Wicked Pleasure. Taryn Leigh Taylor

nothing.

      Her eyes darted down the hall. Still clear, but not for long.

      Think like the tech god. Liam Kearney was smart. Meticulous. Known for his rotating codes and his attention to detail...

      Of course! The sequence changed with each restart.

      It was ingenious. A discreet little counter that let him know how many reboots the alarm had been through. AJ didn’t have time to be too impressed, though. Whoever was headed her way would be arriving momentarily.

      She made the necessary changes to her approach, and within seconds, the little green light on the trip wire flicked on. AJ jammed her phone back into her purse and turned around just as a figure appeared at the end of the hallway.

      * * *

      Liam braced a shoulder against the wall and allowed himself a moment to watch her as she stood, unaware of his presence, staring thoughtfully at the artwork in the hallway outside his bedroom.

      Her profile was beautiful—the slope of her nose, the softness of her lips, the curve of her neck. Her raven curls brushed her shoulder as she tipped her head to the side, engrossed in the painting, as though he’d come upon her in an art gallery instead of sneaking through his house.

      “Find what you’re looking for?”

      Her gaze didn’t waver from the painting, but a slight smile touched her mouth. It was almost as though she was expecting him. She pointed up at the canvas. “Would have put my money on you being more of a dogs-playing-poker-on-black-velvet man.”

      “I lock up the really expensive stuff during parties.” He pushed away from the wall and joined her beside the Pollock. “I thought you might like a tour, but I see you’re already taking one.”

      She crossed her arms, drawing his eyes to the way it pushed up her cleavage. “Just curious,” she averred. “I mean, if the bathroom’s that nice, what riches must the rest of the house conceal?”

      Her voice was full of sarcastic wonder, and yet again, her impertinence made him stifle a grin.

      “Well, there’s no safe hidden behind this painting, if that’s your game.”

      She cut him a measuring glance at his opaque reference to the library, and Liam watched, fascinated as the suspicious edge that had marked all their interactions thus far relaxed slightly. Like something had changed between them. “Foiled again.”

      “In that case, I’ll call off the cops.” Liam pulled his phone from his pocket and keyed in the current iteration of the rotating eight-digit master password that would unlock the room behind them before stowing it away.

      “As for the riches concealed behind these doors, only one way to find out.”

      She glanced behind her, shrugging one bare shoulder in a show of nonchalance before she turned and pushed open the double doors to reveal his bedroom suite. If she was impressed by the room, or the glass wall that looked out over the grounds, she didn’t show it.

      Despite her nonchalance, his body revved as she stepped over the threshold, wandering deeper inside. At some point after his first million, sex had become an inevitable conclusion. Something easily acquired when and if he wanted it, and much to the disgust of his sixteen-year-old self’s fantasies, less exciting for it.

      The thread of danger in this interaction, his inability to decipher whether he was the hunter or the prey, had him on edge, primed for action. He’d forgotten how fucking good sexual tension could be.

      She clasped her hands behind her back as she explored, taking in her surroundings. “It’s not what I expected.”

      Liam pushed the doors shut, and the click was loud in the sudden silence as the soundproofing kicked in, blocking out the ambient party chatter and the throbbing bass line of the DJ. “What did you expect?”

      “Based on your reputation as a jaded international party boy?” She glanced over her shoulder, and her mocking smile almost undid him. “Manacles on the headboard, some kind of swing in the corner.”

      Liam slid his hands in his pockets. He wanted her. Against all reason and his better judgment, he wanted her. “I don’t need chains to keep a woman in my bed.”

      “You’re awfully confident.” She turned back to the window, staring down at the party below.

      She was a fascinating study in contrasts. Tough, but vulnerable. Smart, but impetuous. Gorgeous, but oddly reticent to exploit the hell out of that.

      “Just hopeful. And for the record, I’m not opposed to chains. I’m just a strong proponent of mutual reciprocity.”

      “That’s encouraging. Although I will admit, I didn’t take you for a literal exhibitionist.” She gestured toward the window, where a web of party lanterns and the submersible spotlights in the fountains lit the way for the dozens of guests still milling about on the sprawling grounds.

      She pressed a hand to the window, and something flared in her eyes, something dark and exciting. He watched in fascination as she pushed it down, resurrecting her cool, mocking facade. “I thought you rich guys tended to show off your penises the old-fashioned way—fancy cars and sexual conquests.”

      Jesus.

      He needed to get his hands on her, his mouth on her.

      “Don’t let my tech company fool you. I’m very old-fashioned, with a garage full of penis metaphors to prove it. As for sexual conquests,” he said softly, letting the words hang there for a moment, “don’t tell me this is where your courage deserts you.”

      She looked over as he joined her beside the window. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

      The declaration was said simply, as though she thought he hadn’t expected her to take him up on his dare to explore this heat arcing between them. But that was only because she didn’t realize how much credit he already gave her. And he didn’t even know her real name yet.

      “Not even me?”

      “Why would I be afraid of you?”

      He stepped closer, and she shivered, but true to her word, it wasn’t because of fear.

      Liam reached out and ran the pad of his thumb down her bare arm, from shoulder to wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath her skin. “Because usually when people want each other this badly, someone ends up getting burned.”

      She leaned into him, so close that her lips brushed his jaw. Her hand drifted down his chest...lower. Lower still. “I like playing with fire.” His knees almost buckled when she stroked the length of him through his pants.

      With a quick squeeze, she unhanded him and began dispatching the buttons on his vest with quick efficiency. “Also, for the record,” she informed him, before unknotting his tie, “I’m more of an arsonist than a nurse.” She reached up and pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders. “So you’re probably going to want to be careful.”

      Careful was the last thing he felt like being with her. He wanted whatever this was, pulsing between them, begging to be let loose.

      He swallowed thickly as she slipped his jacket down his arms. “I’m going to need—”

      “Your wallet?” she asked, holding it up as the expensive Italian wool blazer hit the ground.

      Liam popped the button at his collar. “Impressive sleight of hand.”

      She pulled the condom he kept inside free and tossed his leather billfold onto his jacket.

      “You’re easy to please.” She tracked his progress as he worked his way down the placket of his shirt, baring his chest to her gaze. “I haven’t even gotten started with my hands yet.”

      She pushed him back against the window and set to work on his belt, the button on his pants. The metal hum of his zipper filled the room, filled his head. His breath came fast, and he swore as her