I told Blake if it was necessary, I would kiss her.
Suddenly, it became extremely necessary.
To stake a claim.
So, without allowing my brain to conjure up logical reasons why it was a bad idea, I tugged Blake to her feet and kissed her.
The minute our mouths met, she gasped.
I expected her to completely shut down, which would mean I’d have to turn her back to David so she didn’t give us away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning her body into mine.
And opened. Her. Mouth.
She tasted like coffee and cinnamon. Holy shit. Someone should make a gum with that combo.
I invaded her mouth, plunging, pillaging, basically planting my flag and saluting it, all the while running my hands down her back, my fingers digging into her skin, willing the heat between our bodies to singe the clothes so that I wouldn’t have to spend time ripping them from her body.
Her hands twisted in my hair as I angled my head differently, teasing her mouth. Making love to her lips.
A loud clang sounded.
We broke apart.
“Sorry,” David called from his side of the weight room. “Dropped some weight.”
Sorry, my ass.
Whatever. I didn’t care. Because I was the guy walking out with the girl.
Not that she was mine.
Or that she wouldn’t be his in a few days.
Shit.
“That was”—Blake ducked into my chest as I wrapped an arm around her—“a really great first kiss.”
Damn it! I was ruining everything. I was her first kiss? Me? The certified whore? The guy she was paying? Not the one she was in love with.
And that was the kicker.
She was saving herself for someone important, while I’d never saved myself for anyone, ever.
The thought haunted me the entire walk to my car.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Shell sat close to me while we pretended to study at the coffee shop. We exchanged a few hand grazes here, longing looks there, and a strategic pen drop, where it looked like I was staring down the front of her top.
And boom—like magic, Jealous Barista appeared. Tom. Shit, I hated Tom. Not because he was an ass, but because he refused to move past the bossy “I know what’s best for you” face. And that was seriously starting to piss me off. It was the last phase, the one where the guy stopped being protective and moved on to actually doing shit about it.
Shell didn’t deserve to be in limbo. She’d done a hell of a job, and if he couldn’t see her for the woman she was, then she and I were going to have to have a heart-to-heart, and I’d only done that with a client once in my career. I didn’t want it to start becoming a thing.
Plus, the sooner I finished with Shell, the sooner I could . . .
I frowned. What? Finish with Blake? Is that what I wanted? My teeth chewed the straw in my smoothie until it was useless.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” Tom referenced both of us. He used plural references and all, but he was completely ignoring my existence, his lazy-ass brown eyes fully focused in on Shell.
“Actually”—Shell yawned, stretching her arms above her neck and, like instructed, starting to massage the back of her neck—“I don’t suppose you moonlight as a massage therapist?”
Well done. The line was delivered perfectly, like it had been rehearsed, which it was, considering the first four times she repeated it back to me she’d stuttered and nearly shouted “massage therapist,” then snorted with a nervous laugh. I hid my smile behind my pen as I scribbled down more nonsense about business ethics. The irony wasn’t lost on me, believe me.
Tom smiled brightly. “No, but I’m still good with my hands.”
I glanced up at his weak-looking hands. Doubtful, very doubtful, man. I was pretty sure, given the chance to rock her world with said hands, she’d most likely cross things off her grocery list while he still fumbled to get a rise out of her.
Tom moved his hands to her neck and started massaging while Shell glanced up at me behind her long bangs and mouthed Yay!
I pretended to be too immersed in my studying to care.
Tom inched his way closer to her body, his chest pressed against her back. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I’m clearing your schedule.”
“You’re clearing it?” Shell said, sounding surprised. “I don’t understand.”
“Look at him.” I knew I was the “him” he was referencing. “I’m all over you, and he doesn’t even care.”
He was right. I cared more about the cramp in my hand from writing and the ache in my back from hunching over my book.
“Shh.” Shell shushed him. “He’s really great when you get to know him, and—”
Showtime.
“Shell,” I barked. “Let’s go.”
I stood and started gathering my stuff.