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"Take off your shirt."
Amelia Sinclair didn't blink as she leaned back against the leather of her penthouse chaise, sipping from a crystal glass of wine. Her voice was cool, clipped, and every inch dripping with command.
Grayson Hale raised a brow. "This how you start all your interviews, princess?"
"You're not here for an interview. You're here to play husband. You'll need to look the part," she said, her gaze raking over his worn jeans and faded hoodie like they offended her. "I don't fuck ugly."
He let out a low laugh, deep and smoky. "Good thing I'm not being hired to fuck you. Just knock you up, right?"
That made her smile—wicked, challenging. "Oh, we'll be fucking, Grayson. A baby doesn't make itself. Unless you want to do this in a lab like a coward?"
His jaw tightened. She could see the muscle tick just below the shadow of stubble. "You want it raw?"
"I want it done. You'll give me an heir. I'll give you five million dollars and freedom from whatever hell you're living in. One year, no strings, no feelings, and no right to touch me when the contract ends. Understand?"
Grayson took a step closer. His body heat, male and rough, pressed against her space without touching. "Understand this, Sinclair—I don't come cheap. And once I'm inside you…" he leaned down, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear, "you'll forget you ever set rules."
Amelia's breath hitched, just barely. Her thighs clenched beneath the slit of her silk dress. She hated how fast he was under her skin.
She hated how much she wanted to test him.
"You're broke. You'll do what I say."
"Yeah?" He smirked. "Say it again when you're begging me not to stop."
She should've slapped him. Walked away. Hired someone else.
But something about the storm in his eyes made her pause.
For the first time in her perfect, controlled life, Amelia wasn't sure who was hiring who.
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