Phoenix
"I don’t love you." I look into my boyfriend’s face. "I care about you, but I don’t think I was ever in love with you."
He winces. His lips turn down.
"This is so difficult for me to say, but I believe it’s best to be honest."
The light in his eyes dims, and my heart seizes up. "I don’t mean to hurt you, but it would be wrong to ignore how things are between us, don’t you think?"
He hunches his shoulders, then turns and walks out of the kitchen, past the living room, and into the bedroom. The door slams shut.
I stare at the remnants of the breakfast on my plate. My heart somersaults in my rib cage. My stomach seems to bottom out. The food I tried to eat rushes up my throat. I swallow down the bile, then rise to my feet and place my plate in the sink. I fill a glass with water from the sink and drink it slowly. It settles me a little.
I’ve been building up to that; I kept putting off the conversation with Drew. But the lack of sleep and general exhaustion must have lowered my barriers, for when I sat opposite him at breakfast today, I was unable to hold back. The words I'd rehearsed for days come tumbling out of my mouth. And the result is far worse than I expected.
I pull out my cellphone as I step out of my house. Locking the door behind me, I head down the path, push open the gate which leads to the road, then stop. A prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause. I glance up and down the tree-lined street. There are cars parked on both sides of the road, common in most residential areas in London. It’s quiet, except for the chirping of the birds. It's a sound I love, which led me to buy my apartment in this building. It’s only seven a.m. I should be in bed, but the ER at the hospital is short-staffed. I got a call on my day off and was asked if I’d come in and cover the shift. I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to keep working so I wouldn’t need to spend time at home. So, I wouldn’t have to think about what a mess my personal life is.
I look around my neighbors’ homes—curtains drawn, no lights. Most likely, they're still asleep. The milkman left a bottle on the porch opposite mine. Thanks to my job I’m not home that much, so I don’t know my neighbors. But I bet whoever lives in the house opposite mine believes in recycling and saving the world, which is why they’re buying their milk, the old-fashioned way.
I used to be that way. I used to believe in fighting for a cause. That I could do my bit to make the world a better place. It’s why I became a doctor. My parents were so proud of me.
My father wanted to pay for my education, but I refused. I was young and hopeful. I wanted to make it on my own. Idealistic. Na?ve. Thinking if I worked hard enough, if I believed enough, I could manifest everything I wanted. And for a moment, for a few months even, I thought I had. Then, everything turned upside down.
I step onto the sidewalk and begin to walk toward the hospital. I love that I live so close to my place of work that I can walk there. At least, I used to, until a few days ago, when I had this sensation of being watched. I turn and glance over my shoulder.
Nothing different. Same chirping of the birds. Same parked cars. Same white van at the end of the street. I’ve noticed it’s presence over the last three days. Strange. Someone must be getting renovations done to their place. Strange that that the workmen arrived before dawn? I shrug. It’s not unusual I suppose?
I shake off the feeling, hook my EarPods into my ears, and flick on the podcast I’m listening to on my phone.
It’s an interview with a medical researcher who’s expounding on the last paper he published. I get immersed in his findings, until I reach the hospital. Once I’m in, I deposit my stuff in a locker. I’m already in my scrubs, so I can dive right into my first case in the Emergency Room. An older gentleman who’s having breathing problems. A little girl who’s suffering from high fever which refuses to come down. A leg fracture. A man who fell while getting off a bus and hurt his chin. The list goes on.
I manage to take a break to get a cup of tea and a chocolate bar. Then head back to where patients have been triaged and are awaiting examination. I pull aside the curtain to the first cubicle and pause. The man seated on the clinical table looks straight at me.
Blue eyes so pale, they seemed to reflect my image. Like I’m drowning in his eyes. Like he’s drowning in mine. Thick hair cut so short, there’s barely an inch on top of his head. So short, I can see the brown of his scalp which, for some reason, I find appealing. Intelligent forehead, currently bisected by a cut on his temple with blood trickling down. Long eyelashes, thick enough for me to be envious of them. High cheekbones, sharp enough to double up as scalpels. Straight nose, stern upper lip. All planes and angles. All austere. And stern. Features almost verging on being labeled mean, but for that sensuous lower lip. One which is currently cut. And which only adds to his rakish appeal.
