The cameras lied.

Not about her actions—or inactions, I should say—but about her looks. I’d been too busy fuming this morning to take a closer look. Now, I’m getting my fill.

She’s young. Really young.

Like I’m not even convinced she’s old enough to drive a car, much less work at a prestigious cleaning

company. Her face is makeup free, but she’s somehow still naturally pretty. Dangerously pretty. The kind of pretty that gets men like me in trouble.

Because…I want to fuck her.

She’s barely said three sentences to me, and my dick aches to play with her. If she’s underage, I’m screwed, because I know I’m going to have her bouncing on my dick regardless.

“Name,” I growl, even though I know it already.

She fidgets, messing with the hem of her uniform skirt. It’s just short enough to be distracting, drawing the eye to her golden thighs, but not short enough to be satisfying. If she bends over, I won’t get a peek at what color panties she’s wearing.

“Ash Elliott.” She blows air up, knocking a loose, dark tendril of hair from her face. “Take your bun out,” I grind out. “Now.”

Her sculpted brows pinch together in confusion. “What?” “I didn’t stutter, child.”

She huffs and narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not a child.” Thank fuck.

“Let me see your hair,” I demand. “Stop wasting my time.”

“Why?” she throws back. “I have to keep it back per the rules.”

“You’re supposed to clean per the rules too, but we both know you’re a little rule breaker.”

Her cheeks grow rosy, and she parts her plump, pink lips in shock. Yes. I will absolutely have those lips wrapped around my dick. Imagining her choking on my cock makes me uncomfortably hard in my slacks.

“Do it before you really piss me off, Miss Elliott.” “I don’t understand—”

“But you will,” I interrupt. “Obey me.”

Her hazel eyes flare at my words. Then, like the pissy brat she clearly is, she reaches up and yanks at her hair tie. She scowls as she tugs it loose, sending her hair falling in bouncy brown waves over one shoulder. Her brow lifts in challenge as if to say, “What now, asshole?”

I’m so used to women who live to please me that I don’t understand why I’m  aroused by this unruly thing. She should turn me off completely, as she’s nothing like what I typically go for.

“Come here,” I command, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Now.”

With enough attitude to make my palms twitch to pull her over my knee and spank the fire out of her, she storms right up to me. I get a whiff of her cherry scent, reminding me why she’s here in the first place. She left her candy wrappers littering my office.

“Get on your knees.” I tilt my head up to glare at her. “Where you belong.” “Fuck you,” she sneers.

“I’m about to,” I threaten. “When I fire you and the entire damn cleaning company because of your incompetence.”

She gapes at me in horror. “What? Why would you fire everyone else because of me? I don’t understand.” “Because I am a Constantine.”

“Elaborate, because that means nothing to me.”

At this, I arch a brow in disbelief. “You know who I am.” “An asshole. Yep. Learned that five minutes ago.” Interesting.

It’s unusual to not be known. Revered. Feared.

“An asshole who will ruin you in every way possible. I’m a tenacious asshole. When someone pisses me off, I go to great lengths to make them understand they fucked with the wrong man.”

“Why?” she demands. “What did I do wrong?”

“Taking wages for a job you didn’t do. That’s fraud, Miss Elliott.” “I’ll leave—”

“No,” I snap. “You’re going to listen, or I’ll plow through your life, destroying everything before you even

make it to the first floor.” “I don’t believe you.”

“I take my job very seriously.” I smirk at her, loving the flare of hatred in her hazel eyes.

“Job? So that’s your job? Terrorizing nice people?” She waves a hand toward my empty desk. “That explains the sparse office. All the nefarious work happens inside that fucked-up head of yours!”

I reach up, gripping her jaw in my punishing grip, and pull her to my face. Her sweet, cherry scent fills my nostrils and stays. I want to lick every part of her to see what parts taste as good as she smells. A whine of fear escapes her as her hands settle on my shoulders, keeping her from falling into my lap.

“I didn’t amass this fortune by being an idiot. I certainly don’t let little girls run my fucking show.” I relax my grip on her jaw, sliding my palm to her throat. Her pulse jumps against my thumb. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

Wait? I am?

“I have a job,” she mutters.

“No, Miss Elliott, you do not. You did a really shitty job there, so you’re being let go.” “I need—”

“I know,” I snap. “You’re a fucking maid. Rich girls don’t need to work, which means you need money. Are

you ready to learn your new job?”

I sure as hell would, because I’m making this up as I go along. I’m in unchartered territory here. My colleague and friend, Nate, will laugh his fucking ass off when he gets wind of this.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Her eyes lose their fire as tears well in them. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Releasing her, I push back in my chair, putting distance between us. She rubs at her jaw, frowning at me. “I want to punish you.”

She blinks at me as though she’s waiting for the punchline. The punchline is, there is no punchline. I just want to punish her. Among other things…

“Like spank me?” She laughs—fucking laughs at me. “No.”

