Not with his hard body at my back, his breath on my skin, and his mouth inches away from mine.
His hand squeezed my waist as it slowly glided up my stomach, stopping just below the round of my breasts. His thumb gently swept the swell before disappearing.
My lids drooped at the contact, and my head fell back against his shoulder. As I gave him my weight, he shifted his hand from my neck around to my throat.
“There she is. My sweet Lissy,” he praised softly.
As much as I needed to keep my distance, I knew it was a futile. I’d never been able to stay away from him.
And that obviously hadn’t changed.
He was amazing in bed, and I was positive that hadn’t changed, either.
I hadn’t been with anyone since our divorce. And, the year before it, I had been pregnant, recovering, or lost in despair. Sex hadn’t been very high on our list of priorities.
Maybe we could remedy this now. At least physically.
Trusting him with my body doesn’t mean trusting him with my heart.
Or so I told myself during my “it’s okay to sleep with your ex-husband” mental pep talk.
It was a successful one too, because seconds later, I threw in the towel with a silent, Fuck it.
Arching my back, I pressed my ass against his hips and circled. I heard his groan just as I closed my eyes and set aim on his mouth.
Only he didn’t meet me halfway.
He didn’t meet me at all.
He released me and walked away, saying, “I wish I could say the same about your car. It was a piece of shit when we bought it. It’s worse now. You need something new.”
I blinked.
What had just happened?
Oh, that’s right. I got shut the fuck down by my ex-husband after he’d basically fondled my boobs and pulled my hair.
Roman Leblanc strikes again.
“Get out!” I growled. (Yes, growled. Apparently, it was contagious.) “Yep,” he replied like I’d asked him to pass the salt. He never looked back as he headed out the door, but he paused just before closing it long enough to call over his shoulder, “After our meeting, I have to hit the office for an hour or so today. I’ll bring back dinner.”
He would not be bringing dinner back that night because I’d be staying at the dodgy motel two counties over. I didn’t inform him of this information by chasing him down the stairs the way I would have liked. Instead, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, all the while cursing my libido.
Our attorneys had nothing. Not. One. Fucking. Thing. The cops weren’t allowed to tell us the name of the other couple involved so we could deal with it privately. We had to sit on our hands and wait for the APD to feed us more information as it became available—if it became available.
I was beyond frustrated by this news, but Elisabeth was notably distraught. My attempts to soothe her only made it worse.
She was probably pissed at me for having shot her down in the bedroom when she’d all but offered me her naked body on a silver platter. But fuck. I’d had fifteen minutes before Whit and Kaplin arrived. There was no way, the first time I had her in what felt like an eternity—but probably calculated closer to three years—it was going to be in a quickie against the closet wall. Though, after that little grind down with her ass, I’d been tempted.
After our attorneys gave us a full briefing and left, Elisabeth locked herself away in the second bedroom, stating that she had work to do. She probably did, but the way she’d said it was more like, Get the fuck out of my house.
I gave her that because I did, in fact, have work to do. And the sooner I got to the office and got it done, the sooner I could get back over to her place and finish what she had started.
It was a rare day when I didn’t wear a suit to the office. I hated that shit, all stiff and as comfortable as a cardboard straitjacket, but if I wanted people to believe I belonged behind the massive desk in the corner office, I had to look the part.
After my morning, though, I hadn’t felt like going back to my apartment before heading in for a couple of hours. So, in a pair of jeans that were barely held together by a thread and a T-shirt that wasn’t much better, I exited the elevator at Leblanc Industries.
“Mr. Leblanc?” my secretary said with surprise.
Just as fast, a man repeated, “Mr. Leblanc?”
I stopped as he moved toward me. “Can I help you?”
He was around my age, well-built, and exuding authority, so it didn’t surprise me in the least when he flipped a badge my way. “Agent Heath Light, DEA. Can we have a word in private?” He tucked a manila folder under his arm in order to extend a hand.
I often had members of the force in the office; I made bulletproof material for a living. But, with my luck, Simon Wells had sent this guy by to harass me into selling him a load of Rubicon.
I shook his outstretched hand and said, “Listen, I’m really busy today. Can you make an appointment for next week? I’d be happy to have a sit-down and discuss numbers with—”
“This is personal, Roman.”
Personal.
Roman.