brown hair, pulling the strands away from his whiskey eyes. “But before you accept, there are certain terms we need to discuss with you.”
“Oh? Like sick pay, work schedule, and vacation time?”
Alistair smiles smugly. “Not quite, though those matters will also be discussed.”
“Basically, little girl, what my brothers are trying to say is if you accept, we own you.” I turn toward the hulking brother who’s finally spoken for the first time. His voice is like water over granite, grinding yet smooth, and the dark, low cadence makes me shiver with desire.
Own me?
