Protect Me Not ((Un)Professionally Yours 2)

He hesitated, seemingly torn, before he—with very clear reluctance—shook his head and clarified. “You misunderstand me, Vicki…you were touching me. That’s what I was responding to.”

“Ty,” she whimpered, and he shook his head again. He had every appearance of a man in excruciating agony.

“Vicki…I can’t.”

“Please.” She wasn’t even sure what she was begging for, but he seemed to understand. His head bowed, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“I shouldn’t…”

She strained toward him, going onto her tiptoes, but not closing the distance between them by more than a couple of inches. They were so close, she could feel the wash of his warm breath on her face; she was enveloped by the hot ice of his cologne, the heat of his big body made her feel feverish and sweaty. She wanted to shed swathes of clothing, which made no sense when she was wearing only one layer.

His hands came up to cup her face, those big thumbs sweeping up beneath her jawline. The long-anticipated contact made her shiver and tilt her head toward him, offering him her mouth as a sacrifice to this scorching intensity between them.

His lips hovered above hers, stealing her breath and gifting her with his own. So close she could almost taste him. But not close enough. Her hands, so much smaller than his large, capable ones, came up to cup his.

Her eyes were still being held hostage by his, and her every nerve ending felt scraped raw. Her nipples were on fire, hard, aching peaks desperate for the mere brush of his chest against them.

“Ty…” Her lips painted his with a featherlight touch, and he shuddered violently at the brief contact.

He groaned, the sound alive with agony and, instead of giving her the kiss she so desperately needed, he dropped his forehead to hers, his big body visibly trembling.

“I can’t. Vicki, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

With what must have been a heroic dose of willpower, he lowered his hands to encircle her upper arms and firmly push her away from him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and swept past her to wait at the front door.

Cold and bereft, Vicki gathered her tattered pride around her like a cloak and bent to retrieve her bag which had fallen unnoticed to the floor.

She dug through the bag for her key card and made her way toward him on wobbly legs. She quickly opened the door and, when he moved to enter the apartment and do his customary sweep, she halted him with a single word.

“No.”

He hesitated and finally, after avoiding her eyes since leaving the elevator, looked at her. The fact that he looked as miserable as she felt, did not make her feel any better.

“Please, just leave, Ty. I’m tired and this was…something.” She shook her head, not sure how else to describe it. “I’m sure it’s okay. Hugh’s been home all evening.”

“I have to, Vicki.”

Always so damned dutiful. Her shoulders slumped, and she stepped aside and allowed him into the apartment. He made short work of it and was out seconds later.

“It’s fine,” he told her.

“Is it?”

His lips thinned at her doubtful question and his jaw worked, as if he were about to say something, but in the end, he shook his head with a frustrated sound and moved toward the elevator.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he said gruffly, just before the doors closed. Vicki didn’t respond. Honestly, what else was there to say?

“Tyler?” Sam Brand stared hard into his laptop camera the following morning, looking confused and concerned by Ty’s unexpected call. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon. What’s wrong? Is Victoria okay?”

Ty, who hadn’t slept a wink all night, had dragged on a t-shirt and been on his phone to the boss as soon as was socially acceptable, but even that was too early, if the man’s sleepy gaze, rumpled blond hair, morning stubble, and tank top were any indication.

“She’s fine.” True enough, it was Ty who was the fucking wreck. “I was just wondering…what you said yesterday, about her brother possibly easing up on her detail after November, how likely is that to happen?”

“I think he’s comfortable with the idea, but look, even if it doesn’t happen, I’m reassigning you. You’ve spent more than enough time on this babysitting detail. I know it’s been frustrating for you and, in all honesty, I left you on it much too long. I should have shifted Chance into the primary position months ago. But Miles wanted my best, he likes you, and mixing things up wouldn’t have sat well with him. So, if you’re concerned about having to do this for another year, don’t worry, I’ll have you on someone else by December.”

“Sam, I’m not sure I want to be reassigned,” he admitted gruffly, and Brand frowned.

“What do you mean? You want to stay on as her primary?”