“I’ve been fighting a deadline on this wireframe overhaul… sometimes I get in a zone working and lose track of time.”
“It’s fine. I was just worried. I’m not mad—just hated bothering Jillian about it.” Hated bothering Jillian was a mild way of putting it. Brant and I’d set dinner plans: 6 PM at Alexander’s. I’d waited at our table for a half hour before leaving, my calls to Brant going unanswered. I had hesitated to text Jillian, my fingers finally moving across the screen purely out of concern—in case something had happened, in case he was missing. I half-expected a snarky response, something that referenced how unimportant I must be to him. But she had responded quickly and professionally.
HE’S HERE AT THE OFFICE. WILL PROBABLY WORK LATE. NO DOUBT LOST TRACK OF TIME. I’M SORRY.
The fact that she had been civil in her response only irritated me more, tipped the scales a bit in her favor, setting precedence for an act of similar civility on my part. I broke off a piece of muffin.
“Let me make it up to you.”
I watched him while chewing, blueberries mixing with sugar and flour to make a delicious combination in my mouth. “Go ahead,” I mumbled.
“Today, I’ll blow off work. Be all yours.”
I swallowed the bite. “But you’re under deadline. You’ve been working for three weeks to make—”
“I don’t care.” He reached over the table and gripped my hand. “You are more important, and I have set aside a full day of groveling to make up for last night.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A full day? That’s a hefty commitment, Mr. Sharp.”
He met my eyes. “One I’m ready to make.”
I leaned over, lowered my voice. “And what do you have planned in this day full of groveling?”
He tugged my hand up to his lips. “I thought I’d start by us dropping by my condo. I have some ideas of ways to make it up to you.”
“Sexy ways?” I whispered playfully.
He leaned forward, a gentle hand pulling on the back of my neck until his mouth was against my ear. “Ways that will make your legs tremble around my neck. Ways that have me so hard and ready that I may not make it all the way there. Ways that will have you screaming my name and—”
“Let’s go.” I jerked to standing, the legs of my chair squeaking as they slid across the floor. Pulling on his hand, I bee-lined for the door.
Chapter 8
Brant’s downtown condo was his sex den, the place where high-class hookers had entertained my man and satisfied every carnal desire he’d had over the last two decades. Yes, I was now standing in a room where other women had moaned his name, serviced his cock. I could care less. Because the man standing before me, his eyes dark, body clenched, fingers stripping the clothes from my body… I could see into his soul. He didn’t have eyes for anyone else in the world. He wasn’t thinking, picturing, wanting, anything but what I had to offer. He lifted me, setting me on the bar top, his hands sliding my shorts off my legs, removing my sandals, caressing the skin as his hands journeyed back. He knelt on the floor, looked up into my eyes, and pushed on the inside of my knees, spreading my legs until I was open, his eyes dropping, the new height of him at a perfect level.
“Brant,” I moaned, the exposure too much, the open stance causing air to hit places that were typically hidden.
“Be quiet, baby.” He slid his hands up my inner thighs, my hands finding their way to his full head of hair the same time his right hand brushed over me. I inhaled, opening my legs further, and he groaned slightly as he ran a finger over the lips of my sex, outlining the folds with a whisper soft touch, the teasing brush causing my body to react, to cry for him in the only way it knew, moisture collecting, his breath hissing as he pushed a finger partially in. He looked up, his head moving beneath my hand, his eyes coming up to mine, the eye contact held as he pulled his finger out and tasted my juices, his eyes closing briefly. “God, you taste so sweet. I want to bury my face in you, Lana.” He reestablished eye contact, his finger returning, teasing the outside of me, soft strokes breaking me apart as he caressed every bit of me, the pad of his fingers exploring, testing, circling, and pushing, my back arching, mouth dropping as I stared at him, unable to pull my eyes from the scene of his touch.