I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heart race and my breath coming too fast.

From afar, I hear Dad say, “C’mon, Ricky! We’ve got five miles to get through before dinner.”

Dad’s a runner, much to Ricky’s not-delight. Ricky’s more linebacker than pacer, but he makes do, and according to his own brags, he’s getting better at keeping up with Dad.

Their footsteps get further away, and I chance a peek out of my hidey-hole. They’re heading down the stairs, probably as a warm-up. Tiffany will be overjoyed because the stairwell pops out into the ground floor lobby. I can hear her moaning and groaning about how hot Dad’s ass is already, which makes me dread the ride home.

Once I’m in the clear, I walk quickly into Colton’s office.

The outer office is empty, a single nice but pretty standard desk standing like a sentry to the left of his door, everything neatly in its place.

“Damn, his secretary must be a former drill sergeant,” I murmur as I look at the immaculate desk. The nameplate is polished gold and engraved in a fancy script. Helen Riggs.

With no one here to stop me, there’s no turning back now. One, two . . .

The door opens with a soft click, and I step inside to reveal a beautiful office. Everything’s classic, with three of the walls paneled in rich, dark wood, while the back wall’s a floor to ceiling window overlooking the canyon. Brass trimmings and accents are everywhere. One section of the wall is a bookshelf, and every book is leather bound, perfectly aligned and immaculate.

And his desk . . . my God, you could throw a dinner party on Colton’s desk and still have room for a huge platter of turkey in the middle. Even his chairs are exquisite, smelling of fine leather and gleaming arrogantly in the sunlight from the oil rubbed into each and every square inch of the material. On one corner is a rather modest-sized trophy, with a wide bowl that almost looks like a candy dish except for the wooden base and brass plate underneath. Moving closer, I can read the inscription. All-Britain University Boxing Champion, 78 kg.

Colton Wolfe really is a badass.

I can’t help myself. I pick up the trophy, hoisting it over my head like I just won a boxing match myself.

Fuck, this thing’s heavy.

I set it back down with a glance behind me. Still nobody around.

I should set the file folder down and get out of here, but I don’t. Instead, I walk behind the desk and sit in the luxurious chair, pretending something quite different for a moment.

After setting the file on the center of the desk, I lean back in the chair, feeling it tilt supportively under my weight. After a brief moment, I go even further, putting my heeled feet up on Colton’s desk.

I’m pushing it already. I know it, but fuck, it feels good. So much danger feels so good. I feel alive.

A frame on the desk catches my eye, and I sit upright to get a better look. It’s a young girl, probably a teenager, and for a moment, I wonder if I somehow missed that Colton has a daughter. I search my brain for what I do know about him, which is admittedly a lot for someone who’s never so much as looked at me.

I’m not ashamed of it. Google and I have had more than one late night search on the name Colton Wolfe. Sometimes to read what public information is out there, which is surprisingly little, and sometimes for a little photographic inspiration for my solo hands-on maneuvers.

But I’ve never read about a daughter.

I make a mental note to add that to my search this evening, because there will definitely be some action after sitting in his seat, smelling the combination of his cologne and leather, and imagining him bending me over his desk.

I look around the room, seeing a brass plate on one wall, and I feel drawn to it. I walk across the thick carpet, my footsteps silent. Reaching out, I see it’s a hidden latch and pull it open to reveal a high-tech information center.

“Whoa.”

Miranda would have a shitfit for a setup like this in our office. We’ve got Big Bertha, and she’s a hell of a copy machine, but Colton’s private setup is sleek and obviously top-notch technology.

A devious thought comes to mind, courtesy of my own waywardness, but I mentally blame it on Tiffany.

I could copy my ass. And leave a rather direct image of what Colton’s missing on his desk. Anonymously, of course.

I’m not stupid. Well, at least not stupid enough to leave my name and number, as Tiffany suggested.

But the idea is gaining steam. One side of my brain’s trying vehemently to talk myself out of it, while the other side cheers loudly about what a great idea it is.

One extra copy for Tiffany would be all the proof I’d need. And Colton would never know who it was.

It’s very Cinderella-esque. Though my ass is better than any old glass slipper.

I eye the machine, which looks delicate, considering I’m thinking of sitting on it. With a thrill, I realize I’m wearing pretty scandalous underwear too. As if copying my ass isn’t scandalous enough already.

I’m getting fired. This is stupid . . . and crazy . . . and a myriad of other adjectives that all end the same way. I’m so getting fired.

But I hike my skirt up anyway, giggling as I stand on my tiptoes and just barely wedge myself into the gap created by the lid of the machine and the wall.

I fumble for the buttons, pressing twice so that I get one for Colton and one as proof for Tiffany. Then, before I can second guess myself, I hit the big green button.

To my right, paper spits out remarkably fast. “Aaaand, that’s my ass and a fair amount of hoo-ha too.”

I consider grabbing the papers and making a run for it. I can still pretend this never happened.

But fate conspires against me. Or maybe there’s some karmic bad luck to being a crazy bitch because the machine starts spitting out copies well beyond the two I requested.

“Oh, shit!” I exclaim. “No!”

But fate is a fickle bitch with an odd sense of humor because a slight breeze comes in through the window I hadn’t even realized was open, blowing the stack of copies all over the room.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I mutter, trying to snatch them all. Out of the air, off the floor, and even off the desk, where I accidentally knock the picture of Colton’s maybe-daughter to the floor.

I don’t even take the time to wiggle my skirt back down because being ass in the wind is the least of my problems as the machine continues to spit out copies. I press madly on the buttons and even reach behind it to shut it off, praying that if I can just cut the power, the copies will stop coming.

It’s then that I hear it.

With my naked ass up in the air as I bend over the copy machine that’s still spitting out the obscene image of my most private parts that wallpaper the fancy room of my boss.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

I freeze, stopping my wiggling reach for the off button at the voice from behind me. The very deep, sexy, British voice.

Looking over my shoulder toward the door, I go pale.

“Well?” Colton demands.

His bark breaks my paralysis, and I hop off the machine. Unfortunately, my lack of grace catches up to me once again, and I stumble over my own feet. I try to catch myself, but my legs are as useless as a newborn colt’s and I tumble to the ground in a half-naked heap.

Suddenly, there’s a pissed off handsome face standing over me.

How the fuck does he look so hot when he’s angry?