Page 3 of Dial F for Finance

“Dominic, you believe the sun rises out of your own ass most days.”

She says it so evenly I have to laugh. I lean in, not quite closing the gap, voice low enough for only her. “The sun could learn a thing or two from me.”

Jenna stands there, facing the lake, the curve of her mouth betraying her even as she keeps her eyes on the black water.

“You know what I used to think about you?”

“Do tell.”

“That you weren’t serious about anything. That the flippancy was a defense mechanism.”

I don’t disagree. “And now?”

She glances at me sidelong. “Now I think you’re serious about everything. Especially the things you shouldn’t be.”

I reach for her then—slow, so she can stop me if she wants. She doesn’t. I run a thumb along her jaw, tipping her chin up so we’re level.

Her breath catches.

That’s all the permission I need to lower my mouth to hers.

The first kiss is soft enough to be deniable for half a second, until she makes this tiny sound—surprised, offended by how much she likes it, whatever it is—and then it’s over for both of us. I slide my hand to the back of her neck and kiss her the way I’ve imagined kissing her for an embarrassing amount of time. Slow at first. Careful. Letting her decide if this is real.

She decides fast.

Her fingers fist in my jacket and she comes up into me, mouth opening, kissing me back with none of the hesitation I expected and all of the heat I’ve been living on scraps of for months. Jesus. Her lipstick is wine-dark and a little smudged already, and I can taste champagne and something sweeter underneath, something that is just Jenna. Cool control and hidden fire and every single maddening thing about her collapsing at once under my hands.

I crowd her back a step until her spine meets the stone pillar by the terrace door. Hold her there while I kiss her again and again because apparently the universe has finally decided I’ve suffered enough.

Thank fucking heavens.

She breaks away only far enough to breathe.

“Dominic.”

The way she says my name almost drops me to my knees.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t call me sweetheart like that unless you intend to do something about it.”

I go still for half a beat, then laugh under my breath, because holy shit. “That a challenge?”

“It’s a scheduling request.” Her hands slide down my shirt, flattening over my chest like she’s checking whether there’s actually a heartbeat under there.

“There’s a room upstairs,” she says.

For one glorious, deranged second, every prayer I’ve ever muttered into the dark is answered at once.

Then she looks straight at me and says, “Take me there and fuck me.”

My body reacts before my brain does. Every male fantasy I’ve ever had about Jenna Pemberton stands up and starts applauding.

But at the same time, it feels wrong.

Too easy.

Jenna is direct, yes. Brutal, often. Efficient enough to turn desire into a bullet point if she wanted. But this has a reckless edge to it. A looseness. Like the walls she uses as a barricade have shifted off-center and fallen unintentionally.