“So you don't have a point.” That's what I'd heard.
“I'm not even continuing this conversation. I'm going to go upstairs and get to work on re-branding The Landing Strip.” She pushed open the door, releasing my hand.
Once again, my gaze fell to her ass. It wiggled as she walked. It was those fucking heels and figure-hugging skirts she wore. Fuck me. My cock was hardening again—I needed more than simply staring at her.
I needed her pussy to hug my cock before I could think straight and let her work.
My addiction to her was a little unhealthy, but I loved the fuck out of her, and I couldn't stop.
I caught her up and swept my arm around her waist. She squealed loudly when I pulled her back against me then spun her around to face me.
“West, don't you dare!”
She knew me well.
I threw her over my shoulder, ignoring her warning, and smacked my hand across her ass. She squealed again, this high-pitched noise drawing Vicky's attention from behind the bar.
“You should probably get lunch,” I told her, carrying my wriggling, fussy woman through the club. “She gets loud.”
“West!” Mia beat her fists against my back, and her purse whacked me in the legs several times. “Ignore him, Vicky! He's being an ass!”
I'd show her ass if she carried on—except it'd be hers in the air in front of me.
I pushed the door open and carried her up the stairs. She slumped halfway up, giving up the fight, and sighed with resignation. She could pretend all she liked. I could feel her heart beating against her chest when I put her down at the top of the stairs and pressed her against the door to kiss her.
The way she gripped my collar with one hand and kissed me back just as hard as I kissed her gave her away too.
“Your own fault,” I said in a low voice, opening the door to the office and pushing her through. She dropped her purse to the floor. “You wear those fucking skirts with those shoes and I'm not responsible for how hard I fuck you when I get you out of them.”
“Dirty,” she muttered.
I slammed the door behind us and pushed her back onto the sofa. She fell back with a smile stretched across her face, and I leaned over her, my hand sliding up her thigh beneath her skirt. Her skin was soft against my palm, and I kissed her deeply as she dove her fingers through my hair.
Still couldn't fucking believe she was mine.
My cock pressed against her lower stomach as her skirt rode up around her hips and she wrapped her legs around my waist. Yeah—she complained about how much I loved touching her until her pussy got wet. Then I couldn't touch her enough.
My girl had a greedy pussy, and I loved it.
She reached between us and unbutton my shirt before she shoved it down over my shoulders. Her nails skimmed across my skin, leaving goose pimples in the wake of her touch. I shuddered when her hands dropped to my waistband, and then—
“Oh, Jesus,” Beck groaned. “Can't you get a fucking room?”
I released Mia's mouth and dropped my head forward as she scrambled back on the sofa and pulled her skirt down. “We have one.”
“A private room,” he shot back, walking straight through into the kitchenette.
Mia sighed and straightened herself out. Her green gaze swung to mine, and she pursed her lips, but she was smiling behind her mock annoyance. “And that's why we need to stop having sex at work.”
I made a mental note to pencil in sex time at least three afternoons a week when she was working in one of our clubs.
I got up and shrugged my shirt back on. “He sounded pissed off. Just me?”
She shook her head, running her hands through her hair and shaking it out. “No. He sounded really mad.” She pulled off her shoes, then stood and walked toward the kitchen.
Beck beat her to it, appearing back in the main office. He had a tight grip on a glass of water if the whiteness of his knuckles had anything to go by. But it wasn't his grip that had me staring at his hand.
“What?” Beck snapped, looking at me. “Never seen a guy hung-over before?”
I scratched my jaw, my lips forming a smirk despite my best efforts. “Yeah. Seen you hung-over more times than I can count. Never seen you with a fucking wedding ring on your finger though, have I?”
Mia gasped and grabbed his arm before he could hide it. Water sloshed out of the glass onto the floor, and Beck put the glass on the desk as she clawed at his hand.
“Beck!” she cried. “What the hell?”
He tried and, surprisingly, failed to get his hand out of her grip. “I meant to take it off.” He covered the plain, white-gold band with his other hand.
Mia smacked it away. “Take it off? What the hell did you do last night?”