I should be thinking of how to fix his wounds, but I can’t seem to get past the shape of that mouth. It’s pillow-like puffiness—accentuated by the cut— hints at forbidden pleasures. And long steamy nights. And wicked things he could be capable of. Things which could bring me a lot of gratification. And there’s that chin, with a hint of a dip in the middle. Something lush and luxurious and luscious. Something expansive. And passionate. Those beautiful cords of his neck, which lead to the flesh that peeks above the T-shirt he’s wearing.
A leather jacket hugs the breadth of his shoulders. Shoulders so massive, they block out the room behind him. The sleeves outline the powerful muscles of his biceps. So thick, he must have struggled to pull it on. His blue jeans have seen better days. Worn at the knees, pulled apart over those powerful thighs, between which is a substantial tent. He’s packing. Which explains the confidence radiating from him. He looks powerful. Like someone used to being obeyed.
I’d place him as someone who’d be at home in a boardroom, except, there’s a ruggedness to him telling me he doesn’t drive a desk. That, and the massive hands, fingers splayed. One palm relaxed on a thigh. The other on the bed next to him. He has scuffed leather boots—big boots. Size thirteen? Maybe fourteen. Which means—my gaze swings back to the space between his thighs. The zipper is tight and stretched and, surely, that tent is more substantial than before.
My breathing grows rough. My nipples under my scrub tighten into points of need. I’m aware, I’m close to panting and can’t understand it. Sure, he’s good-looking. More than good-looking. And yes, there’s something about him that’s vital. And real. And commands attention. And charismatic. But he’s only a man. A stranger.
So what, if the pheromones pouring off of him saturate the air between us? And so what, if the heat from his body seems to reach across the space to me, spirals around my shoulders, loops around my waist, tightens and holds me in thrall? I don’t know him. So why am I so drawn to him?
My legs shiver. My toes curl. My scalp tingles. I still haven’t taken my eyes off that triangle of promise between his legs. So, when he clears his throat, my cheeks flame. I jerk my chin up, meet his eyes, and see the amusement in them. His lips curl. He’s caught me in the act, as it were. But when he speaks, he doesn’t let that on.
"Doc." He jerks his chin in my direction. Gravelly voice—like he swallowed pebbles, and his voice has to rake over the rough surface to reach me. Dark edge—like thick, hot chocolate that you have to dig out with a spoon.
My mouth waters. I have to swallow to stop the moan that whips up my throat.
"Doctor Hamilton," I manage to croak out. "Seems you got into a fight?"
"You should see the other guy." He smirks.
The uptick of his lips is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My already sensitized nerve endings flare. My ovaries do a little dance. Every cell in my body seems to have woken up and is locked onto him. Where’s my professionalism? I’m a doctor. He’s my patient. He needs urgent care. That’s why he came in here. So why the heck am I not examining him, instead of ogling him like he invented the cure for an incurable disease?
"Bar fight?" I guess. Only because I want to get information that will help me treat him. That’s all. It has nothing to do with finding out more about him.
"A fight ," he agrees, but doesn’t add anything more.
Okay, then. I stare. He stares back. Our gazes hold. Once more, that thrum of anticipation zips up my spine. Damn. This is not good. I need to get on with treating him. Need to do my job.
"Take off your clothes."
He arches an eyebrow.
My flush deepens. "I mean, please take off your jacket and T-shirt so I can examine your wounds."
He tilts his head.
"There’s blood on your T-shirt, under your jacket. It doesn't look like it dripped there."
He glances down at himself, then unfolds his body and rises to his feet. And keeps rising. The promise of the breadth of his shoulders and of the width of his palms is borne out when I have to tilt my head back, then further back, to see his features. He’s tall. As tall as my brother James who’s six-feet-four-inches. The man shrugs off his jacket, dropping it on the treatment table.
I have a brief impression of the blood which blots the side of his T-shirt. Then he reaches behind him—winces—and pulls it off.
I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of acres of golden-brown skin, tanned by the sun. His pectoral muscles are well developed enough to warrant a dip between them. Very male nipples, and corrugated abs form an eight-pack. Yep, an honest-to-life eight-pack, marred only by a tattoo of what seems to be the wing of a raven curling up from the left. On the right side is an ugly bruise over his ribs. The skin is mottled and turning purple. Blood from the cut has splashed onto his jeans and dried at the edges.
