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“It’s time we stopped pretending, Dagan,” murmurs Tamara throatily. Dagan becomes suddenly aware of her nearness, the warmth and bulk of her tall body.

“I d-don’t know what you mean,” he replies nervously.

Then she’s gripping his wrists, pinning his naked back against the window, ravishing his mouth with brutal, hungry kisses. The evening’s champagne makes Dagan giddy; blood rushes to his head–and heat, to lower places.

“Stop–no–” he gasps. “It’s wrong, I’m your secretary–”

“The only thing that could be wrong, now,” she growls, “would be stopping,” and scoops him up to carry him into the bedroom.