Willing Sacrifice (Knights of the Board Room) by Joey W. Hill Read Free Book Online Page A

thorough, overwhelming lover. That wasn’t usually what she was seeking, but maybe her tastes were evolving.
    “I still have your shoes,” he said as he put her on her feet. “From that night at the hospital.”
    There were only a few inches between them, and he hadn’t let her go. With the truck behind her, she was pleasantly enclosed between two very masculine, large objects. Lifting a brow, she slipped out of that narrow crevice and tapped him with the folder she retrieved from the truck hood. She wondered what he’d do if she swatted him on his very fine ass with it, and expected he might swat her back. It almost made her laugh. Then she registered his words.
    She pivoted to face him again. The intensity of his expression made her feel like she was flush against him. “And you haven’t had the opportunity to get them back to me in six months?” she asked lightly.
    “You haven’t asked me for them.”
    They studied one another. “Max, I want my shoes.”
    He cocked his head. “There it is. That female hawk look.”
    She understood what he meant. She knew the feeling when it took her over, that sense of command, exercised over a male eager to experience her power. She didn’t feel that eagerness from Max. More like intrigued curiosity, another type of raptor perched on a different branch, watching her with abiding interest.
    He moved to the limo, opening the front door. Oblivious to what viewing the stretch and bend of that powerful body could do to her, he leaned across the seat, withdrew her shoes from a side compartment. She noticed he’d wrapped them in a towel to protect them, and he took that off now, bringing her the dainty pumps, the sheen of the white-gold insoles a contrast to the polished outside walnut color. The shoes had ankle straps, but he carried them under the arches, rather than letting them dangle.
    When he brought them to her, she closed her hands over the straps, pinching the back of the shoes between forefinger and thumb. As his hand slid away from the soles, her arches tingled, remarkably. What did the man wear? He had a scent like sea water and cotton, plus that musky heat that was distinctly male. Looking up at him, she saw he was staying put, less than a foot between the rise and fall of her breasts and his chest.
    He lifted his hand, but this time she didn’t stop him. He didn’t reach toward her face. He slid beneath her bent arm and pressed his palm against her back, just below her shoulder blade. As if he was about to begin a proper ballroom waltz. She was always aware of her body’s movements, particularly in relation to the give and take of a man’s, and the way he eased them together was like clouds, a drift that seemed effortless.
    As he bent toward her, he kept his eyes open. So did she. When he put his mouth on hers, she saw the flicker in the gray, a reaction to how her lips parted, releasing a soft sigh into his mouth. He held the contact there, a bare touch, then he drew back, pressing his lips together.
    “I was wondering if that gloss tastes the way it smells. Like honeysuckle. It does. There was a honeysuckle bush behind the house where I grew up.”
    She imagined him plucking a blossom, drawing out the threadlike inner stem, bringing that single drop of honey to his lips. Her body responded in the same manner. She felt the tiny blot of cream dampening her panties.
    “I have other flavors as well. But honeysuckle is my favorite.” Turning, she moved back toward the elevators, making sure she kept her steps efficient and even as always, the sound of the heels against the concrete just as crisp. She’d had twelve-hour rehearsals that required less effort than such nonchalance took.
    She lifted the shoes out to her side, not turning. “You better not have stretched them out. And I hope you wore them with proper stockings.”
    At the elevators, she looked over her shoulder to see him leaning against the truck, watching her, one foot hooked around his ankle. The