A Wall Street broker at the top of his game, Matt’s playboy lifestyle lands him in hot water with the boss—and into the arms of the one woman who can save his reputation.
He’s a Wall Street wolf. She’s been hired to tame him. From New York Times bestselling author Lauren Layne comes a wildly sexy novel of business and pleasure.
Twenty-eight and filthy rich, Matt Cannon is the youngest broker on Wall Street. He may be a “boy wonder,” but he’s every inch a man. Ask any woman—any night. But when Matt’s latest fling makes scandalous headlines, his clients get anxious, and his bosses at Wolfe Investments level an ultimatum: keep his assets zipped, get a “real” girlfriend, and clean up his act. Only one woman can help Matt with something this hard.
For PR genius Sabrina Cross, the best fixer in Manhattan, playing Matt’s steady is going to be a challenge, even if it’s just for show. They already have an explosive history, she can’t stand the cocky party boy, and worse—she can’t stop thinking about him. So who’ll dare to break her “no touching” rule first? Because when that happens, Matt and Sabrina’s game of let’s pretend will get so hot it could set both their reputations on fire.
“Get out.” She says the words calmly. All the heat comes from the lethal warning glint in her eyes.
“Okay,” I murmur, letting my lips almost touch her ear but not quite. I tell myself to release her. To honor our agreement, but my damn body won’t obey.
She hisses out a little breath at the contact, even as she arches toward me, her body belying her words.
“Seriously? You can’t go one month without sex?”
I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’re telling me I’m the only one wanting right now?”
My other hand slides up her waist until my fingers brush the underside of her bra. In response, she bats my hand away, and even in my irritation, I nearly smile, because it’s so her. So us.
She whirls toward me, and the air all but crackles around us. With anger, with sexual tension, with whatever else is between us, always.
I wish I knew what it was. I’m not sure it has a name. Because even though I know down to my very core I’m not cut out for the monogamous-relationship thing—I don’t want a serious girlfriend ever, much less a wife—the woman in front of me is the only one who’s ever made me think maybe.
Helpless against the onslaught, I do the only thing I can think of. I kiss her.
My fingers tangle in her hair, and my mouth is urgent as it claims hers.
She stiffens immediately, her hands going to my shoulders, ready to shove me off.
I gentle my touch, even as I ease closer. I let her know that she can step away if she chooses, but I intend to make damn sure she makes another choice.
I kiss the corner of her mouth softly.
Kiss me back.
My lips drift over her stubborn jaw.
Want me back.
I feel the moment she capitulates, her small body softening against mine. I pull her closer, my mouth finding hers again . . .