The Dare Collection: June 2018. Lauren Hawkeye

reprieve from the hormonal maelstrom Ash induced.

      With a deep breath she followed him, finding him behind his desk. She left the door open. Her, Ash, enclosed spaces...not happening.

      ‘What the hell was that?’ she snapped.

      He shrugged, rising slowly from the chair and stalking to a halt mere inches in front of her face.

      ‘What’s the problem? I told you, until I’m certain my shiny new business is in safe hands, I’m all over you.’

      Essie’s eyes mentally rolled back with the fantasy his words concocted. Him sweaty. Her writhing. More life-redefining orgasms.

       Yes, please.

      ‘I can’t do my job with you...hovering. And surely you’re too busy...preparing briefs or something?’ Her unfortunate choice of words forced a rage of heat up her neck—he’d looked astounding yesterday, both in and out of his tight-fitting briefs as he’d strutted around his bedroom, a supreme specimen of rugged maleness. Every inch of him lean and ripped—all smooth golden skin with a dusky sprinkling of dark hair as near to black as the silky mop on his head. No inhibitions and no need for any.

      And even though he’d only been partially aroused then, as he’d donned his underwear and jeans, the sight of him had still left her mouth pooling with saliva and her clit throbbing. Astounding.

      What was wrong with her? She never obsessed over men, physically or emotionally. Well, not since her ex. Essie Newbold, psychologist, would-be relationship expert—at least on paper—was now far too well informed to fall victim to the games played in the name of those relationships. Ash could do all the male posturing he liked—she simply suffered from a bad case of lust. She could control those...urges. Writing about it helped.

      ‘Actually, I have some instructions for you.’ His grin widened, eyes turning feral.

      She practically choked. ‘You...what...?’ Her knees wobbled while she imagined the kind of instructions she’d like to hear coming from his mouth.

       Strip. Spread your thighs. Bend over...

       Stop.

      He lifted that one brow. Mocking. Testing. ‘You do work here.’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Good. I want you to go home now and pack an overnight bag. Where do you live?’

      Was he for real?

      Where the hell was he sending her?

      Had he decided to winkle her out from under his nose by stealth? Send her on some fool’s errand and insinuate a replacement in her stead behind her back?

      ‘I live in New Cross.’ At his blank expression she added, ‘South London. Where am I going?’ Perhaps he’d decided to work her to death so she would quit. Did he expect her to pull an all-nighter? The Yard wasn’t even open yet.

      ‘You’re coming with me to Paris. Do you have someone who can pack a bag for you? We leave at six.’

      Paris?

      With him.

      No way.

      ‘I...I have a flatmate. But I’m not going to Paris with you.’ The words had barely escaped her mouth when the throb returned between her legs. Twice as ferocious.

      Him.

      Her.

      Alone in the city of love.

       Whoa there. Don’t get carried away—this is real life, not some fluffy shit you made up for your blog. He’s done with you physically and he doesn’t trust you. Oh...and you’ve used his sexual prowess to validate your online relationship advice.

      Her face flamed. Why had she done that?

      He smiled, the feline kind of smile that told her he saw too much.

      ‘Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?’ He closed in. His eyes dipped to her mouth.

      Huh, right... The air trapped in Essie’s lungs. He was so close, a cloud of heat rose from him, carrying the scent of whatever he’d used in the shower that morning to Essie’s nose.

      And then he leaned down so his breath tickled her ear and sent tiny muscular spasms skittering down her exposed neck to reawaken her nipples. ‘Now who’s flattering themselves?’ He reared back, his expression hard, serious, uncompromising. All business.

       Bastard.

      ‘We have work to do. Didn’t Ben mention it?’

      She shook her head, her feeble body swaying as the adrenaline dissipated.

      ‘There’s a club we wanted to check out. The best in France. Perhaps the best in Europe.’

      He slung his hands casually into his trouser pockets so the fabric stretched taut across his groin. Essie dragged her eyes away, desperate now to get away from him so she could regroup and fortify her defences with Ash-proof razor wire and hormone repellent spray.

      ‘I didn’t get where I am today by being second best. The Yard is going to be number one. So we’re going to go see what the competition is up to.’ He tapped the desk with two fingers and then levelled them at her.

      ‘Call your roommate. My driver will collect your bag in—’ he checked his watch ‘—thirty minutes.’

      Essie’s weak body veered from nuclear meltdown to hypothermia. Her mind conjured excuses...no passport...an ingrown toenail...an allergy to France.

      How would she survive a trip to Paris with Mr Rigid Control? There would be no way to escape the temptation of him for the hours of travelling time, trapped in a moving vehicle with only his astounding profile, catnip scent and magnetic sex appeal for distraction. Her poor ovaries would shrivel from exhaustion.

      She lifted her chin. ‘Will I be paid overtime?’ She might as well make him suffer financially if he wouldn’t be suffering from blue balls, although she doubted her meagre salary would hurt Mr Moneybags too much.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Separate hotel rooms?’ She might be unable to refuse his reasonable, Ben-sanctioned request, but at least she would be able to escape the lure of lust when the work was over.

      His mouth twitched.

      ‘If you like, but surely that horse has bolted...’ He shrugged.

       Arsehole.

      And why was he looking at her as if he remembered every detail of her naked? He’d turned away from her last night, put an end to the mad ride she’d have willingly enjoyed until the end. Perhaps despite his control he was still interested. That would certainly explain the way he looked at her. Her breasts throbbed and her clit tingled.

      But where did that leave her and her tattered and grubby good intentions? Perhaps she should even the score; take back control of the physical attraction that showed no signs of abating, for either of them; remind him what he’d turned down. She narrowed her eyes. If she had to survive the extreme sexual frustration of being in his company she should definitely play him at his own game.

      Her phone, set to send a notification every time someone commented on her blog, vibrated in her pocket, a timely reminder. Aren’t you already playing him? Writing about him? Illegally Hot is a real person.

      She swallowed and forced her thoughts back to ways of avoiding a repeat of yesterday’s humiliating rejection. So he’d resisted once. So he wanted to pretend this insane chemistry would disappear. Time to up the ante. Bring out the big guns. Her mind scrabbled through the contents of her underwear drawer for the sexiest lingerie she owned—a treat to herself when she’d graduated with her first-class psychology degree. Some women loved shoes. Essie loved frilly knickers.

      At