Good Girl, Bad Ledger

An exclusive bonus chapter by Isla Wilde

This scene takes place one month after the epilogue.
It is explicit, graphic, and entirely too filthy for Amazon. You’re welcome.

The Audit

⚠️ Content Warning: This scene contains extremely explicit sexual content including: praise kink, possessive/ownership language, desk sex, orgasm control, dirty talk, marking/biting, D/s dynamics, and detailed intimate scenes. Significantly more explicit than the main novel. For readers 18+ only.

The invoice was wrong.

Not dramatically wrong — not Lakeview Holdings wrong, not $14.7 million wrong, not the kind of wrong that toppled firms and launched federal investigations. Just a duplicated vendor code in the accounts payable module. Routine. Boring. The kind of error that took thirty seconds to fix and gave Claire the same clean jolt of satisfaction it always did, because numbers that balanced were the closest thing to a religious experience she’d ever had.

She marked it in red. Typed a note. Saved the file.

It was 6:47 PM on a Wednesday. Her office — her office, six months old, still smelling faintly of the paint she’d chosen herself — was quiet. The desk lamp cast a warm circle of light across the walnut surface. Her pen cup sat at the right of her monitor: black, blue, red, left to right. Some things didn’t change. She didn’t want them to.

She heard the door.

Not a knock. The door opening — the particular sound of someone who had a key and didn’t need permission. Footsteps in the small reception area. The soft click of the outer door closing. Then silence, followed by the measured tread of expensive shoes on hardwood.

Victor appeared in her office doorway.

He was in a suit — charcoal, no tie, the collar open. He’d come from somewhere that required the suit and hadn’t gone home to change first. His hair was slightly disheveled in a way that meant he’d been running his hand through it, which meant he’d been thinking, which meant whatever he’d been doing today had required the kind of sustained attention that left physical evidence.

He leaned against the doorframe. Crossed his arms. Looked at her.

“Working late,” he said. Not a question.

“Quarterly close for the Westrake account. I’m almost done.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“An hour ago I found a duplicated vendor code. Now I’m actually almost done.”

He pushed off the doorframe. Walked toward her desk. His stride was the one she knew — long, unhurried, the walk of a man who covered ground without appearing to try. He stopped on the other side of her desk and looked down at her screen, at the spreadsheet, at the red notation in the margin.

“You found an error,” he said.

“A minor one.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I am not glowing.”

“You glow when you catch errors. It’s the same face you make when —” He stopped. His mouth curved at one corner. “Never mind.”

“When what?”

“When you come.”

The word landed in her stomach like a lit match. She looked up at him — at the curve of his mouth, the heat in his eyes, the particular quality of stillness that she’d learned to recognize as Victor about ninety seconds from doing something that would ruin her ability to concentrate for the rest of the evening.

“I’m working,” she said.

“You were working. Now you’re being audited.”

“That’s not how audits work.”

“It’s how this one works.” He walked around the desk. Her chair swiveled to track him — her body turning toward his gravity automatically, without consulting her brain, which was still trying to hold the professional line and losing ground by the second.

He stood behind her. His hands landed on her shoulders. Thumbs pressing into the knots she’d built over eight hours of screen time, and the groan that came out of her was involuntary and embarrassing and deeply, viscerally satisfying.

“You’re tense,” he said.

“I’m focused.”

“You’re tense.” His thumbs moved higher. Into the muscles at the base of her neck, the place where stress accumulated like sediment. “You’ve been here since seven this morning. You’ve eaten —” he glanced at the granola bar wrapper in her trash can — “barely. And you’re still staring at a spreadsheet like it owes you money.”

“Technically, the client owes me money. The spreadsheet is just the intermediary.”

His mouth found her ear. Close — not touching, just breathing. The warmth of his breath on the shell of her ear and the ridge of her jaw and the place behind her earlobe where she was absurdly sensitive, which he knew, because he’d memorized every inch of her the way she memorized balance sheets.

“Close the laptop,” he said.

“Victor —”

“Close. The laptop.”

She closed the laptop.

He spun her chair. She was facing him now — looking up at his face, at the jaw she’d traced with her tongue more times than she could count, at the gray-green eyes that were currently the color of a storm front over Lake Michigan.

He put his hands on the armrests. Leaned down. Caged her in the chair with his body, his face inches from hers, his mouth close enough that she could feel the shape of his words against her lips.

“I’ve been in meetings for nine hours,” he said. “I’ve listened to three attorneys, two investors, and a risk consultant who uses the word synergy unironically. I have been patient. I have been professional. I have been a model of restraint.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m in my accountant’s office, and she’s wearing my favorite blouse, and I have her key, and I’m done being restrained.”

He kissed her. Not softly. Not as a question. A claiming — his mouth on hers, hot and open, one hand leaving the armrest to fist in the hair at the base of her skull. She tasted coffee and want and the particular flavor of a man who’d been thinking about this all day and had walked through her door with the single-minded intention of taking her apart.

She grabbed his tie — he wasn’t wearing a tie. She grabbed his collar instead. Pulled him closer. He made a sound against her mouth that vibrated through her chest and settled between her legs like an electric current.

He pulled her out of the chair. She stood on unsteady legs and he lifted her — hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist — and set her on the desk. Her laptop slid to the side. Her pen cup wobbled. She caught it on reflex, because some instincts superseded even lust, and he laughed against her mouth.

“You saved the pens.”

“The pens are important.”

“More important than this?” He rolled his hips against her. She felt him — hard, thick, pressing against the seam of her trousers with a precision that made her eyes roll back.

“Equally important,” she managed. “In different categories.”

