Alchemy

When you've been told your whole life that something is sinful, you have two options. Avoid it like the plague, like it has the power to destroy all that is good and pure. Or become as fixated upon it as Eve was upon that apple. I'm sick of the push-pull of terror and temptation. It's tearing me apart. I just want a bite of the apple. More than a bite. I want to devour it. Have its juices spill from my lips. And by apple, I, of course, mean sex.

I cultivated my shamelessness. I wore it as a badge of honor at my convent school, and I've been turning it into an art form at Alchemy, the club whose social media I manage. My boss, though? He's the most proper person I've ever met. No one would peg him as the finance director of a sex club. (I mean, no one's pegging him at all, which is probably his problem. #justsayin) I get it. He's a widower, single-parenting two little girls while holding down a massive job. He needs an outlet, something just for him.

I want to run a sex empire and be taken seriously in the old boys' club that is the business world. I want to be the poster child, not the plaything. So, I stay polished. Tasteful. Beyond reproach. Until Anton Wolff joins Alchemy. He's the UK's most charismatic billionaire, and he's looking for a club that's as discreet as it is debauched. As classy as it is carnal. I think I've seen it all—until he shares what he desires from his Alchemy experience. And what he desires, above all else, is me. I think I'm afraid of the Big, Bad Wolff.