He seems content to just stand here, rocking and molding his hands to the bends and dips of my body. It’s both confusing and comforting. If he were simply fondling me like Mark had done last night, I would know how to respond. But this is different. His lips caress my neck adoringly, erotically, luring me into a trance that messes with my head.
If I had any self-control, I’d end this meeting and go home. But I crave his small doses of affection, hunger to kiss him, and ache to strip out of my itchy clothes and melt beneath his touch, his mouth, his thrusts. Sex with him would be turbulent, pyretic, and wholly satisfying.
My pulse hammers at the thought of fighting with him, wrestling and fucking in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs. Maybe he’s right. I do enjoy a challenging asshole, and I’m compelled to explore the enigma of this infuriating man.
But he thinks I’m messy. The more I roll that around in my mind, the more I want to prove him wrong. In fact, I’m starting to think he’s intentionally trying to get under my skin.
Twisting in his arms, I lift on tiptoes and search his glacial gaze. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m not.” His tone is stringent, unmoved.
“You are. You’re gambling with my emotions. Taking bets on my libido.”
“Are you making casino jokes now?” He huffs a laugh—a single humorless pulse of sound.
His impassive expression further enrages me, and I shove at his chest. He steps back, but I stay with him, pushing until he bumps into the window behind him.
“You can’t love my body,” I say, holding my palm against the lapel of his jacket, “and not want to fuck me.”
Dear God, what’s gotten into me? I really do need to get laid. It’s like he’s triggered a chemical in my brain that’s robbed me of all shame.
His breathing speeds up again, and he raises his arms against the window on either side of his head, as if opening himself up to me. Or holding himself back.
“I want full disclosure.” I press my palms against his, crowding him in the cage of my arms. “Just tell me what this is so we can move on.”
If someone walked in, they would think I’m pinning him to the glass, but that’s not the case. Though his back and hands are pressed to the window, he’s stronger, bigger, and more aggressive. He’s allowing this, and the flicker in his eyes tells me he likes it.
“You want to know if I intend to fuck you?” His fingers curl around mine.
Then he dips his head. Before I can blink, he kisses me. A brutal whiplash of a kiss that sucks the air from my lungs and skyrockets my pulse. I anticipate the lash of his tongue, but it never comes. His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp twinge of pain, and he leans back.
“No,” he says coldly. “I will not have sex with you.”
But that kiss. It lingers on my mouth like a trail of fire.
“What?” I dig my fingernails into his palms. “Why the fuck did you kiss me?”
“Because I can.” He swings us around, reversing our positions. Rather than closing in, he breaks away and lowers in the chair at his desk. “Good night, Danni.”
My gaze falls to the thick column of his neck, the starched white collar, and the squared shoulders beneath the stiff fabric of his suit jacket. Focused on his laptop, he wakes the screen and launches a spreadsheet, his demeanor all business, his dismissal unquestionable.
Maybe I’m delusional, but it feels like I made a tiny bit of progress, if I count that angry kiss. My curiosity is more piqued than ever, my fascination not even close to being satisfied.
It’s not like I want a relationship with him, but I can’t stop myself from recalling the torrid sensation of that huge hand wrapped around my throat or imagining it spanning over my bare ass, slapping and reddening my skin as he plows into me with hard-hitting thrusts. No doubt he’s massive, rock-hard, and strong everywhere, an image that produces ripples of pulsations through the long-neglected muscles between my legs.
Christ, I need to get out of here.
“Call me when the restaurant is open.” I stride toward the door.
“You’ll be here tomorrow morning.” He doesn’t glance up from the laptop.
“Why would I—?”
“You’ll meet with HR and fill out your paperwork. Eight o’clock.” He reaches under the glass ledge of the desk, and a sharp buzz sounds overhead. “Don’t be late.”
The door releases from the wall and swings toward me. I shuffle backward into the hall to avoid colliding with the swinging wall of steel. It clicks shut, and the sound of electronic tumblers announces that he locked me out of his office.
A shocked laugh escapes my lips. I bet that dick move makes him feel all powerful and authoritative. I want to be annoyed by it, but instead, I find his social ineptitude oddly addictive.
As I exit the 30th floor and amble through the parking garage, my blood sings and my heart thumps wildly, enthusiastically, for the first time since Cole.
Stay by Rihanna plays on my phone where it sits on the plywood subfloor in my brand-spanking-new dance studio. The aroma of sawdust and sweat and excitement infuses the air as I rock my hips and study my reflection in the newly hung mirrors.
Cole kneels several feet behind me, installing the final ballet bar in the room he recently added on the rear of my house. Dust coats his Converse and faded jeans, his torso scrumptiously bare and rippling with overworked muscle.
I still can’t believe he built me a dance room. Who does that? When he showed me the designs and told me he was paying for everything, I sobbed hideous snot-laden tears of joy. Then I tried to talk him out of it, which I’ve learned is a wasted effort when his mind is made up.
It’s been nine months since we met in the street on that fateful morning. We fucked like animals that first night, and he moved in a month later. To say it’s been a whirlwind is an understatement. Every second of every day is a combustible haze of touching, kissing, intoxicating delirium that obscures our awareness of the world around us.
Inseparable to the point of infatuation, we’re sickeningly, obsessively, can’t-get-enough-of-each-other in love. I can’t imagine this fever ever fading. It’s too strong, too real, too deeply and intricately woven into the fiber of my being.
His dense lashes lift, and his brown eyes connect with mine. The need to kiss him hits me directly in the chest, and my pulse kicks into a wild crescendo. Is it possible for two people to kiss too much?
When our mouths aren’t locked together in aggressive passion, we’re grinning stupidly at each other. Like now.
That smile of his puts me in my feelings, and his dimples dare me to come closer, for a taste, a touch, for a full-body saturation in all things Cole.
“You’re distracting me, baby.” His gaze darkens, drifting lazily over my body.
“And?” I lift the hair off my damp nape and hold it on top of my head.
Now that I have his attention, I work my stomach muscles, contract my spine, and let my hips flow sensually to the provocative vocals.
I feel silly dancing around in his heavy work boots, but he demanded I wear them to protect my feet. Always so demanding and protective, but he does it in a manner that makes me feel cared for and loved. A girl could get use to this. She could become attached.