Page 2 of Tell Me You Need Me

“Right,” I manage, my brain struggling to pivot from the intoxicating image of silk and stilettos to work. “The Singapore deal.”

“Everything okay?” Max frowns. Sharp eyes search my face. “You look rattled. Did my dad try to pitch another useless real estate venture?”

“No,” I lie. It would be like his dad to do that. The only reason the Romanoff name is where it is today, is because of Maxim. Plus, my father saw what I did in him, too, decided branching off and working together would make us more money. The rest, well, it’s still in action, and Max is still trying to prove he’s better than his father. Then there’s Mischa. While she doesn’t want to deal with the bullshit we do on a day-to-day basis, she knows her stuff, refuses to work with her brother, and now I wouldn’t let her leave if she did so on her own free will. “Just… a long-as-fuck week, followed by this on a Friday night.”

“Tell me about it.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Thank god Mischa handles your desk. I don’t know how you haven’t burned the building down yet. She told me you had fourteen back-to-back meetings on Tuesday.”

“She’s efficient,” I say, keeping my voice devoid of emotion. It’s an insult to what she actually is, but I can’t afford to let a sliver of the truth bleed out into the open.

“She’s a saint for putting up with you,” Max jokes. “Anyways, back to the Singapore deal. If we restructure the holding company in Delaware…” He keeps talking, diving deep into tax strategies and regulatory hurdles. Over Max’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of gold fabric moving toward the side gardens. Mischa is walking away, her hips swaying with a slow, agonizing movement that makes my cock ache. Before she disappears around the stone hedge, she glances back one last time, catching my eye through the crowd. A lingering, silent question hangs between us: What now, Nolan? I swallow hard, forcing myself to nod at whatever point Max makes about capital gains. “Nolan, you with me?” He narrows his eyes.

“Yeah. Delaware holding company. I’m with you.” Before he can interrogate me any further, the grand double doors of the dining hall swing open.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served in the main dining room.” My mother’s head butler steps out onto the threshold, his voice ringing over the terrace.

“Saved by the bell,” Max grins, heading toward the house. “Come on, let’s take our place before dad starts to get too into his liquor.”

“Go ahead, I’ll be right in. Need to finish my drink.” Max nods and walks toward the doors, vanishing into the stream of guests moving inside. I stand alone on the edge of the terrace, and the cool night breeze reaches my face as I raise my tumbler and drain the rest of my bourbon in one long gulp.

I look back at the empty garden path then toward the doors where guests are milling about. I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, especially with her family and my family expecting us. Except just as I’m about to go after Mischa, I catch a glimpse of her silk dress coming from the other end of the maze.

“Caught you.” My arm bands around her slim waist after moving with a swiftness to reach her before she could slither away.

“Nolan.” Her voice is breathless, her eyes are sparkling, her mouth is open, and her nipples are pebbled. If I’m going to hell, I’m going with the taste of her on my lips.

CHAPTER ONE

mischa

Present Day

The new addition of the espresso machine hums in the executive lounge on Nolan’s floor, it’s the only sound breaking the early morning quiet in Sterling Capital. I adjust my navy pencil skirt, smooth the front of my silk blouse, and check my reflection in the dark glass of the office window overlooking the financial district of Seattle.

I look like the epitome of professional, impeccable, even. No one watching at me right now would guess that less than forty-eight hours ago, I was pressed against a stone wall in the hedges of Nolan’s family’s estate, being ruined for all other men. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second as the memory assaults me with the force of a thunderstorm, fast and consuming. His arm banded around my waist, lifting me off my feet. The strong, intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with rich bourbon. The bruising pressure of his mouth on mine, the possessive drag of his tongue, and the absolute thrill of knowing that Nolan Cross—billionaire CEO, untouchable mogul, and my brother’s best friend—finally lost his mind over me.

It was, without a single doubt, the best kiss of my life. A wild, breathless event that left my lips swollen, my knees weak, and my core weeping with a deep, aching fire that has yet to be distinguished.

And yet, here we are on a Monday morning, and Nolan is acting like it never freaking happened.

The heavy glass doors of the suite slide open, and the temperature in the room instantly drops five degrees. Speak of the devil.

Nolan walks in, completely immersed in his usual aura of absolute dominance. He’s clad in one of his made-to-order three-piece charcoal suits, the vest so precisely tailored to his chest that it should be classified as a weapon, the jacket exactly the same way. The silk burgundy tie is knotted perfectly at his collar. He looks like money, power, and authority.

He also doesn’t glance my way or slow his stride.

“Mischa,” he barks out my name as if he hasn’t muddled my brain thoroughly. His deep, commanding voice slices through the quiet air. “I need the finalized risk assessment for the Singapore acquisition on my desk in five minutes. Also, clear my eleven o’clock with the board and tell them Maxim and I want the supply chain metrics before lunch.” My thighs should not be pressing together, and my knees absolutely should not be turning to liquid. It’s the exact same tone he used when he growled against my lips in the dark, telling me how good I felt. Hearing him use it to issue a mundane corporate directive makes a spike of pure, annoyed frustration ignite through my entire being.

“Right away, Mr. Cross,” I say, keeping my voice smooth, clipped, and strictly businesslike.

Nolan doesn’t pause. He walks straight out of the attached lounge into his office. The heavy frosted wood and glass door shuts behind him with a sharp, definitive click.

That asshole locked his office door. My resolve to keep working for this man is waning by the second. The sheer willpower it takes to stand here, less than ten feet away from his office, maintaining the façade of the dutiful executive assistant while my blood boils, is, in for lack of better terms, exhausting.

I move to my desk, my pace hurried and clipped in my three-inch heels, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do when it comes to working in the corporate world. Plus, the height helps when you’re not exactly tall by most standards. I stare at the thick leather folder sitting on my desk, the thirty-page risk assessment he only demanded moments ago. A sudden urge washes over me, one where I want to snatch the key to his office from my drawer, slam the door open, after unlocking it, of course, and throw the files right into his gorgeous, unreadable face. Then call out of work for the foreseeable future. I might also tell him to take his schedules, his meetings, and his custom suits and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.

Because pretending I’m fine is killing me.

Ever since Friday night in the garden, sleep has all evaded me. My midnight sessions at home with my vibrator buried between my legs have been at an all-time high. I lie in my bed in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, buzzing with an unbearable desire while I picture Nolan’s body over me, his large hands gripping my hips and his demanding voice telling me how well I take him. The orgasms come fast and hard just thinking about the way his dark eyes looked into mine before his mouth took mine.