Play it cool. This is your boss, and he just wants you to get home safe.
Bull-freaking-crap. I clenched the cookies, definitely trying to push away thoughts of him in a flimsy, bulge-showcasing towel, of that broad chest that would crush me if he were on top, pinning me into his bed. Heat licked up the inside of my legs, and a smattering of goose bumps crept down my arms. To say I was affected by him was the understatement of the twenty-first century. In fact, affected didn’t even seem like a strong enough word. I doubted there was one in the English language that could completely encompass what I was feeling. I bet there was an obscure Russian word for this emotion. One that screamed: I want to jump my boss’s bones, but that’s a really bad idea to even be considering it in the first place. Yes, a seventeen syllable Russian word for that. Something like I-vanna-hump-my-bosses-leg-cshvogh.
“I hope you enjoy your cookies.” I held up the container of my portion, which I would be stress eating in T-minus thirty minutes.
“It was a pleasure eating your cookies.” His lips twitched in amusement.
I giggled. “Is that what I should put on the sexual harassment report that’s going on my boss’s desk in the morning?”
“Yes. Right under breaking into his condo and dognapping.”
“Hey, I always bring him back. That has to count for something, right?”
Bruce showed his assent by letting out a loud fart.
I bent down to scratch behind Bruce’s ears and said, “This is why you don’t have a girlfriend, Bruce. We’ll work on the bodily functions, and maybe I’ll let you near the poodle in Twenty-Seven A.”
Brogan chuckled, and a smile broke out across his face. My heart stuttered in response. “Don’t get the poor guy’s hopes up. He has a long way to go.”
I said, “You’re right. Maybe you should sign him up for etiquette classes.”
Bruce huffed in response and rolled on his back, snorting while rubbing his back on the rug.
“Maybe not. I think he’s a lost cause,” I mused.
“Never too late to teach an old dog new tricks, is it, boy?” Brogan bent down to where I was crouched and gave Bruce’s belly a rubdown. Lucky dog. Bruce let out an even louder fart in response.
I stood and plugged my nose. “On that note, I’ll go meet your driver in the garage.”
We walked down the hallway toward the elevator, and I jammed my finger onto the down button with a little more force than intended, anything to not feel this need pulsing through my body.
“Lainey.” He grabbed my arm, and I desperately wanted to be the type of girl who could ignore the obstacles between us and push him toward his condo and into his bedroom and remove each and every article of clothing until I got exactly what the ache between my thighs begged for.
Instead, I said, “Yeah?” My voice came out strangled. Definitely did not go along with my “keeping it cool” facade.
“Thanks for tonight.” His hand brushed my cheek and tangled with my curls. I leaned into his touch, staring into those melted-chocolate-chip-brown eyes. His gaze shifted from my eyes, down to my lips, and then back to my eyes again. His tongue darted across his lower lip, and my eyes fluttered shut, anticipating how soft his lips would feel pressed against my own.
His breath fanned across my cheek as he closed the distance between us. His stubble grazed along the side of my jaw as he inched closer, taking the fleshy part of my ear between his teeth. I couldn’t resist him any longer. This pull between us was too much to ignore, and just this once I had to let myself give in and lose myself in the moment. A breathy moan whispered past my lips, and I tilted my head to give him better access.
The elevator door dinged open, and we suddenly weren’t the only people in the hallway.
Balls.
Seriously, what was with me and my perpetual bad luck with elevators?
He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and his expression took on a pained quality, almost like he was warring with himself. He groaned and muttered something under his breath. Our gazes met, and a swirl of hesitation and raw desire flickered in his eyes. Enough to send a shiver trickling down my spine, because those dilated pupils told me everything I needed to know in that moment—I wasn’t going crazy. Brogan was fighting this urge, just like me.
An old lady with a walker clomped her way out of the elevator. A muffled swishing sound filled the hallways as the tennis balls on the bottom of her walker slid along the floor. She glared at us the entire time she passed, which was a good ten seconds, since she was moving at the pace of a slow-motion replay.
Brogan cleared his throat. “Good evening, Mrs. Ellingson.” He nodded at her and smiled.