Trouble

I exhale a moan, one hand still threaded in the back of his hair while the other grips his coat tighter, pulling him closer. Devour me…

This. Is. Insane.

The hand on my back slides lower, gripping the silk of my skirt, drawing it higher until his fingers slide against the bare skin of my ass.

“You are so gorgeous.” It’s a low growl rumbling in his throat as his lips move to my jaw. “I have a room in this hotel. Let me fuck you all night.”

Fuck me.

All night.

Yes.

No.

God, what am I doing?

I struggle through the fog, the heat of what he’s doing to me, the gnawing ache between my thighs I know for certain he can satisfy. I’m breathing fast, my breasts rising and falling, and I flatten my palm against his chest and step away from the inferno of us.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” My chin drops, and I don’t meet his eyes. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Dump him.”

“I can’t do that.”

He studies me, not smiling. He’s gorgeous in this moonlight, hazel eyes full of lust, lips even fuller, pinker from consuming me. Fuck me all night…

He doesn’t move, and I’m sure he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I know what I’ll do next.

I’m doing it. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

I turn on my heel, ready to run all the way home. I might be stubborn and impulsive, but I always do the right thing. No wickedly handsome CEO will change that. No matter how fantastic of a kisser he is. No matter how much I want what he could do to me. No matter how much of a douche my boyfriend is.

I don’t do trouble.

Chapter 2

Spencer

“Antiques Now.” My partner Miles snaps from where he stands behind his polished mahogany desk.

I’m standing in his well-appointed, corner-office at Antiques Today, and he’s holding an oversized iPad, swiping repeatedly. “He has an exclamation point in the title. It’s like a disaster film. Earthquake!”

“It’s Zoomer nonsense.” I take a seat in the leather chair across from him, unimpressed. “Is this why you called me in here? To discuss an unaffiliated scrub on the Internet talking about antiques?”

“What are we going to do about this, Spencer?”

“About what?” I straighten the cuff of my crisp white shirt inside my suit coat, and he turns the screen to face me.

“Link Sherlock. He practically stole our name.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” I study the shaggy-haired man-child with a beard in desperate need of shaping, dressed in sloppy jeans and a tee. He’s the disaster. “Ignore him.”

Miles’s brown eyes narrow. At five-seven, what he lacks in stature he makes up for in theatrics. “He’s got this… YouTube and TikTok. The man has more than a million followers.”

“He is not a man.” I find it difficult to take anyone seriously who can’t be bothered to wash themselves.