Claim My Baby (Crescent Cove 2)

Or could it be…

No.

My breasts weren’t enough to get a man like him going. They were perfectly nice breasts, even attractive breasts, but he was a man of the world who’d bedded who knew how many women.

Women who didn’t save La Perla for dates. Bi-monthly dates, if those women were me.

My head came up and my gaze connected with my iPhone. And I cursed mightily my genius idea to put the screen on “never off” so I could sneak looks at work without taking the time to enter my passcode.

Moron.

“Moose Masterson, hmm?” Oliver’s tone was thoughtful. “Any man named Moose must be worth a furtive work search.”

“He is.” I tried to snatch back my phone, but he simply held it higher. Just out of my reach.

Not difficult, since I felt as if I were shrinking in direct proportion to his overwhelming height and breadth with every passing moment.

And his erect…member was right there.

“Who is he, exactly? An old friend?”

“Why do you care? Can I please have my phone?” There was one other question that I nearly asked as well.

How can you be so gallant about telling off Greta and such an utter prick when it comes to dealing with me?

But I didn’t think I could use the word prick when there was a live-action one a few inches away. I couldn’t even be chill about it, because fully functional cocks were a rare bird in my life.

Sometimes being a virgin totally sucked. All right, all times.

“Certainly. I even cleaned off the coffee for you.” His thin smile was about as warm as the expression of a cobra before it struck, but he handed over my phone just the same. “Just making idle chitchat as you stand about in your bra.”

“I’m not only in my bra, smart ass. I have a tank on.” Relieved to have my phone back in my possession, I closed the Facebook app and pulled up my texts. The first one was from the radio station where I’d won a trip to Vegas. I’d pushed it off as long as possible, suddenly not as excited for my out-of-state hookup possibilities as I’d once been.

That deflated-dick date I’d had over the holidays had kind of killed my optimism when it came to sex. If a guy couldn’t keep it up even when I was the next thing to naked in front of him, what chances did I have of competing with Vegas showgirls for indiscriminate sex?

Precisely none.

Then again, Oliver either had a medical condition or he found my bare arms arousing.

And he was peering over my shoulder, the snoop.

“Not that again,” he muttered near my hair, clearly scanning the bright-red splash of text. “Love in Vegas? Last chance? As if anyone would rush to go on a radio-sponsored trip. What do you get, two complimentary flutes of champagne and a mint on the pillow in your low-level suite?”

Maybe he hadn’t really been hard. Shadows could do many things. Hadn’t that been what I’d told myself when it seemed as if Jim hadn’t been that excited as I’d stripped? I’d told myself to keep my eyes on his and seduce him with my gaze.

I’d paid for that one with a limp lizard—and not of the gecko variety.

“Why don’t you just take the cash prize instead of the trip?” Oliver sounded so pragmatic, and a part of me wanted to giggle since I was solely focused on his cock. Wouldn’t that shock the stiffness right out of him?

Huh, there was one way I could answer the erection question once and for all. If I could find enough balls to get the job done.

Finding enough clits just didn’t have the same panache, so I’d have to stay with the not anatomically correct reference.

“I’m taking the trip,” I said firmly. “I intend to go and have an amazing time. Freewheeling drinking and debauchery in a town where no one knows who I am.”

“You’re still planning on going alone?”

“Sure.” I shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in the text I’d already read and reread three times.