She takes a sip. “You got it with whipped cream. I’m dieting.”
I laugh. “Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to blame me for that. You said: ‘Damn it. I want the whipped cream.’”
“But I didn’t say get it for me.”
“You are being bad,” I say, sipping my white mocha and trying not to think about the first time I met Shane and I drank from his cup. “It must be that long gorgeous hair,” I add, “and you do not need to diet anyway.”
We step into the corridor outside the elevators. “You really like the hair?”
“I do,” I say. “I mean, I loved the spiky Brigitte Nielsen thing you had going on too, but this looks more natural.”
She snickers. “My fake hair looks more natural. Love it.” She pushes the elevator button and takes a drink of her coffee. “I’m glad you got me the whipped cream. Thank you.”
“Happy to fatten up my skinny friend any day. What made you change the hair?”
“Oh, you know, it was always long, but I had this bad breakup, really bad, and I’ll need drinks to tell you about it. Anyway, I had an identity crisis and chopped it off.”
I inhale, back once again to tattoo-domination hell. “I understand.”
She tilts her head. “You do?”
“Yeah. I do. I did something like that.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure drinks will be enough to share that one.”
“Oh God. Now I freaking have to know. You’re telling me. That is all there is to it.”
The elevator dings, and we both step forward only to freeze as Shane steps off the elevator, freshly shaven and dressed in a blue suit, his attention landing hard on me. And Lord, help me, he’s so damn tall, dark, and good-looking, he never fails to make me weak in the knees. He’s also now standing in front of me, smelling like spicy, woodsy male perfection, and looking at me like he wants to gobble me up. But he’s freshly showered and dressed. And yes, he’s wearing the Burberry tie that has a special meaning between us, one I know is a message to me, but at the very least, he waited until I left to go home and change.
“Let’s go to my office and talk,” he says.
“I’d rather talk tonight if you think we’ll be under the same roof.”
“Emily—”
“Tonight.” I try to step around him, but he maneuvers in front of me, and I catch a glimpse of Jessica disappearing into the elevator.
“Let’s go talk,” Shane repeats.
“I’m really upset. We do not need to do this here; your father will be here making demands at any moment.” The elevator dings again, and suddenly Derek is exiting a car.
“Well, if it isn’t the lovebirds,” he says, his voice instantly furrowing Shane’s brow.
“I’ll leave you to your brother,” I say, turning on my heel and heading back to the offices.
“Emily,” he bites out, but I keep walking. I push forward and don’t stop until I’m back at my desk, but I’m rattled, trembling even. Irritated at my lack of control, I walk into Brandon Senior’s office and shut the door. When I’m still shaken, I lean against it. Where was he? Why didn’t he take my calls?
The door opens behind me with such force, I have no option but to lift myself off it. I face forward to find Shane stepping inside. Desperate for control, I race across the room and step behind Brandon Senior’s desk.
“Your father will be here any minute,” I object as he shuts us inside and faces me.
“I’m here now. And he’ll have to wait.” He reaches over and locks the door.
CHAPTER TEN
EMILY
Shane’s across the room and around the desk before I can blink, but I’m ready. I grab his father’s chair and rotate it, putting it between us with the back against the desk. “Stay there,” I order.
“Then you come here.”
“You said you want to talk. We don’t talk when you touch me. I tried that last night and—”
“I spanked you?”
My cheeks flush. “Yes. You did.”
He moves, and before I know what’s happened, I’m on the other side of the chair with him, leaning against the desk, his big, wonderful, delicious body pressed to mine, while my hands manage to find the hard wall of his chest under his jacket. “Shane, damn it. I told you—”
“I spent the entire time I was in the shower replaying that spanking.”
“The shower you took after I left?”
“I meant to be there before you left. Who spanked you?”
“I’m upset with you, Shane, and you want to know who spanked me?”
“You’re damn right I do. It’s driving me crazy.”
“This conversation is crazy,” I say. “This is not the time or place for this.”
He lifts me and sets me on the desk, shoving the hem of my dress up my legs and then pressing my knees open, his hands settling on the lace band of my thigh-high stockings. “Who spanked you?” he repeats, stepping toward me.
“Shane—”
“Was it the professor?”
“The tattoo artist. We need to talk.”
“We are. I want to hear about the tattoo artist spanking you.”
“I hated everything about the many things I did with that man.”
His eyes narrow. “Define many things.”
“Why are you doing this now?”
“I’m feeling possessive. I’m feeling really damn possessive.”
“Be possessive in bed, our bed, the one that you should have been in last night.”
“I really like hearing you say ‘our bed.’” His thumbs make circles on the skin just outside my panties, the waves of pleasure he produces threatening the last of my clear thinking, and I grab his wrist.
“Shane. This isn’t talking.”
“No one but me will ever spank you again.”
My eyes narrow at him. “What is in your head right now?”
His eyes heat, darken. “You. Always.” He inches back and looks at me. “You’re mine. Mine to protect.” His voice is low, fierce, and he grips my panties and yanks them away. “Mine to fuck.”
I gasp and grab his shoulders. “Shane.”
His answer is to wrap his arm around my waist, pull me close, his cheek against mine, his fingers pressing into the V of my body. “Wet, just the way I like you,” he says, pressing two fingers inside me. “Wet for me. And too fucking perfect for my sanity sometimes.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” I pant out, grabbing the lapel to his suit as a sweet ache begins to build in my sex as his thumb strokes my clit.
“And no one else,” he murmurs, nipping my earlobe, “will ever touch you like this.” His fingers caress deeper inside me. “No one,” he adds, “will ever make you say their name like I want you to say mine right now. Say it.”