“My punishment is far more creative than your young mind could ever conjure up.” I flash her a devious grin. “We could start tonight.”

“Listen,” she says, “I think I should go. I’ll quit if that makes you happy.”

I roll in my chair toward my desk and pat the smooth surface. “You quitting will make me happy, yes, and save the jobs of every person in that company.”

She deflates at my words.

“But,” I continue, “I want to give you a new job. One you can actually do. One that pays a hell of a lot more.”

“I’m not going to be some Pretty Woman prostitute,” she bites out. “I’m not Julia Whatshername and you’re not Richard Grieco.”

“Gere,” I correct.

“The fact you know that means you’re old.” She rolls her eyes, her makeup-free lashes batting against her apple cheeks. “You’re old enough to be my dad.”

“I’m only thirty-five.” I clench my jaw. Almost thirty-six.

“My dad will be thirty-seven this month,” she sasses, cocking her hip out to one side. “Is that what this is? Some creepy ‘call me Daddy’ gig? Because, if so, ew. No.”

I try not to outwardly cringe.

So, I guess I am old enough to be her father. Lovely.

“Focus, child,” I growl. “I’m not paying you to be my whore. If you want to fuck me, that shit is going to

be for free.”

She gasps. “I’m not sleeping with you!”

“Yet,” I say with a smirk. “What I’m paying you to do is easy. I want to punish you. More like humiliate you, to be clear.”

Her head cocks to the side. “Why?” “Because it gets my dick really hard.”

She chews on the inside corner of her bottom lip, her hazel eyes darting to my crotch and lingering there.

“That’s weird.”

“You have no idea.” I pat the desk. “Sit here and we’ll get started.”

“You can’t humiliate me if no one is here,” she volleys back. “It’s just you. Defeats the purpose.” “We’ll work up to public humiliation, my dear.”

Her cheeks flame crimson. “How much?”

There she is. Everyone is a born negotiator when money is up for grabs. “Make me an offer,” I say, flashing her a wolfish grin.

“What will I be doing?”

“Nothing too difficult. Just something to please me. Five minutes.” “Five hundred dollars,” she blurts out.

A low baller, I see.

“A hundred dollars a minute?” I bite back a laugh. “Take it or leave it, buddy.”

“I’ll take. And take and take. Now sit on my desk.”

She frowns, stalling for a moment, but then lifts her chin before stomping over to the edge of my desk. Under her breath, she curses before hoisting herself onto the smooth surface. The desk is tall enough that she swings her feet back and forth beneath her like a child.

“Where’s your phone?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

“Why do you want my phone?” Her eyes are wide and horrified. “You’re going to record it?” “What is it?”

Her neck burns bright red. “I don’t know.”

“No, Miss Elliott, I’m not going to record it. You’re going to record it. A little gift for later.” “Why?”

“Because it embarrasses you.”

“You get off on embarrassing me?” She pins me with an annoyed glare. “Absolutely.”

“Fucking freak,” she mutters as she yanks her phone from her pocket. “Whatever.” “Lean on your elbows and put your feet up on the edge.”

“What are you going to do?” Her voice is shrill and shaky. “Nothing.”

“I don’t get it,” she grumbles.

“It’s like art,” I explain. “All in the eye of the beholder. Do as I say. Stop wasting our time. The clock starts when you obey.”

She holds my stare for a long moment before finally letting out a harsh, exaggerated sigh. Her body trembles as she moves to get into my requested position. It’s cute how she tries to awkwardly keep her thighs closed, but the position won’t allow it.

“Are you recording?” “N-No.”

“There’s a timer on your phone. When the recording gets to five minutes, you’re done.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

“Are you like going to…” “Start recording.” Another sigh.

“It’s going,” she grumbles. “Show me.”

Sure enough, it’s recording. Good girl.

“Part your thighs,” I demand. “I’ve been dying to know the color of your panties. Show me.”

She groans and parts her thighs. I roll my chair closer, leaning forward to look down into her skirt between her open thighs. Red. Like her cherry candies.

“Are you going to, um, touch me?”

“Do you want me to?” I murmur, inhaling her sweet-scented arousal. “No,” she barks out. “Do I still get paid?”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll still pay you.” I smile at her. “Show me more.”

She curses again, grabbing her skirt with one hand and yanking it up her tanned thighs, exposing her young flesh. “Happy now, sicko?”

“I’m getting there. It seems you are, too.” “What? Why?”

“Your panties have a wet spot, Miss Elliott. You’re turned on.” “I am not,” she growls.

“Denial won’t change the fact you absolutely are. Give me your camera,” I order. “Now.”

She reluctantly hands it over. I turn the camera to record the evidence, even zooming in and letting it linger there. Once I’m sure she’s seen the proof she can study later, I hand her back the phone.

“Three minutes left,” she mutters.

“Easiest two hundred dollars you ever made. Am I right?”