Chapter 10
Killian
I have never been more pissed off and turned on at the same time in my bloody life.
That little fuckin’ vixen. The nerve on her.
I pick up the NDA packet that was signed by someone named Callie Marshall.
How did Sam get hold of it? That’s only one of the million questions running through my hijacked brain right now.
Why’s she so desperate for this gig? Surely, Sandro is paying her enough for a cushy life here.
Maybe she’s indebted to someone for quite a bit? Maybe that’s who she’s hiding from?
She fled the room over ten minutes ago, and I still can’t convince my dick to stand down. Or my brain to stop replaying that hot as fuck performance she gave. I mean… holy shite. How does a smart as fuck lass also have a body made for sin and the talent to bring a man to his knees with it?
I can still feel the warmth of her body, the soft brush of her hair against my neck, the heady scent of her.
It took a Herculean effort not to grab those juicy thighs and spread them so I could dip my fingers into her, see if she was as turned on as I was.
But I remembered how she smacked me in the mouth when I touched her at the hospital. I wasn’t making that eejit move twice.
With a rumble of frustration, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine something else, anything else. I bring up the lad’s ugly mug I bloodied sparring yesterday. Focus on it hard, until I hear Sully’s heavy footsteps coming toward me.
Opening my eyes, I meet his questioning gaze. He’s planted in front of me, arms crossed. “Well?”
I scrub a hand down my face and gather up all the paperwork. “Well, what?”
“Did ya get a taste of that bloody brilliant ass?”
A flare of heat hits my chest. I don’t dare think about what it means. “No.” Restless, I stand and head for the door.
“No?” I can hear the confusion in his tone as he follows me. “You are hiring her though, yeah?”
“No.”
Sully’s palm grips my shoulder. “Killian.”
My jaw clenches as I turn to face him.
His gaze searches my expression, brows pushing down. “What’s goin’ on?”
I blow out a breath. “That was Dr. Sam.”
On a half-chuckle, half-puff of disbelief, he says, “No.” His grin grows wider. “What the bleedin’ hell does she need a job dancin’ for?”
“No idea.” I can tell he’s replaying her performance in his head and a flare of something dark and uncomfortable squeezes my chest again. I want to wipe her dance from his brain. “So, no, I won’t be hirin’ her.”
His smile fades and his eyes narrow. “I don’t understand why not. If she wants to dance, let her. She was brilliant. Think of the money she’d bring in for private shows.”
He’s right, of course. I should be jumping at the chance to have a golden filly in the stable like her. I rub my chest in discomfort. “I’ll think about it,” I say, just to end the conversation.
Sully mumbles something about being a daft prick, but I ignore him.