"Except I still have to work for you," I clarified.
"Until Mack and I are square. Then you're free to going back to your button-all-the-way-ups and kitten heels and ponytails and weekend baking."
"You make me sound pathetic."
"Didn't say that. You feel that way, that has nothing to do with me."
"I just... I don't understand the purpose of any of this," I admitted. Apparently with the dam broken open inside, it made it much easier to admit things and to ask for things I never would normally be able to. "None of this makes sense. Yeah, it makes sense for my father to need to pay for what he's done. But it doesn't make sense why you took me or why he wasn't banned. It doesn't fit that you would help him into recovery. You seem like a practical businessmen. But none of this fits that."
"Maybe Aaron was right about me," he said, but his tone said otherwise.
"Somehow I doubt that," I said with an eye roll.
"Like the fire more than the rain, babe," he said and I imagined he meant my snapping at him over my crying everywhere. And, well, I had to agree.
"Good. Get used to it. If you're keeping me around, you're going to get a lot of it."
"I'm counting on it," he said, his voice dipping low and sexy, his eyes getting dark.
"I didn't mean like that," I insisted quickly, sitting straighter in his chair.
"Didn't you, though?" he asked, one of the hands on the edge of the chair, shifting closer, brushing my stocking-clad thighs. And, well, there might not have been anything in the world more erotic than hands sliding over your stockings. My legs pressed together without me even thinking about it, making a quiet laugh escape his lips. "Think we'd both be a whole lot happier if you stopped trying to bullshit the both of us."
"I'm not interested in making you happy."
"No?" he asked, and that one word was a challenge.
"No," I agreed, but even I didn't fully believe it. There was a certain kind of happy I did want to experience, with him, and we both knew it. "You know what would make me happy?"
"A lobotomy?" I mused.
To that, a small, wicked little smile pulled up one end of his lips. His hand shifted, moving to the top of my thigh and sliding upward, pressing in hard enough for me to know he wanted me to be aware of every inch he touched as he traveled to the top of my thigh then over my hip, up my belly, between my breasts, then settled on the side of my neck, his thumb pressing against the front of it hard enough to make me sure that he meant business. His fingers dug in as my air seemed to get caught in my lungs, unable to exhale, and pulled my face roughly downward toward his. "For you to keep up this act of yours. 'Cause let me tell you, babe, it's hot as fuck. I've been half hard anytime you've opened up that sweet mouth of yours to snap at me. So, by all means, go on and hate me. Just makes me sure it'd be all the more fun to find new, inventive, and filthy ways to make you shut that mouth of yours. And," he said as I went to open my mouth, "don't even try to tell me you don't want me, Prue. I've had my hands up that skirt. I know exactly how wet you get at the thought of me."
With that, he released me completely, taking his feet, and moving away from the desk, leaving me to suck in a deep breath that burned my lungs. Because, damn him, I was wet just from that freaking speech of his. That was how much my body wanted him. I never much bought into the opposites attracting thing before. In my life, I chose men who were like me: practical, level-headed, average, maybe a little boring. But Byron was about as opposite as someone could get from me. He was very free with his thoughts and opinions and, I imagined, his emotions. But in a macho, badass kind of way. And I was about as repressed as a person could be. He was selfish. I was always bending over backward until my spine threatened to crack for others. He was cocky as I was comfortably confident with no delusions of grandeur. He was rich. I was poor. He demanded things. I was afraid to even ask for them.
And maybe a part of me was drawn to that dichotomy.
Maybe my psyche or whatever it was, was reaching out for the parts of myself that felt lacking or missing.
Or maybe I was just freaking horny, I decided, standing up and following him toward the door, willing myself to not go all mushy-brained over some hot, rich, jackass. If my body wanted him, my body wanted him. My brain and heart and soul had nothing to do with that. It was a physical urge that needed to be dealt with. Like an itch. Or a sneeze. That was all it was. I just needed to deal with my sexual frustration and things would settle back down again.