Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Anything to avoid falling into the conflicted mess of desire, regret, and longing she stirs up like a blender.

Closing my eyes isn’t enough.

I can still feel her there in the darkness, my cock throbbing like a wild animal where it presses against her.

With a deep breath, I push back, separating us until I can no longer feel the spell of her skin.

“Right.” Opening my eyes, I smooth my rumpled tie, looking past her as I step back to give her more room. “So. Easterly?”

There’s a faint sound from her throat—almost hurt. When I look back, she’s withdrawn behind icy calm as she sits, slides off the desk, and reaches for her purse.

“I’ll do what I can,” she says neutrally, fishing out a compact and flipping it open to study her reflection.

I catch a tissue from the box on my desk and offer it to her.

She takes it with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. While she dabs at her mouth in the mirror, I snag another tissue and settle into my seat, wiping at my lips.

There’s no decent way to be discreet about this shit.

We’re both cleaning up like we’re scrubbing a crime scene clean.

The same question knocks around my brain.

If it’s so wrong, why the hell do I want to do it again?

Why do I want her stripped, clawing my shoulders and screaming my name?

Callie finishes smoothing away the stains left around her mouth from her lipstick, then says, “Easterly trusts me. I can’t break that trust by pressuring her.”

“I know the feeling,” I answer, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them as the pink-stained tissue crunches in my palm. God, do I know that feeling. “I trust you. Do what you think is right, Callie.”

It’s not something I mean to say.

Not that way.

I trust her professionally, sure, even if I feel like I’m exposing pieces of myself better kept private, and goddamn—am I ever going to stop tearing up rules with this woman?

Especially with the way she looks at me, her fingers frozen in midair as she lifts her little tube of scarlet lipstick to her mouth.

As if she can’t believe me.

As if she’s afraid to believe me.

And after the Neanderthal-worthy way I’ve behaved, who could blame her?

17

Blue Freaks On Fire (Callie)

I trust you.

Those words shouldn’t hit me square in the heart.

They shouldn’t mean anything.

Isn’t Roland the jackass who’s hard to trust? This hot-eyed devil who’ll do anything to advance his agenda? My trustworthiness was never in question.

But it’s not about me.

It’s about what made Roland the way he is. He’s hard to trust, but it’s easy to see he’s someone who doesn’t trust others, either. Can’t rely on them, can’t confide in them, can’t let himself open up and be human around someone else, except...

He was human with me.

Oh, God.

And now he’s saying he flipping trusts me.

That shouldn’t turn my stomach into a butterfly swarm and strum my nerves like an out-of-tune guitar.

It shouldn’t but it does.

Keep it professional, Callie.

Yeah. Professional.

Right.

After he just pinned me against his desk like a starving animal, his mouth savaging mine, his cock pressing against me and leaving my panties so wet I’m still afraid to move.

Feeling their slickness and knowing what caused it is mortifying.

We have to end this game.

We’ve got a hundred good reasons to stop playing it, but first and foremost must be the fact that it’s driving me bananas. And if this grumpy, walled-off rockhead kisses me like that again, I’ll make sure he’s short of a full bushel for life.

So I try to shove my thoughts back where they belong.

On the story. On poor Easterly. On not obsessing over blowing professional boundaries, when we’re both back to square one, trying so desperately to pretend this never happened.

Talk about getting old.

“If you trust me, Roland,” I say, averting my eyes and focusing on my own flushed reflection in the mirror while I apply a new layer of lipstick, “then trust that I’ll do my best with Easterly. It might not be the blockbuster story you want...but it’ll be enough to stop Haydn in his tracks.”

I finish with a loud pop of my lips, pressing them together to make sure the red looks even.

“That’s all I want,” Roland says, sounding distracted.

Why? I want to ask. Why is this so fricking important to you?

What did Vance Haydn steal away?

The temptation to just start barking questions rivals the temptation to throw away any pretense of professionalism and end it.

Do something about this aching, needy feeling he inspires.

But before I can say anything else, he asks absently, “Did HR get in touch with you about your father?”

Like I needed another reminder that he cares. I’m flushing.

“Yes, thank you for that. I have everything I need to take care of him, but I still don’t understand. Why did you...?”