Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Either way, there’s charged thunder between us.

His darkening eyes ignite with heat as his gaze drops to my lips.

I swear, if something doesn’t happen to confirm or deny this insanity, I’ll die with wanting.

When he moves forward, it’s not toward the sidewalk.

His hold on me tightens and we dart into the side street by the tour office before he puts me down.

Then, the unthinkable.

The man, the supergrump, the guilty fantasy pins me against his chest, his entire body eclipsing mine like the sun. There’s a wall of man in front of me and a brick wall behind me.

I’m gone before his lips even touch mine.

A buttery whimper marks the instant when my world turns inside out with a deliciously violent twist.

Teeth.

Tongue.

Fire.

Collision.

Joy.

Any hint of common sense that tells me not to kiss him back sears to ash, blows away, and leaves nothing but this need that’s been foaming up all day. It’s way more than just wanting him.

It’s wanting to be wanted back.

Oh, but it’s something he gives me, too.

Something he brings down like a howling storm with that hot, claiming mouth that takes control, taunting me even as I melt into him.

My moan hammers against his rough breath like two dueling rock bands.

My fingers dig in his hair and I part my lips wider, fuse with his, fencing with his tongue until it’s a savage delight to lose.

There’s nothing tender in this.

It’s as combative as every fiery second since we met, and yet so much sweeter—tongues warring, tangling, nips and bites and desperate breaths. The increasing sensitivity of my mouth as he nearly bruises it with taunting bites. With obscene thrusts that feel like he’s tasting so much more than my mouth.

He’s sampling my entire body, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders to stay standing.

Foly Huck.

My brain implodes and my blood ignites, more molten by the second.

My legs shake and my core throbs so slick, so intense, I’m almost scared of my own pussy. My nipples graze his chest, aching for that ruthless mouth.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I can’t even be.

And you know what, I don’t flipping want to.

Not anymore.

I don’t want to be anything but this ludicrous kiss with Roland the enigma...

...and I don’t want to think about how bad this will hurt when it finally ends.

14

Once In A Blue Moon (Roland)

I’m starting to believe in the supernatural.

Because right now I feel like I’m fucking possessed as I slam Callie against the wall, holding her body off the ground with my arm around her waist.

Goddammit.

God. Damn. It.

I can’t do this, but here I am, committing an atrocity.

A boulder to the head couldn’t tear me off her.

She’s so small against me. So soft. So fragile.

She’s also grasping on so wholeheartedly, this willing sweetness with such wicked need.

Her mouth feels ripe for looting—fuck, her mouth.

The same teasing mouth that’s had me obsessed since the day we traded barbs in an airport lounge, unable to look away from its bright colors and tart promise.

It’s naked for me now, and I taste her completely, a pure sugar rush far headier than my daily cup of sucrose coffee.

Callie Landry is ambrosia.

Addictive, intense, and stinging all my senses with desire.

I want everything.

Everything I haven’t let myself want in so long.

All of her.

All she’s willing to give.

Enough to make me forget why I can’t have it.

She’s my employee and a god-awful distraction.

Hell, today was the first time in eons that I didn’t give Vance Haydn half a thought.

The first time in a long while I remembered what it’s like to be human, a man with interests and comments and jokes that belong to a life deeper than destroying the parasite who savaged his brother.

No, I won’t pretend today wasn’t nice—it was almost as miraculous as this fuck-storm kiss.

It’s just not something I can keep.

It’s not my reality.

She’s not someone I can fit in my dark, spinning world.

It’s a cold slap to the face. A knife in the pit of my stomach. Although she tastes so fucking good I could devour her for hours—

I make myself let her go with all the regrets of losing a limb.

It’s ruthless. Like ripping open a wound inside me to break the passion of our lips.

I look down at her with her gorgeous grey eyes hazy and smoking.

Her lips aren’t colored by lipstick, but by the swollen red fullness I’ve bitten into them.

How the hell did I resist taking her this long?

It’s like this unspoken spell enchanting us both, temporarily murdering our senses—until the moment her senses return.

The moment the flush in her cheeks shifts from raging desire to soul-crushing shame, her expression growing slack with near horror.

It’s almost comical in a self-loathing, what-the-fuck-did-you-do way.

Of course, the mouse would look absolutely repulsed by realizing she’s walked into the mouth of a hunting hawk. Also, the worst man in Chicago, and possibly American media.