Chapter 1 

Kylie 

The thing about working for David Lyle Reed is that it’s equal parts exhilarating and infuriating. He’s the kind of man who can silence a boardroom with a glance, charm investors with a smirk, and ruin my entire week with one carelessly barked order.

And I—his secretary, his schedule wrangler, his unofficial crisis manager—get a front-row seat to all of it.

From the outside, he’s the dream. Six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, storm-gray eyes that belong on a GQ cover, and hair that looks like it’s been tousled by a stylist who charges more than my monthly rent. He’s always in a suit, always crisp and commanding, with cufflinks that gleam and shoes that whisper money against the marble floors of Reed Tower.

From the inside? Well, I know the truth. Beneath all that polish and steel is a man who keeps me up at night in more ways than one. Sometimes because he’s a demanding boss. Sometimes because he’s buried between my thighs.

Not that anyone in this office would ever guess.

“Miss Morgan.” His voice rumbles across the glass-walled hallway before I even see him.

Speak of the devil in Armani.

I glance up from my desk as he strides toward me, phone pressed to his ear, a file tucked under his arm. He’s walking fast, jaw tight, brows drawn together in a way that means some poor bastard on the other end of that call is getting shredded. The man radiates authority like it’s stitched into his suit.

And still, my body reacts the same way it always does—traitorous heat crawling up my neck, the memory of his hands lingering where they shouldn’t during office hours.

I clear my throat and snap back into professional mode. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Reed.”

He lifts a hand—hold on, wait—still on the call. His tone is ice. “If you can’t deliver the figures I asked for, then don’t bother showing up to the meeting. That’s not a request. That’s your last warning.”

Ouch. Somewhere, a grown man is crying into his tie.

David ends the call and finally turns that storm-gray stare on me. It’s sharp, assessing. “Coffee.”

I arch a brow. “You know, most people say ‘please.’”

His lips twitch. Not a smile, but close. “Most people aren’t late on my quarterly reports.”

“Most people also don’t keep me here until midnight signing contracts, but hey, who’s counting?” I rise from my chair, smoothing my pencil skirt, and brush past him deliberately. His gaze dips, just for a second, before flicking back up. I catch it. I always do.

“Cream. No sugar,” he calls after me.

“I know how you take your coffee, boss.”

And how you take me. Against your desk. In the backseat of your car. Once in the damn elevator after hours when security cameras were supposedly down.

I don’t say that part out loud, of course.

By the time I return with his coffee, David is in his office, jacket draped over his chair, tie loosened just enough to reveal the strong line of his throat. He’s scanning documents, flipping through pages with the kind of focus that makes his jaw flex. I set the mug on his desk without a word, waiting for him to notice me.

He doesn’t.

So I clear my throat. “Your nine o’clock confirmed, the London call is rescheduled, and your mother called—again. Want me to invent another excuse?”

That gets his attention. His head lifts, those eyes locking onto me like I’ve said something filthy. “What did she want?”

“To remind you that she’s hosting dinner this weekend. Apparently, attendance isn’t optional.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Of course not.”

I cock my head. “Problem?”

“Only that she’s probably lined up with another woman she thinks I should marry.”

The words hang between us, heavy. We don’t talk about marriage. We don’t talk about love. That’s the rule.

But for the briefest second, something flickers in his eyes before he buries it under steel again.

“Clear my evening Friday,” he says instead.

I scribble a note on my tablet, pretending my pulse isn’t doing cartwheels. “Done.”

He leans back in his chair, sipping the coffee I brought, eyes never leaving me. That stare of his—it’s predatory, calculated, like he’s stripping me bare without lifting a finger.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he says finally.

“Trying not to get fired before lunch.”

His mouth curves—there’s the smile, rare and dangerous. “You’re the only one in this building I wouldn’t fire.”

And damn him for knowing exactly how that makes my stomach flip.

By ten a.m., I’ve already rescheduled two meetings, wrangled a contract draft from legal, and blocked yet another “chance coffee” request from the woman David’s mother introduced him to at last month’s gala.

I don’t know what’s worse: that these women actually believe they’re just bumping into him, or that his mother thinks I don’t notice the way she’s trying to shuffle them through his calendar like one of her charity galas.