My gaze slides down to take in the mouth-watering iliac furrows on either side that swoop down to the waistband of his pants. He flicks open the button, lowering his zipper. The r-r-r-i-pping sound ricochets off the walls of the room and seems to hit me in my chest in tandem to the beating of my heart. My pulse shoots through the roof. I want him to shuck off his jeans so badly. It’s the hunger in me which brings me to my senses.
"Stop," I croak.
He pauses, a puzzled look on his face.
"Are you hurt anywhere else, other than your torso?"
He shakes his head slowly.
"You can keep your p-pants on then." I stumble over the word like I’m fifteen, instead of a qualified trauma specialist. I need to get a grip on my emotions.
"Whatever you say, Doc," he drawls.
That last word feels like a caress coming from him. Another shiver squeezes my lower belly. Ridiculous. I close the distance toward him. With each step I take, expectation pitches in my chest. I am conscious of the fact he’s watching me closely as I inch toward him.
His scent intensifies. Under that sharp astringent hospital smell is something dark, smoky, like distant campfire on a star drenched night, with a hint of leather, perhaps, from his jacket. And something else unique. Intoxicating. The scent of his skin, perhaps?
My knees tremble. My scalp tingles. Just as I'm congratulating myself on completing what feels like a walk of shame as I near him, I stumble and pitch forward.
Connor
I hold out my arms, and she falls into them. Against my bare chest. On the wounded side. Pinpricks of shock shudder up my spine to my brain. The pain is nothing compared to the sensations hurtling out from where she’s placed her palms on my chest. Slim fingers, so pale against my skin. Unvarnished nails. Cut short. Unadorned. Yet, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I hold her close, take full advantage of the proximity to bend and sniff her hair. Flowers. Cherry blossom. Roses. With a touch of vanilla. It’s feminine and light, yet packs a punch, enough to gut me. Undressing for her was a most pleasurable experience. Watching her hips sway as she walked away from me each day, as I watched her come out of her house every morning over the past week, has been agonizing. By that I mean, it gave me so much pleasure, I had to find a way to find relief afterward each day.
I watched her house closely, imagined her under the sheets of her bed at night, obsessed over how it would be to hold her in my arms… But it's nothing compared to the reality. Soft, curvy, with a waist so slim, I could span it with the width of my palm. And those gorgeous hips. I’m tempted to run my fingers over the swell, to squeeze their thickness, to massage them, to find out if they're as soft yet firm as they seemed.
But that would simply piss her off, I have no doubt. She just met me. While I feel I know her, after the vigil I’ve kept over her since her brother asked me to, this is the first time she's meeting me. I couldn’t afford to upset her, no matter how much I want to swing her up in my arms, walk out of here, and lay claim to her.
All in good time. I swallow down my impatience and set her aside. "You, okay?"
She blinks. "Must be the new clogs. Not used to them yet."
I glance down at the yellow, closed-toe sandals with the thick, rigid sole. They should look ugly, but they only emphasize the delicateness of her feet. Toe-to-toe, she barely comes up to my chest. I'm at least a foot taller than her. I’ve always been a big guy. Only Tyler, my older brother, is taller than me. But I have broader shoulders. Not that Tyler will ever admit that. I’ve learned, over the years, how to relax my body so I appear non-threatening. But I’ll always appear like a giant next to her. I sink back onto the examination table.
She avoids my gaze, picks up the paperwork the nurse left, and scans through it.
"Connor Davenport. Thirty-two year. You were in a bar fight?" She levels a look at me from under her eyelashes.
I pop my shoulder. The triage nurse was thorough. I don’t see the need to add anything more than what's written there. It would mean I can avoid lying to the do.
When I stay silent, she continues reading, "You might need stitches." She sets the paperwork aside.
I slide my thighs apart in an invitation. She hesitates. Then, because that’s the best way to examine the bruise I sport, she steps between them. Her cheeks flush. But her fingers are confident when she pulls out a flashlight and shines it in my eyes. Blinded, I blink, then manage to keep my eyes open. She makes a humming sound which could mean anything, in the way that doctors often do. She moves her finger in front of my eyes, and I follow the direction.
"No concussion," she says shortly. "You’ll need stitches for that though." She nods toward the wound on my forehead, and that—she glances at the wound at my side.
Movements brisk, she touches the skin next to the dried blood on my forehead. My muscles jump. Sensations zip up my spine. It takes everything in me not to groan. I curl my fingers into fists, press my feet into the floor, and will my body to relax. Impossible, when every tendon in my body seems to have turned to steel. And the muscle between my legs to granite.
