THE CRAZY PROPOSITION

Brett didn't say a word the whole way back to the penthouse.

He sat in the back of the black Maybach in his charcoal pinstripe skirt suit, his long legs crossed at the knee, his black So Kate 100mm heels planted neatly on the floor mat, his hands folded tight in his lap over the three-carat diamond. His light pink blouse was still perfectly pressed, his sleek honey blonde hair still perfect, his rose lipstick still intact.

He looked exactly like the sexiest secretary of all time. He felt like he'd been undressed in public.

Lance didn't touch him in the car except for his big warm hand covering both of Brett's cold ones, his thumb stroking over Brett's knuckles where Richard had stroked them.

The moment the penthouse door locked behind them, Brett walked straight to the master bedroom, kicked off his Louboutins one by one — thud, thud on the marble — and started unbuttoning his jacket with shaking fingers.

Lance was right behind him, shrugging out of his own suit jacket, loosening his tie.

"Hey," Lance said softly, catching Brett's wrists as Brett fumbled the third tiny button on his pink blouse. "Hey, baby. Look at me."

Brett looked up, and the tears he'd been holding since the 88th floor finally spilled, hot and fast, cutting through his perfect foundation, making his big blue eyes shine.

"He looked at me like I was for sale," Brett whispered, his soft alto cracking completely, his sharp canines digging into his lower lip. "Like he was pricing me."

Lance made a low, furious sound deep in his chest and pulled Brett into his arms, pinstripe jacket and all, crushing Brett's D cup breasts against his chest, holding his tiny twenty-three inch waist tight.

"I know," Lance murmured into Brett's hair, his voice shaking with rage. "I saw it. I'm going to kill him."

Brett laughed wetly against Lance's shirt, his hands fisting in the fabric. "You can't kill your dad, handsome. It's bad for business."

"Watch me," Lance growled, and Brett laughed again, real this time.

Lance pulled back just enough to cup Brett's face, his thumbs wiping away the mascara tears with infinite care. "Take it off," he said quietly. "All of it. That suit. The pantyhose. The... everything."

Brett nodded, his breath hitching. He needed it off. He needed to not feel like Richard's eyes were still on him.

He peeled the pinstripe jacket off first, letting Lance take it, then slowly unbuttoned the pink blouse, his pink nails working down the front, revealing the pale pink lace bra underneath, lifting his breasts high. He shrugged it off his shoulders, let it fall.

Lance's eyes darkened, but not with lust like his father's — with love, with reverence, with fury on Brett's behalf.

Brett reached back and unzipped the tight pencil skirt, the zipper hissing down, and shimmied it over his hips, stepping out of it carefully. He stood there in the middle of the bedroom in just his bra and panties and garter belt and black opaque pantyhose, the tucking underwear underneath making him perfectly smooth and flat.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the pantyhose and the tucking briefs together and peeled them both down in one motion, his cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment even though Lance had seen everything.

The relief was instant. Physical. He could breathe again.

Lance knelt down without a word and helped him step out of the hose, his big hands gentle on Brett's ankles, on his calves, then stood and unhooked the garter belt, letting it fall too.

Brett stood in just his pink lace bra and matching panties, his long golden legs bare, his 129-pound body trembling, and felt more naked than if he'd been completely undressed.

"Better?" Lance whispered, pulling Brett back into his arms, his hands warm on Brett's bare back.

"Better," Brett breathed, melting into him.

Lance led him by the hand out onto the terrace, where the huge infinity jacuzzi was already steaming, the Singapore skyline glittering all around them, the water bubbling and hot.

"Debrief," Lance said, with a small, tired smile that was trying to be a joke.

Brett looked at the jacuzzi, then down at his pink lingerie, then back at Lance, and his dangerous smile — the real one — finally flickered back.

"Double meaning?" Brett purred, his soft girl voice going low and teasing despite the tears still drying on his cheeks.

Lance groaned and pulled his own shirt over his head in one motion. "You're impossible."

Brett unhooked his bra, let it fall, then slipped his panties down his legs, stepping out of them completely naked except for his diamond, and slid into the hot water with a soft gasp that turned into a moan as the heat hit his sore muscles.

Lance followed him in wearing just his black boxer briefs, sitting down across from Brett, then immediately pulling Brett across the bubbling water into his lap, Brett's long legs wrapping around his waist under the water, his D cup breasts pressed against Lance's chest, his wet blonde hair slicked back.

They just held each other for a long time, the water churning around them, the city lights blurring through Brett's tears.

"He's suspicious," Brett whispered finally, his head tucked under Lance's chin, his hands playing with the hair at the nape of Lance's neck. "He thinks I'm a gold digger. Or an escort. Or... something."

"He thinks you're too beautiful to be real," Lance corrected, his big hands stroking up and down Brett's wet back, over the curve of his ass under the water. "And he's right. You are too beautiful. But you're also mine."

Brett lifted his head, his blue eyes wet and fierce. "He looked at me like he wanted me, Lance."

"I know," Lance said, his jaw tight, his blue eyes dark with something dangerous. "And if he ever touches you again, ever looks at you like that again, I will walk away from every dollar, every share, every building with his name on it. You hear me?"

Brett stared at him, at this man who was willing to burn a billion-dollar empire for him, and felt the last of the cold, oily feeling from Richard's office wash away in the hot water.

He leaned in and kissed Lance, slow and deep and grateful, his hands framing Lance's face, his diamond catching the terrace lights and throwing sparks across the water.

"I don't need you to burn it down," Brett whispered against his lips, his soft alto full of love and steel. "I need you to let me help you keep it. We're a team, remember? All business."

Lance laughed, low and surprised, and pulled Brett tighter against him, the water sloshing around them. "All business, huh? Is that what we're calling this?" His hands slid lower under the water, cupping Brett's ass, pulling their hips together.

Brett gasped as he felt Lance hard against him under the water, and felt his own body answer instantly, the maximum hormones making him ache, making him want, even after the worst day.

"Debrief," Brett breathed, grinding down just a little, just enough to make them both groan, his head falling back, his wet hair dripping. "We're debriefing."

"Right," Lance growled, his mouth finding Brett's throat, kissing the pulse point, then lower, to the top of his breast, "strictly professional."

Brett laughed, bright and free and completely himself again, tangling his hands in Lance's dark wet hair, arching into his mouth as the Singapore skyline glittered around them and the jacuzzi bubbles hid everything below the water.

"Best debrief ever," Brett whispered, and pulled Lance up for another kiss.

And 68 floors below, in a glass tower, Richard Sullivan poured himself a whiskey and couldn't get the image of his son's fiancée in that tight pinstripe skirt out of his head...