Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Like he’s got his own gravity that pulls at my whole being the closer he gets, crushing the air from my lungs.

My defiance threatens to crumble as blazing blue eyes hollow me out with icy fierceness.

His footsteps are ominous, echoing.

I lift my chin, holding my ground. This is silly. It’s all in my head.

Also, I’ve claimed this desk for the United States of Callie, and I’m not letting his freaky strongman in a suit chase me off.

But my fingers quiver by the time he stops in front of me.

His heat washes over me, and I curl my fingers against the edge of the desk to keep from either bolting—or reaching out to feel him.

Touch him.

I see myself smoothing my fingers over the black silk of his tie, tracing lower, lower still.

God help me.

I can’t help how I lick my lips—only to freeze as his gaze intensifies, fixed on my mouth so firmly it’s like I can feel it.

I don’t dare breathe. My heart thumps so hard it nearly overrides the sensual music coiling around us like a physical force binding us together.

I stare up at him, unmoving and speechless, my lips parted but my tongue jammed.

Until he lifts one large hand.

Until he does the unthinkable.

Until he skims coarse fingertips down the outside of my thigh, barely dancing over my bright-cerulean skirt, stopping above the pleated, ribbon-threaded hem.

It’s not quite skin to skin.

But I feel like I’m naked, fire shooting through my veins, spreading from that teasing contact point through every inch of me.

I’m flipping simmering from the inside out.

“Right here,” he whispers, blue eyes rising to mine once more, his voice a low drawl.

My head is swimming. Foggy. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

I search for words—to tell him to stop, to ask what he’s doing, to ask him for more—but I can’t even manage that.

“Huh? I...what?”

He tilts his head, watching me avidly before his hand falls away.

“We’ll tape the wire right here, Miss Landry.”

He steps back, and I feel like I’ve had cold water thrown in my face.

I just stare at him, new anger icing away that scalding hot attraction that consumed me a second ago.

“Wire?” I repeat. “No way. I’m not wearing a wire to interview Easterly. Is that even legal?”

“We’re not asking questions of legality.” Graceful as a prowling tiger, he sinks down in his massive office chair, resting his elbows on the arms and lacing his hands together. “We’re talking about convenience.”

“Well, if you want to talk convenience, I think trying to walk normally with a wire strapped to my thigh might be pretty inconvenient,” I toss back. “I’ll be waddling if I don’t trip from the imbalance first.”

He makes a soft, amused sound under his breath and leans toward me.

I instinctively tumble back as he reaches out, my skin burning with the memory of his near-touch, bracing for instant wildfire again.

But he only reaches past my crossed legs, to a drawer on my other side, and tugs it open.

Then he removes a slip of black lace ribbon so filmy I’m not quite sure what it is.

Not until he arches a brow and dangles it from his fingertip.

“Never worn a garter before? You won’t even remember it’s there.”

My knees buckle. I feel faint.

Completely aghast, I stare at that obscene scrap of lace, my mind tumbling through an X-rated nightmare of scenes my brain conjures up without quite settling on anything long enough for me to drop dead in front of him.

“You’re insane. I’m not wearing that thing!” I sputter. “It’ll feel...it’ll feel...”

“Dirty?” he offers, stabbing the word into the air like a thrust.

“Inappropriate,” I correct firmly. Yep, I’m going to spontaneously self-combust. I bet I’m as red as my hair. I glare at him. “No garter, and no wire.”

“There goes the fun option,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, dropping the garter belt back in the drawer. He retrieves something else. “I had a feeling you might get cold feet. So I prepared another alternative.”

What emerges this time is a small black velvet box.

He offers it to me with a pointed look. I hesitate, curling my hand against my chest, wondering what new horrible thing he wants to subject me to. But after a moment, I reach out to take it.

The velvet rubs softly against my fingertips.

Why does this feel so weird?

Why is some small part of me still shaking like a leaf?

This is just a practical matter.

But there’s nothing practical about the ripple of surprise that goes through me as I open the box and find an antique hairpin inside—the type that might’ve been worn by a 1920s flapper girl or a 1930s gang moll.

It’s soft rose gold with ornate floral scrollwork at the tip. The flowers’ centers are studded with eyes of black pearls. The petals themselves look as delicate as lacquered ivory.

My breath betrays me, catching like a leash around my throat.