He unbuttoned her blouse. One button at a time, his fingers deft, pulling the fabric apart to reveal the black bra underneath — the nice one, the one she’d put on this morning without consciously deciding why, and which now felt like the most prescient wardrobe choice of her career.

“You wore this for me,” he said, tracing the lace edge with his fingertip.

“I wore it because it was clean.”

“Liar.” He pulled the cup down. Took her nipple into his mouth. The heat of him — the wet, deliberate suction — arced through her like a wire had been connected, and she arched on the desk and gripped the edge and made a sound that was audible in the reception area, which was empty, which didn’t matter, which she didn’t care about even slightly.

He worked her other breast. Then kissed down her sternum, her stomach, his hands working her trousers open, pulling them down her legs with the efficient focus of a man on a schedule that had no room for hesitation. Her underwear followed — black, matching, definitely not a coincidence — and she was sitting on her own desk in her open blouse and nothing else while the most dangerous man she’d ever met knelt between her knees.

“This desk,” he said, looking up at her from between her thighs with an expression that could have been worshipful or predatory and was, in fact, both. “Your desk. In your office. With your name on the door.”

“What about it?”

“I want you to remember that every time you sit here and find an error and make that face — the face you’re making right now — this is what happened afterward.”

He put his mouth on her.

No preamble. No teasing. His tongue flat against her clit, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wider. She fell back on her elbows and knocked a stack of client folders to the floor and did not care. His mouth was hot and thorough and achingly precise — circles, then long strokes, then the flat pressure that made her vision strobe — and she could feel herself climbing fast because he’d been thinking about this all day and so had she, she’d just been better at hiding it.

“Victor — fuck —”

He slid two fingers inside her. Curled them. Found the spot he always found because he was a man who memorized things that mattered, and this — the exact angle, the exact pressure, the exact rhythm that made her body ignite — was something he’d committed to permanent memory.

“That’s it,” he said against her. The vibration of his voice on her clit made her gasp. “That’s my good girl. Show me.”

She came on his mouth with a cry she muffled against her own forearm. The orgasm tore through her in sharp, convulsive waves, her body clenching around his fingers, her heels pressing into his back. He didn’t stop — worked her through it with his tongue, softer now, coaxing, extending the aftershocks until she was trembling and gasping and the desk was the only thing keeping her from dissolving.

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked at her spread across her own desk like a forensic exhibit.

“Turn over,” he said.

She turned. Lay flat on the walnut surface — the same surface where she reconciled accounts and took client calls and built the practice she’d dreamed of — and felt his hands on her hips, positioning her, pulling her to the edge.

She heard his belt. The zipper. The tear of a condom wrapper — he’d come prepared, because Victor Vale did not do anything without a plan, including showing up at his accountant’s office at 6:47 PM with the explicit intention of fucking her on company furniture.

He pushed inside her from behind. One long, deep stroke that made them both groan — a guttural, synchronized sound that filled the office and bounced off the walls of a room with her name on the door.

“You built this,” he said, pulling back and driving in again. “This office. This practice. This —” another thrust, deeper — “life.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“On your own terms.”

“Yes.”

“With your own hands.” He reached around. Found her clit. Circled it with two fingers while he fucked her, the dual stimulation so overwhelming she had to grip the opposite edge of the desk to keep from being pushed across it. “These hands. The hands that catch errors and trace fraud and hold me at night like I’m the only thing in the world that adds up.”

“Victor —”

“You’re extraordinary.” His voice was wrecked. Raw. The composure gone, the architecture collapsed, just a man inside the woman he loved saying things he’d been holding all day. “You know that? You sit at this desk and you build things and every time I watch you work I want to take you apart just so I can see you put yourself back together.”

She came again. Harder than the first time — a full-body convulsion that made her cry out his name against the walnut and clench around him so tight he swore, a raw “fuck, Claire” that was the most honest prayer he’d ever spoken.

He followed. Deep inside her, his hands bruising on her hips, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as he came with a sound that was almost anguished — the sound of a man surrendering something he’d been holding on to, letting go because the woman underneath him had taught him that letting go didn’t mean losing control. It meant trusting someone else to hold the weight.

After.

She lay on the desk with her cheek pressed to the wood and his body draped over hers and the client folders still on the floor and the pen cup — miraculously — still upright.

“You wrecked my office,” she said.

“I audited your office. There’s a difference.”

“What are the findings?”

He kissed the back of her neck. “Findings are favorable. No material misstatements. The accountant is performing above expectations in all categories.”

“All categories?”

“Every single one.” He pulled her upright. Turned her around. Cupped her face in his hands and kissed her — slowly this time, without urgency, the kiss of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use it. “Take me home.”

She looked at the desk. At the folders on the floor. At the spreadsheet waiting behind her closed laptop. At the office she’d built with her own name on the door and her own money in the account and her own pens in the cup — black, blue, red, left to right — and at the man standing in front of her who’d walked into her life when the numbers didn’t add up and stayed because she was the only person who could make them.

“Your place or mine?” she asked.

“Ours.” He said it simply. Like it had always been the answer. “I believe you owe me a response to a consolidation proposal.”

She laughed. Picked up her bag. Took his hand.

“The answer is yes,” she said.

They left together. She locked the door — her door, her office, her key — and walked into the evening with the man she’d chosen, six blocks from a penthouse that was about to become theirs, with a leather-bound ledger on a nightstand and a mother’s memory in a frame and a life that added up.

Every number. Every column. Every entry.

Balanced.

Thank you for reading Good Girl, Bad Ledger. If you loved Claire and Victor’s story, please consider leaving a review — it helps more readers find the book.