“What?” My speech is muffled by the huge bite of pizza stuffed in my mouth.
“The pants I put out. You decided to not wear them?”
I shrug. “They were too big. I figured the shirt covered the important parts.”
“Okay,” he says. “No problem.” He swipes the napkin across his mouth before placing it onto the counter. Then he slips off his jacket, throws it onto a nearby stool, and unclips his silver cufflinks before placing them next to the pizza box. While keeping his eyes locked onto me, he removes his tie and slowly begins popping open the black-enamel buttons on his dress shirt.
The temperature in the apartment suddenly skyrockets.
It takes effort to swallow as I watch him. “Uh ... what’s happening?”
“I’m taking off my shirt.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve apparently reached the portion of the evening where we get semi-naked to torture the other person.”
He pulls off his shirt and throws it onto the stool with his jacket, and I’ll admit it, I gape. He looks at me coolly as he goes back to eating, as if he can’t tell I’m being engulfed in the most scorching bout of lust to ever be felt by a human female.
Sweet Hot-Bodied Moses.
I’ve seen glimpses of his naked torso before now, but never the whole thing. And here he is, standing there wearing only his slim-cut dinner suit pants and a pissed-off expression, and I can’t remember a single reason why I haven’t licked him yet. I’m so turned on, my entire head could be on fire right now, and I wouldn’t even notice.
His body is divine. Lean, hard pecs, beautiful arms, abs for days, and those amazing little muscles on the sides of his ribs that you just know would look like tiny waterfalls when he takes a shower.
I can feel my mouth hanging open, but I don’t have the focus to do anything about it.
Jesus.
Who knew eating pizza would require so many muscles to bulge and flex? It’s mesmerizing.
He notes my expression and smiles while chewing. “Are you done eating, Miss Tate? Or are you just hungry for something else now?” I don’t understand how his face can do absolutely nothing and yet say so much.
Through sheer unwillingness to let my attraction dictate my actions, I pull my gaze away from him and go back to my pizza, which doesn’t help banish the urge to eat the rest of my pie straight off his abs.
We chow down in silence for a while, both of us stealing glances when we think the other isn’t looking, and even though the penthouse is the most spacious apartment I’ve ever been in, the tension in the air makes it feel tiny.
How had it come to this? I’ve never wanted to sleep with a man as much as I want to sleep with Max. I want it so much, I feel ill. My stomach is twisting around itself, my skin is hot, my heart is racing like I’ve just sprinted a few miles, and my brain is fuzzy with a dizzying rush of hormones. The worst part is that, despite my earlier protestations, I’m seriously considering asking him to kiss me ... and not just on my mouth.
I think about how he’d taste as I stare at the thick muscles of his neck. Would he be gentle? Rough? Maybe a bit of both? I shift my attention to the delectable roundness of his shoulders; the plump curve of his biceps; the gentle slopes of his forearms. How long could I kiss him before my body screamed at me for more? A few minutes? Judging by my current state, it would take seconds, maybe less. I stare at his broad chest and taut stomach then become entranced by the angled grooves above his hipbones, the ones right where his pants are sitting. That leads me to notice that the front of his pants is bulging. Could it be he’s just as aroused as I am? And if he is, how can this possibly be anything but disastrous for both of us and our so-called professionalism?
“Hey.” He bends over until his face is in my line of sight. “Eyes up here, missy.” When he straightens, I finish my last piece of pizza and wipe my face and hands.
“Got any alcohol?” I ask. I desperately need something to take the edge off my emotions. Staying down at this end of the island is getting more and more difficult.
“Nope. But I do have some soda.” He goes to the fridge and gets out two bottles of Coke. “Why are you so determined to self-medicate around me? Or is it just the way you deal with life?” When he reaches into an overhead cabinet to get glasses, I marvel how his back flexes and the firm roundness of his butt in those snug pants. “You chug caffeine to stimulate you during the day and binge on alcohol at night. Does it help to numb you from the burning need to connect with someone on more than just a physical level?”
I laugh as he grabs ice from the freezer and fills the glasses. “And here I was thinking it was just my nan and sister who enjoyed browbeating me about my love life.”
After pouring the soda, he walks over and hands me a glass. “You realize that people only browbeat you because they care, right?”
I look down at the bubbles as they rise to the surface and pop. “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal that I don’t want a relationship. It’s insane how society views people who are conscientiously single. If I’d gotten married to some loser and divorced him by now, no one would say a word. But a never-attached twenty-five-year-old is like a mythical harbinger of doom.”
He leans against the island and crosses his arms over his chest. “So, you’re telling me that you’re happy, and determined to go through life alone?”
“I’ve done pretty well so far. I don’t need another person to make me complete.”
“Not needing someone and not letting yourself need someone are two different things. I’m not sure you know the difference.”
“Then why don’t you educate me? I know you want to.”
He leans forward. “One is called independence. The other is denial. Humans need love and affection. We’re pack animals. We’re not designed to be alone.”
“I like being alone. There’s a certain peace in solitude.”
“I agree. But are you sure you’re not confusing solitude for loneliness? All animals need physical contact to feel love. Is that why you have sex with strangers? So you can pretend your need for affection is being fulfilled?”
I stare him down and try to think. I’m not used to being challenged in this way. Explaining my innermost thoughts and opinions isn’t my idea of a good time. I like how things are with my life. Or at least how they were before I met him.
“Do you realize how often you Dr. Phil me?”
“Do realize how often you avoid my questions when I do?”