Isabela was still breathing heavily, her lips swollen from the kiss stolen minutes before, when Ricardo abruptly pulled her onto his lap.

The Italian leather chair creaked under their weight. Her bottom settled over his hard thighs, and she felt exactly how much he wanted her—the unmistakable rigidity pressing against her softest curve, even through the layers of expensive fabric.

"Is this... professional, Ricardo?" she whispered, feigning a reprimand that her trembling voice betrayed. Her ...