Billionaire Client Fucks His Wedding Planner

The candlelight flickered across the long mahogany table in Marcus Steele’s private dining room, casting golden shadows over crystal glasses and silver platters. Elena Voss adjusted the strap of her sleek black pencil skirt and tried to ignore the way her pulse hammered against her throat. At twenty-eight, she had planned fifty-three weddings for the obscenely wealthy, but none of her clients had ever looked at her like this.

Marcus Steele, thirty-two, billionaire founder of Steele Dynamics, leaned back in his chair with the lazy confidence of a man who owned half the city. His fiancée was conspicuously absent—again. He hadn’t bothered apologizing for it. Instead, his dark eyes dragged slowly down Elena’s body, lingering on the deep V of her cream silk blouse where her breasts pressed together, then lower, to the way the tight skirt hugged the curve of her ass and the long line of her legs.

“You always dress like you’re trying to get fucked by someone who isn’t your client?” he asked, voice low and rough.

Elena’s lips curved into a sharp, dangerous smile. She refused to blush. “You always stare at your wedding planner like you want to bend her over the nearest surface instead of choosing centerpieces?”

Marcus’s grin was pure sin. “Every single time she walks in looking like that.”

The air between them crackled. Neither of them mentioned the absent bride again.

Three days later, the tension had only grown thicker.

The venue walk-through was scheduled for ten p.m. because Marcus claimed his calendar was “fucking impossible” during daylight hours. Elena met him at the empty marble-and-glass event hall perched on the cliffs, the ocean roaring below. She wore the same pencil skirt, this time paired with a tighter blouse and heels that clicked authoritatively across the polished floors. She told herself it was professional. She was lying.

Marcus was waiting in the grand ballroom, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms. The moment the heavy doors closed behind her, he stalked forward.

“You’ve been wet for me since the tasting, haven’t you?” he growled, backing her against a massive marble column. His palm landed beside her head with a soft thud. “Walking around my house in that tight little skirt, pretending to be all crisp and professional while your cunt soaked your panties every time I looked at you.”