She presses down on the skin, and pain shudders out from the point of contact. Still, I make no sound. She frowns, presses around a little more. "Does it hurt?"
Yes.
I shake my head. I’m not lying. I can bear it.
She shoots me a disbelieving look from under her eyelashes. Then presses down harder. This time I hiss out a breath.
"So, it does hurt?"
"Just do what you need to," I say through gritted teeth. Sweat beads on my brow. She is hurting me. Just not where she imagines. It’s her touch turning my blood to lava, and kicking up my pulse rate, and bringing visions of how it would be to lift her up and divest her of those shapeless scrubs that do nothing to disguise the lush curves of her body and throw her down on the examination table.
But I don’t do that. Obviously, I hope nothing of my thoughts shows on my face. But she must hear something in my words because her movements speed up. Some more digging in with her fingers, which sends little points of pain racing under my skin, and she nods. "No ribs broken; only bruised. So, you won’t need an X-ray. You do need stitches for this, too, however."
Then she reaches over to grab the antiseptic spray from the counter. The curve of her waist brushes my thigh, and I’m so turned on I could come from the contact. Damn.
Then I’m gasping for air, this time for real, as she sprays antiseptic on my wound.
I manage to not cry out. Which means, hopefully, I don’t dispel the notions of my macho attitude and pain thresholds which I’ve struggled to impress her with.
Then she straightens. "Close your eyes."
I do, and she sprays the antiseptic on the cut over my eyebrow. Then on the one on my lower lip. The resulting burn is barely a twinge.
Eyes still closed, I sense her walk around and over to one of the shelves. I open my eyes in time to see her bringing over a steel tray with tools. I assume she’s going to stitch me up. I’m proven right when she asks me to lay down. I stretch out and continue watching her, using the time to survey her features.
After the days of watching her from afar, I can’t believe I’m this close to her. She bends over to inject an anesthetic to numb the space around the cut on my eyebrow. I inhale her scent—cherry blossoms and roses, with a hint of vanilla. It’s heady and further exacerbates the lust lancing through my veins. My fingers tingle with the need to touch her, but I manage to keep my hands to myself and let her get on with the job of stitching me up. She finishes stitching my forehead, then turns toward the gash in my side.
When she touches the abraded skin around the wound with the cotton, I can’t stop the groan which boils up my throat.
“Sorry,” she murmurs without looking up. Goosebumps pepper her skin. Interesting. And reassuring to know she feels this connection between us. That though her touch is professional the impact on her is far from.
I sense her breathing roughen. Then she gets ahold of herself and begins to clean the wound. She follows the same protocol, numbing the space before she stitches it up.
All too soon, she’s done. Cutting off the thread, she steps back.
"Keep the stitches dry. They should start dissolving within ten days. You’ll have a scar, though." She pulls off her disposable gloves and drops them in the bin. "It’s only going to add to your good looks, I’m sure."
"You think I’m good looking?" I swing my legs over the side and sit up.
She stiffens, then rubbing antiseptic onto her hands, turns to me. "You know you are."
"It still means a lot to me to know that you think so too."
Her expression turns cautious. "Why is that?"
"Because I think you’re, possibly, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen."
She flushes, her eyes grow wide, then she tosses her head. "It’s probably gratitude for having stitched you up that’s kicking in." She pulls out a tablet from her pocket and her fingers fly over the surface. “You're going to need to use a prophylactic antibiotic. A prescription has been sent to the hospital pharmacy. You can pick it up there. Make sure you apply it daily until the wound is healed.” She pockets her device, hooks her stethoscope around her neck, and moves toward the curtains drawn around the cubicle.
I should let her go. This is totally unprofessional, but I can’t stop myself from snaking out my hand and wrapping my fingers around her wrist. "You never told me your first name."
She stiffens, then stares down at my fingers, before looking up at me. "You’re overstepping the doctor-patient relationship."
"You’ve treated me; that relationship is now over." I hold onto her for a few seconds more. Then, I slowly retract my hand. "Your name"—I soften my tone—"please."
She hesitates, then a small smile curves her lips. "You’re a resourceful man, Mr. Davenport. I’m sure you can find it out another way."
To find out what happens next read Connor and Phoenix's story here
Want an exclusive bonus epilogue with Tyler my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
"No. She’s had enough."
"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.
Indigo eyes bore into me.
Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with . I gulp.
"Like what you see?"
I flush, peer up into his face.
Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.
Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.
I scowl. "Gimme that."
He shakes his head.
"That’s my drink."
"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."
I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.
What the actual hell?
I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!
The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.
"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.
"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"
"Hmph."
I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.
Look away, look away. I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?
He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way.
A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.
His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.
No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.
"Arrogant wanker."
"I’ll take that under advisement."
"You’re a jerk, you know that?"
He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.
He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.
The hell! I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.
"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.
Heat curls low in my belly.
Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.
He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.
While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.
"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"
"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?
He wears a cheap-ass watch?
That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.
I reach up and he straightens.
I lurch back.
"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.
A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.
I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.
Sinclair
My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.
What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.
A huffing sound fills my ear.
I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.
All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.
Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me. Huh? He hates women, but not her, apparently.
I straighten and my nose grazes hers.
My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?
I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.
Pink hair surrounds her face. Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?
I stare at her face. How old is she? Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters. What the hell?
She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"
"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."
She gulps and her pupils dilate. Ah, so she feels it, too?
I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.
Color floods the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyelids flutter down. She tilts her chin up.
I push up and off of her.
"That… Sweetheart, is an emphatic ‘no thank you’ to whatever you are offering."
Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in a few seconds. What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?
She scrambles up, eyes blazing.
Ah! The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens, Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?
She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.
My heart begins to thud.
She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."
"What does that even mean?"
She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.
She pivots, grabs a half-full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.
I growl, "Oh, no, you don’t."
She turns, swings it at me. The smell of hops envelops the space.
I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.
I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance.
She snickers.
I tip my chin up. "You're going to regret that."
The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar.
I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It’s only clothes." She gulps. "They'll wash."
I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air. "I should have known that you wouldn’t have a sense of humor."
I thrust out my jaw. "That’s a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."
She blanches, then straightens her shoulders. "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"
"Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "it’s you I was after."
"Me?" She frowns.
"We need to speak."
She glances toward the bartender who's on the other side of the bar. "I don’t know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened on my cock?
The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.
"This will take only a few seconds." I take a step forward.
She moves aside.
I frown. "You want to hear this, I promise."
"Go to hell." She pivots and darts forward.
I let her go, a step, another, because... I can? Besides it's fun to create the illusion of freedom first; makes the hunt so much more entertaining, huh?
I swoop forward, loop an arm around her waist, and yank her toward me.
She yelps. "Release me."
Good thing the bar is not yet full. It's too early for the usual officegoers to stop by. And the staff...? Well they are well aware of who cuts their paychecks.
I spin her around and against the bar, then release her. "You will listen to me."
She swallows; she glances left to right.
Not letting you go yet, little Bird. I move into her space, crowd her.
She tips her chin up. "Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested."
I allow my lips to curl. "You don't fool me."
A flush steals up her throat, sears her cheeks. So tiny, so innocent. Such a good little liar. I narrow my gaze. "Every action has its consequences."
"Are you daft?" She blinks.
"This pretense of yours?" I thrust my face into hers, growling, "It’s not working."
She blinks, then color suffuses her cheeks. "You’re certifiably mad?—"
"Getting tired of your insults."
"It's true, everything I said." She scrapes back the hair from her face.
Her fingernails are painted... You guessed it, pink.
"And here’s something else. You are a selfish, egotistical jackass."
I smirk. "You're beginning to repeat your insults and I haven't even kissed you yet."
"Don't you dare." She gulps.
I tilt my head. "Is that a challenge?"
"It's a..." she scans the crowded space, then turns to me. Her lips firm, "...a warning. You're delusional, you jackass." She inhales a deep breath before she speaks, "Your ego is bigger than the size of a black hole." She snickers. "Bet it's to compensate for your lack of balls."
A-n-d, that’s it. I’ve had enough of her mouth that threatens to never stop spewing words. How many insults can one tiny woman hurl my way? Answer: too many to count.
"You—"
I lower my chin, touch my lips to hers.
Heat, sweetness, the honey of her essence explodes on my palate. My dick twitches. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, reaching for that something more… more… of whatever scent she’s wearing on her skin, infused with that breath of hers that crowds my senses, rushes down my spine. My groin hardens; my cock lengthens. I thrust my tongue between those infuriating lips.
She makes a sound deep in her throat and my heart begins to pound.
So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don’t need in my life.