He’s letting me decide, she realized. Whatever she was feeling was nothing like the manic passion of the car, and that alarmed her. This kiss was softer. Nicer.
And every instinct was screaming that “soft” with William Thatcher was dangerous. “Soft” wasn’t what she was here for. She wanted hot, animalistic sex on the floor of his bachelor pad, not soft, heady kisses in his homey kitchen.
Determined to banish all traces of tenderness, Brynn wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to her. Her lips were firmer this time, and she nipped at his bottom lip. He stiffened, and for a fraction of a second she had the horrible sensation that he was going to pull back. Push her away.
He doesn’t want me, she realized in horror.
Then Will moved so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. Sliding one arm around her back, he hoisted her onto the kitchen counter, even as his other hand slid around the back of her head.
She closed her eyes and waited for the crush of his lips, but his fingers clenched in her hair and held her still. His eyes had gone so dark they were almost black, and he stared into hers with an unreadable expression.
“You’ll hate me if we do this,” he said gruffly.
“I already hate you.”
“Then why are you here?”
She almost laughed at that. She had her legs around his waist and he had to ask? “Isn’t that kind of obvious?”
“Just sex?”
“Yes. And just this one time. And, Will…if you tell anyone about this, I will kill you.”
His head tilted back slightly, and something unidentifiable flashed across his face before he resumed his usual bored expression.
“Well, if it’s one-time sex you want, you’ve come to the right place,” he said with an evil little grin.
Then his mouth closed over hers, and she resigned herself to the inevitable.
She was going to become one of William Thatcher’s women.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Of all the ways Gray expected to be spending his first truly sunny Saturday in Seattle, it wasn’t at a company picnic.
A picnic that he was supposedly hosting.
With the help of his assistant.
Who was supposedly just his friend.
And yet here he was on a gorgeous late-May afternoon, surrounded by balloon bouquets, blow-up obstacle courses, beanbag tosses, and the spouses and children of his employees.
It should have been a disaster.
But as usual, Sophie had been right. Everyone seemed to be loving it. He’d lost count of the number of times that someone had clapped him on the back with the affirmation that Brayburn Luxuries was an even better place to work now that it was under Gray’s considerate care.
Wives had simpered at him, grateful that in a world of corporate schmucks with no soul and no family, that they were lucky enough to belong to a “work family” that respected and supported the homelife.
Gray hadn’t bothered to explain that he’d had nothing to do with it. That every last detail, from DJ down to the corn on the cob, had been masterminded by the world’s biggest people-loving tornado.
Sophie.
He looked around for his erstwhile assistant, hoping she’d see that he was smiling and shaking hands just like she’d instructed. While lending half an ear to some hyper little man from finance, he finally spotted Sophie over by the games tent.
Yes, she’d set up a games tent for a three-hour event. And yes, it was ridiculous.
But damn if people weren’t loving it.
His plastered-on smile faltered as he saw who she was talking to.
As if it wasn’t enough that Jeff Andrews had become a permanent fixture at Sophie’s desk over the past couple of weeks, it would seem that he needed to drool over Gray’s assistant at work events as well.
Since they were friends, Sophie had felt the need to explain that Jeff had just finalized a messy divorce and was in need of a friend. Sophie, being Sophie, had taken Jeff under her wing in an effort to “distract him from his pain.”
Gray, being a man, was reasonably sure that the main focus of Jeff’s personal life at the moment had nothing to do with missing his ex and everything to do with coaxing a sympathetic Sophie into bed. He narrowed his eyes as Jeff playfully tugged at Sophie’s ponytail.
Flirting with coworkers, especially subordinates, was unprofessional and lowbrow.
He promptly ignored the voice in his head that whispered, Hypocrite.
“…and that’s how my wife and I learned that athlete’s foot was contagious!” the bumbling employee from finance was saying, with a proud grin at having captivated the CEO’s attention for all this time.
“That’s, um…that’s…” Why the hell were they talking about this? And what was this man’s name again?
“Oh, there’s my wife now!” the athlete’s foot expert said proudly. “Keri! Keri! Over here, babe! I want you to meet Gray!” He blanched for a moment. “It’s cool if I call you Gray, right?”
No, it’s absolutely not cool. “Sure,” he said weakly. “Call me Gray.”