“Did you at least tell her I’m allergic to blind dates?” David asks as he breezes out of his office, sleeves rolled up now, tie hanging loose around his neck. He looks far too good for someone who’s about to bulldoze an investor call.

I arch a brow. “I told her you’re married to the company. Which, frankly, isn’t far off.”

He smirks. “Careful, Miss Morgan. If anyone overhears, they’ll think you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” I let out a laugh, sharp and light. “Of the women who line up to smile for your mother and hope you’ll notice them? Please. My self-respect is intact.”

“Mm.” He stops just close enough for his cologne—something expensive, woodsy and sharp—to wrap around me. He leans down slightly, voice low, for me alone. “I could ruin that self-respect in about five minutes flat.”

Heat flushes up my spine. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the smug bastard.

I fix him with my best professional smile. “Your eleven o’clock is waiting in Conference Room B.”

His grin widens as he straightens, striding away like he didn’t just set my insides on fire.

While he’s gone, I take a second to breathe. Because that’s the problem with David Lyle Reed. He’s not just a good boss—he’s the kind of man who gets under your skin, who takes every ounce of control you’ve built for yourself and strips it away with a look, a touch, a whisper against your ear.

And I should know.

It started six months ago, after a late night in the office. I’d stayed behind to help prep for a merger meeting, running on caffeine and stubborn pride. He’d come back from dinner with clients, loosened and dangerous, catching me at my desk long after everyone else had gone home.

“Still here?” he’d asked, leaning against my doorframe like sin in a suit.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t walk into a multimillion-dollar meeting half-prepared,” I’d shot back.

He’d smirked, then walked straight in, shutting the door behind him. The air had shifted—charged, intimate, wrong in all the ways that felt too right.

One kiss turned into two. Two turned into his tie sliding off and my blouse half undone. By the time I’d caught my breath, I was against his desk, wondering how in the hell I’d gone from sharpening his schedule to clawing at his shoulders.

We then established the rules, no dating, no commitments, and no discussing this arrangement with anyone else. This was to be purely a physical outlet, nothing more than sex.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

By noon, David’s back in his office, and I’m juggling three different phone lines, trying to keep my sanity.

“You’re brilliant, Kylie.” His voice floats out between meetings.

I look up, startled. “That’s unusually generous of you.”

“I’m practicing gratitude,” he says dryly, loosening his cufflinks. “My therapist suggested it.”

“You have a therapist?” I can’t help the smirk.

He levels me with a look. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Because I always assumed you terrified them into early retirement.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you keep me around.”

That earns me another one of those loaded looks, the kind that lingers a little too long, heat sparking in the space between us. For a heartbeat, the air feels thick, like we’re the only two people in this entire glass-and-steel tower.

The intercom buzzes, breaking the spell.

“Mr. Reed, your mother is on line one,” I say, pointedly.

His jaw ticks. “Ignore it.”

“Again?”

“Especially again.”

I do as told, though my stomach twists. Because for all his power, David Reed is still leashed by his family. And sooner or later, that leash is going to choke both of us.

By five p.m., most of the office has emptied. It’s just me and David again, the way it often is, the city glowing gold outside his floor-to-ceiling windows. I gather files into neat stacks, pretending not to notice him leaning in his doorway, watching me like I’m his personal form of entertainment.

“You missed lunch again,” he says.

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.” He strolls in, hands in his pockets, suit jacket long abandoned. He looks more like a man than a CEO now—relaxed, dangerous. The kind of man I know too well after hours.

He stops beside my desk, close enough that his thigh brushes my arm. My breath catches.

“David—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“You should eat.” His voice is low, softer now, carrying something that isn’t command so much as concern.

The words nearly undo me. Because that’s the other problem with him. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way he notices things, the way he makes me feel seen in a world where I’m supposed to stay invisible.

I push my chair back, creating space. “Careful, boss. People might start thinking you actually care.”

He leans down, eyes locked on mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. For one wild second, I think he’s going to kiss me right here, office glass walls be damned.

Instead, he smirks. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

And just like that, the spell breaks.

The rules. The deal. The arrangement we swore wouldn’t mean anything.

I plaster on my brightest, most professional smile. “Yes, Mr. Reed.”

But when he turns and walks away, my chest feels too tight. Because I already know the truth I’m not ready to admit: every time I tell myself this is just sex, just a deal—I believe it a little less.