“Charming.”
“Gets even better. She was only eighteen years old.”
He cringes again and groans. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. I haven’t quite gotten the dates down yet, but either she lied about her age, or he’s in danger of facing charges for statutory rape, among other things, because I’m not even sure she was eighteen when she got pregnant.”
“Asshole.”
He blows out a breath and slurps the rest of his smoothie as we get to his restaurant. The smell of garlic and olive oil, roasting vegetables, and freshly baked bread wafts through the air. My stomach rumbles.
“My God, how do you not gain a million pounds being here all day?”
“I run it all off.”
“Seriously?”
He smirks. “Gotta deal with the carbs somehow, don’t I? How else do you think I keep this youthful physique?”
“Good job.” I reach for his bicep and give it a squeeze. He hisses in a breath when my fingers touch him.
Am I crazy?
We’re right outside the door to his office. In one smooth move, he pins me against the wall, one knee on one side of me as he leans on his forearm on the other side. He smells so damn good I want to bottle it.
“You just squeezed my bicep.”
“I did,” I say in a breathy whisper. “It’s a very nice bicep.”
Seriously, Samantha?
“I think that’s sexual harassment or unwanted sexual advancement,” he says, shaking his head with mock chagrin. He gives a sad sigh. “I’m afraid you’ll be in trouble for that.”
Oh. Oh dear. If he keeps saying things like that, I may have to misbehave a little more often.
The last time this happened, I got out of it by the skin of my teeth. This time, I’m not sure I even want to.
“You keep saying that,” I continue in a whisper. “But I’m curious what it really means. What’s a girl have to fear, anyway? And is it really unwanted?” I cock my head to the side, then reach out and squeeze his other bicep.
One second, I’m standing against the wall with my back pressed up against it, the next, he’s sweeping me up into his arms, the empty smoothie cup bouncing off the floor. He kicks the door to his office open like a badass, then kicks it closed with a mixture of sheer strength and grace that makes me wet.
His hands are in my hair the second he sets me down. Mine latch onto his broad shoulders, and when his mouth meets mine, I’m so ready.
I should tell him no.
I don’t want to.
I should resist him.
I don’t want to.
I should have enough self-respect and integrity to tell him to stop, to keep this professional, to make sure I don’t let my hormones make shitty decisions for me.
Fuck that.
Instead, I’m letting him kiss me like I’m a cheap little floozy, and I don’t regret a damn thing.
He backs me over to his desk. The room’s all dark and the shades are drawn so I don’t get to see much, but I can tell without even looking that this place is niiiiiice. He’s got this wrap-around couch thing in his office, and I swear it’s bigger than most apartments I’ve rented.
And that’s right around when I stop paying even minor attention to the details in his room.
Because all that matters in the entire universe is his hands, where they are, and what they’re doing.
Oh my God.
One’s in my hair, doing this grippy thing that makes my pulse spike deliciously, while the other’s pushing the V-neck of my dress aside so he can palm my breast and finger my nipples, which have become hardened little peaks of pain and pleasure.
Oh my God.
I can’t do this, I tell myself, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind. He’s only playing you. He’s a jerk. He’ll use you and then make you feel like a schmuck.
But there comes a time in a girl’s life when needs trump logic, and I tell the logical part of my brain to shut the fuck up already.
But he—you’ll—you shouldn’t—
S.T.F.U.
Tits up, buttercup, not today.
My eyes flutter closed, and my head falls back as his mouth travels down my chin to graze my collarbone, then my chest. Somehow he manages to push my dress down and drag his tongue along my breast until he finds my nipple, then suckles it into his mouth like it’s bringing him salvation.
And maybe it is, I mean heavens, the way he’s making me feel right now is nothing short of miraculous.
Miraculous.
The heavens open and angels sing as he continues to orchestrate perfect, utter perfection on my body. There’s a gentle side to Miguel, and I think it’s concentrated right there on his mouth.
He nips my shoulder and alleluia, my skin zings.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, all sense of self-preservation gone as my legs seem to open of their own accord, my own fingers raking through his hair, so soft to my touch, so perfectly exquisite.