I threw myself into packing my belongings, trying to forget, but the throbbing between my legs and the thudding of my heart made it impossible. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? I made it a point never to mix business with pleasure and now I had crossed the line big time. I had let this impossible man fuck me. Right on his conference room table! How the hell were we going to work together? This was so fucked. As I folded up my red bandeau bathing suit, other memories of this week whirled around in my head. Our first encounter on the elevator…our first meeting…the Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show…the after-party…our dinners…our swim…the pitch. A wistful smile—and a tingle—accompanied the flashbacks, and then I mentally kicked myself. Why the hell did I let him do the things he did? How could I—this supposedly powerful, in control, respected woman—be so submissive? So taken? No man had ever done this to me before. And it wasn’t just his breathtaking looks and his sexual prowess, though that counted for a lot.
