​Normally, Quinn handles men like that very well—with precision and tactics of her own.​ ​​​

Quinn understands Christopher’s type. ​

But what Quinn doesn't understand is, why she allowed Christopher to grope her in a supply closet?

No answer.

“Vanessa?” I called out through the open door.

“You’re late! Shut the door behind you.”

Somewhat put off by his tone, I stepped into the suite and walked toward the room from where the irritated voice had originated. “Stop,” he ordered.

Surprisingly, my body did just that.

The voice was coming from behind a large desk. The man’s high back chair faced the long, reflective window. He was obviously a tall man and a sloppy one at that. The toffee dark strands of his hair stood straight up from behind.

I was about to point that out, along with his rudeness, but then he reversed his chair.

He was no sloppy man.

The man who sat in front of me was a beautiful mess. His chiseled jaw sloped downward as his eyes stayed glued to the iPad that was in his hands. His mop of hair looked as if he had just run for miles, yet

his starched tux shirt said otherwise.

I’d frozen, mesmerized by his beauty. Then my senses came back to me. “Hello, I’m—”

“I don’t need to know your name, sweetheart. Take off your clothes.”

I gawked at him for a moment. “Excuse me?”

He never took his eyes off his iPad as he spoke in a miffed tone. “Be a good girl and take off your clothes.”

Still speechless; I watched as the man stood—taller than I expected and very fit—and walked over to a credenza, poured himself something to drink, and then faced me. When my blue eyes met his green ones, I actually considered his request for a split second.