Chapter 9
nine
Jesus Christ .
Juliet Rivera is going to kill me.
How is it physically possible for her to look even better than she did last week?
It violates the laws of physics or chemistry or something , surely. There has to be some point when her sensual appeal will finally peak, right?
I figured her charm had to lessen over time—and, therefore, I assumed there was no way she’d be as hot Monday as she was Friday. For one thing, I expected her to wear a different outfit; and I spent the better part of two days persuading myself that the evil red dress was the problem. Not the woman in it.
Ha .
Today’s outfit is worse .
The baby blue suit should be a perfectly professional choice.
Would be—on anyone else.
But Juliet’s luscious curves over-fill the tight pencil skirt hugging her ass and nipping at her waist. A visible outline of her breasts swells under the ivory shell beneath her cropped blazer. And the color—much like the berry red of Friday’s cursed dress—complements the smooth honey hue of her skin.
Maybe it isn’t the clothes, I decide, still staring. Maybe it’s the way she has her hair twisted back. It loops into a low bun, showing off the elegant arch of her throat, her sweet little ears, and the stubborn slant of her jaw.
I want to wrap my hand around that jaw, pull it out of the way, and bite her neck. I’m not normally one for hickeys, but something about her maddening air of defiance stirs a savage longing to mark her. I feel like a wild animal, desperate to sink my teeth into her, desperate for her to tear her claws into me.
All this while standing in the middle of Stryker you don’t know any other languages with which to insult me, pinchao .”
So it is an insult .
I sort of figured.
“I learned enough French to get me through a three-month study abroad program in Paris,” I grumble. “I could come up with something .”
Unbothered, Juliet hums. “Sure you can, pinchao .”
She keeps reading and I keep staring at her profile, wishing for the hundredth time that she wasn’t so damn striking.
“ Bijou .”
The word pops out before I really consider it. Stupid. It isn’t an insult at all. More a term of endearment, albeit a mildly patronizing one.
It means “jewel.” Fitting, since Ella called her Jules on Friday.
She sort of reminds me of a jewel. Full of fire and facets. Brilliant. Rare. Sharp edges that cut and catch light and make her more interesting than any smooth, rounded pebble could ever be.
Juliet lowers her papers and faces me head-on, startled. “ Bijou ? Doesn’t that mean kiss ?”
The thought sends a jolt to my groin. What would those full lips feel like if I crushed them against mine?
“Nope. That’s bisou . Close, though. Try again, bijou .”
A steely glint lights her eyes as she raises her stubborn little chin. She looks so glorious—her prim posture, the flames snapping in her gold gaze.
I feel insane. Have I ever wanted a woman so much? Without even the slightest provocation from her?
Does she feel it, too?
Our gazes meld, but from the corner of my eye, I catch her quick gasp. She shifts slightly, giving away the moment her thighs clench under the table. Her tongue sweeps over her lower lip, followed by the scrape of her teeth.
Juliet wants me, too.
I know it, even before she opens her mouth and obliterates my control.
“Are you going to make me?”