Two nights ago in the club, he had f*ck
ed her hard, deep, and to the root. Just the sight of him rubbing a towel through his hair, each motion flexing shockingly large biceps for a man who sat at a desk all day, made her nipples bud to the hardness of bullets. How could they go back to employer/employee? The fantasy she could never indulge in again? Frankly, she was tired of being good. One night with Brody had unleashed that inner vixen she had crushed for the last year while she tried to redirect her life. Look where that had gotten her.
Homeless. In debt up to her stiffening nipples and stripping for her supper. Worried sick about her drug-addicted sister and her cat. Her life a train wreck squared.
This should have been her time. She wanted something of her own, something her father and Daisy couldn’t take away from her. The Stricklands might be white trash who thought they were better, but dammit, they were. Surely what’s inside decides the game: the needs, the wants, the ambition. Ten years after she had made her first deposit into the savings account that would fund her education and life plans, she was here. Only to have it taken from her protecting the one person she loved most in the world.
Perhaps she needed to spare some of that love for herself.
She wanted to take her pleasure where she could find it. All she had was a week. Less than. This job that she really enjoyed—this life she had been starting to love—would be kaput once she figured out her escape plan.
She met his dark gaze directly. “If you’re going to use me to get off, there’s no good reason why I shouldn’t return the favor.”
His eyes widened further. “Quid pro quo?”
“Exactly.”
He stalked toward her. She held her ground.
Stopping inches from her, he ran a finger up her arm and hooked the hem of the T-shirt she was wearing, a frayed Texas A&M tee that had a rip in the shoulder and had clearly been washed too many times. It smelled of him.
“Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in some time,” she lied. “You?”
“Terribly.”
“Rough night with Mr. Smythe-Osborne?”
That sexy mouth twitched. “Not half as bad as what came later.”
“Oh?”
“I lay awake in my bed wishing you were in it. Wishing I were buried balls-deep in you and you were riding my cock to oblivion. I jacked off twice. Still wasn’t enough.” He dropped his hand, stepped back. “Sorry, your honesty a moment ago inspired some ill-advised honesty of my own. Less than twenty-four hours, and it’s already more difficult than I imagined.”
“Doesn’t have to be.” Moving in, she placed a hand on his still-damp chest. Its hardness flexed beneath her fingertips. “I heard you saying my name in there.”
He shut his eyes briefly. “More Human Resources infractions.”
“Very inappropriate. Possibly”—she paused—“illegal.”
“What do I have to do to keep you quiet?”
That made her smile. “Well, I’m sure I could blow Score Property wide open with the secrets I’m holding in. How Mr. Dade sleeps in his cowboy boots on the sofa in his office and murmurs his wife’s name. Or how Mr. Cross is addicted to Goobers. I mean of all the candies, that’s pretty damning right there. But not quite as bad as the boss jerking off to his assistant.”
He gave that the consideration it deserved. “You could blackmail me. Make me give you anything or do whatever you want.”
She found it interesting how he tried to recast the dynamic to give her the power. Not especially believable, but she appreciated the effort.
“What will shut me up, Mr. Kane? Got any ideas?”
“One or three.”
The moment stretched as they both thought about what would make her quiet.
Your mouth on mine, your cock between my lips. That’d shut me up real quick.
Except it wouldn’t for long. She’d be a moaning, begging fool as soon as their skin connected in dirty, sweaty nakedness. All the heat previously flushing her skin in embarrassment now rushed between her legs. Pounding started up in her veins, the throb of memory at what he’d done to her the other night. What he’d done while thinking of her a few minutes ago.
How it still wasn’t enough.
“Brody, we’re both too keyed up around each other, especially after what happened at the club. All joking aside, you’re not taking advantage of me, not if I’m touching myself and wishing my fingers were your cock.”
“I imagine that would make typing difficult.”
She stared, wanting to laugh.
“If your fingers were replaced by my cock,” he clarified, “it would be hard to type.”
“Oh, I got it. I’m just amazed at you making a joke. You’re always so serious.”
His forehead crimped, remembering something. Perhaps a time before, when he wasn’t so serious.