I angle her through the bathroom door. I intended to grab her a towel and leave her to freshen up, but I find myself gripping the hem of her soaked sweatshirt.
“What are you doing?”
I tug the fabric upward. “Getting you out of these wet clothes.”
Color infuses her cheeks, making her eyes shine bright. Strands of her wet brown hair cling to her cheek and neck, a drip of rain runs down her throat. I want to lick it off.
She lets her arms go slack and follows the movement of the sweatshirt, letting me pull it over her head without protest.
My cock throbs painfully against the zipper of my jeans when I catch an eyeful of skin. I remove her undershirt with the sweatshirt, and she stands in nothing but a lacy red bra and wet jeans.
Her chest heaves, and she keeps her gaze intent on my face, as if waiting to see what I’ll do next.
What will I do?
I know what I want to do. I want to peel those tight, soaked jeans down and bend her over the bathroom counter. I want to plow her from behind as much as I want to get into that whip-smart mind of hers and find out what makes the unique female tick. And dammit, yes, I want to sink my serum-coated fangs into her flesh and forever mark her as mine.
Which can’t happen.
I drop the sweatshirt on the floor and hear the rustle of paper again.
Kylie’s focus snaps to the discarded clothing, and she lunges for it, breaking the stare-down between us. Trapped between the layer of shirt and sweatshirt lies a manila folder, which she retrieves and hugs to her chest, covering those perfect tits from my view.
She licks her dry lips. “Mr. King, before I share this with you, I just want to tell you when I did what I did, I was a cocky teenager trying to prove my worth to myself and the hacker world. I never took anyone’s credit card numbers, and I never sold any information. It was simply a-”
The realization hits me like a fist in the gut. “Catgirl.”
Of course she’s fucking Catgirl. The only person who ever hacked my code. No wonder she was nervous about interviewing at SeCure. What in the hell kind of game was she playing, showing up at my headquarters, at my home, for fuck’s sake?
The one breach in security that haunted me for the past eight years just blew up in my face. Again.
I snatch the manila folder from her hands and dump the contents onto the bathroom counter.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounds small.
Dammit.
I hate hearing her diminished, even to me, a natural alpha who demands submission from everyone. Even when I’m pissed off with her.
“What the fuck is this?”
I flip the stack of papers and read the one on the top. Fuck no. Rage sharpens into a deadlier sense of awareness.
Blackmail.
Someone wants to sabotage SeCure.
Or is this some elaborate game Catgirl’s playing? Because anyone as brilliant as she could have some unseen strategy going here.
This girl’s trouble and my judgment about her has been clouded by lust.
She stands perfectly still, her small hands clenched into fists. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.
I toss the papers back down the counter. “What the fuck? What do you want? Why are you really here?”
I hate seeing tears fill her eyes, but I steel myself against my instinct to yank her into me or slay her foes. Those instincts can’t be trusted.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I don’t want anything.” Her voice wobbles on the first word, but then she regains control of it. “I just figured if I confessed, myself, the jackasses would lose their leverage. I don’t want to negotiate with terrorists, you know?
“I just offered you all the information you need to hand over to the FBI to build a case against me. Obviously, I’m hoping you’ll settle for my resignation.”
“No,” I growl, surprising myself by speaking before I knew what I was going to say.
But I’m not going to let her off that easily. In my world-in the shifter community-transgressions are dealt with head on. They aren’t handled by cops or resignations. Punishment is swift, usually physical. Or else recompense is demanded, or offered, and accepted.
She flinches, her slender shoulders sinking. “What are you going to do?” Her voice sounds hoarse.
Blood rushes to my cock at the thought of taking her to task. Firmly. I lower my voice to a dangerous level. “What do you think I should do?”
“Well”-she licks her full lips, the intelligence returning to her face- “if I were you, I’d want to catch these motherfuckers. So I might keep me as bait.”
Damn, I almost trust her. An enormous mistake.
“You know, monitor me closely to make sure I don’t misbehave, but wait to see who makes contact and put a stop to these guys.”
Yeah, I’ll monitor you closely.
Monitor the way those red lace bra cups lift her perky breasts. Monitor the scent of her arousal, the changing shape of that lush mouth. Kissable lips. “I see. And how should I punish your previous misbehavior?” My voice is definitely deep and raspy. If she doesn’t know what I’m thinking, then she’s a complete innocent.
But her eyes dilate, nipples pop through the fabric of her bra. That’s right, baby.
“No pity for the kitty?” She loses her breath on the word kitty, which makes it sound twenty times sexier.
“Right.” I spin her around and bend her over the counter. My palm connects with the wet pocket of her jeans before my brain even knew the plan. It makes a loud crack, satisfying on every level. My cock hardens at her gasp.
Kylie tosses her head, looking over her shoulder, teeth bared. She likes it. Judging by the scent of her arousal-a lot.
I smack the other cheek, harder.