But still. She’s all of that, but I’m not going to play babysitter to some little Hollywood brat no matter how hot she is. No matter how tight that gorgeous, ball-achingly sexy little body is. How completely tempting and off limits she is.
I growl to myself, shaking my head.
Fuck it’s been way too long. I can feel my balls swell looking at her, my fat cock thickening in my jeans. Yeah, way, way, too long. Years, actually. Since before jail. Before that even. I’ve gone a long damn time without the touch of or the desire for a woman. But looking at her?
Shit, it brings it all back, in a rush to the head. She brings it all back, when I haven’t wanted anything in years.
I can feel my cum boiling in balls as my eyes trace over the edges of that tight little bikini. And when she shifts, and re-crosses those long tanned legs, I feel my pulse skip.
Shit. This is a seriously big problem. There’s no fucking way I’m taking this job.
Think of it like a substitute teacher.
I groan. A teacher, huh? Nope. Cause that just means I’m thinking of her as the student. And suddenly, images of schoolgirl skirts and knee highs tumble through my head. Fuck, she even actually had a music video of that exact fantasy too. This hugely popular single where the video was her in this schoolgirl outfit prancing around a volleyball court or something. I don’t think I ever listened to the song, but I know I’ve seen the video.
Yeah, no way I’m taking this.
“I’m not a bodyguard, Mr. Nunez.”
“But you were.”
“Like I said, a long damn time—”
“One-hundred-thousand.”
I blink, staring at him. “Huh?”
“One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.” He smiles. “For one week of work.”
Holy fuck.
I pause, and he spots it, grinning.
“See, I knew I’d have your attention.”
You don’t. She does. That money sure does too.
But then still, no. No way. My job is with Sofa King Movers, the company one of my best friends in the world, Kane, started. We did time together, and when I got out, it’s not like people were lining up to give a scary looking ex-con work. But Kane did, and the money is great. And I’m not just taking a side gig without him knowing about it.
“I have people to answer to at—”
“At the moving company, of course.” He smiles. “Let me sweeten the deal even more. I’ll talk to all my friends — client, other managers and talent people. Directors. I’ll talk to them and let them all know how thorough and fantastic a job Sofa King Movers do. And I’ll get you more lucrative new gigs than you and your little moving company know what to do with.
I pause. It’s too long a pause, and Danny smiles.
“That’s a deal, isn’t it?”
I glance out the window, watching Alyssa Campo page through that magazine. Her tongue darts out again to wet her lips. She shifts again, her back arching and pushing those tits up against the tiny squares of her bikini once again. Her legs cross and re-cross, and I feel my pulse jump and my cock pulse.
This is a bad idea.
My cock, aching in my jeans, says it’s a terrible one. The fact that all I want to do is go out there, bend her over that pool chair, and feel that hot little cunt slide down every inch of me says this is a horrible idea.
I’ve been a strong man. But that resolve is weakening.
Fast.
“Do we have a deal?”
The resolve crumbles, and I nod.
Danny smiles. “Good. So, listen, I have to run.” He glances at his expensive looking watch before nodding out the window at Alyssa. “But, go say hi. Let her know you’re around and here and all of that.”
I frown. “Wait, what?”
“You start now.”
My eyes narrow. “No I don’t.”
“Yes you do,” Danny tosses back with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Or I don’t tell my friends about the business, and there no one-hundred thousand. Sound like a deal?”
I growl, my jaw clenching. Danny just keeps grinning.
“Keep in touch, Diesel. Let me know what’s going on and keep me up to date this week.”
He claps me on the shoulder, making a face at my being so sweaty before he turns and strides out the side door of the house to the driveway.
This is going to be trouble.
She’s going to be trouble. Big fucking trouble, with a capital B-R-A-T. The girl has “spoiled princess” written all over her. And it’s not just the big-ass house that she lives in alone, which is absurd for a girl her age. It’s not just the gleaming red Ferrari with the pink princess crown on the dashboard sitting in the driveway — hers, because of course it is.
It’s not the pure-white, designer bikini clinging to every single tight, tempting, totally off-limits curve of her soft, supple body. Not the five-thousand-dollar Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses that scream entitled, or the diamond-studded bracelet fit for a damn queen on her wrist. It’s not the fact that earlier, I watched the beautician drive off after coming here to do her manicure and pedicure.