Chapter 6
Bren: My car will be at the curb at seven. Wear something nice that I’ll want to take off you.
He didn’t ask if I had plans. Part of me wants to text back something snippy about how I might be busy.
The rest of me knows that’s bullshit. He didn’t ask because he already knew the answer.
I’d crawl on concrete to get his cock inside me.
Plus, all I was going to do was eat Thai food on my couch in my pajamas and call it a Saturday night.
I read the text three more times. We’ve never gone anywhere outside the office before. Yesterday he fucked my ass, and I said “yellow” for the first time in my life. Tonight he’s taking me out.
My brain has questions, but my pussy is one hundred percent on board with this development. This is on-brand for me.
The problem is that nothing in my closet has ever gone out with a man like Bren Harrison. Hell, half my clothes are still in the moving boxes I haven’t bothered to open. I’m not opening those boxes today. That’s a whole conversation with myself I’m skipping.
There’s a boutique I’ve driven past for weeks.
This is the perfect excuse to buy something new.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in a fitting room trying on a backless champagne silk dress with a hem that hits three inches above where I’d normally want it.
The whole thing is held up by two skinny straps and good intentions. I buy it before my pulse settles.
Back at my apartment, I have three hours and a low-grade panic that is mostly sexual. I break my earlier resolve and open the box I know has my jewelry so I can dig out a pair of drop pearl earrings I haven’t worn in ages. I paint my toenails deep red and tell myself I’m not painting them for him.
I am, very obviously, painting them for him.
At seven, the town car pulls up to my curb. Bren is in the back seat.
The driver opens my door, and I slide in. The leather is cool against my bare thighs, and the air smells like expensive upholstery. Bren looks unreasonably sexy in a dark suit and his beard trimmed close. His gaze travels down my body with an appreciation he isn’t bothering to hide.
“You look incredible.”
“I look like I’m trying too hard.” I smooth the dress over my knees and try not to fidget. “The saleswoman called it a dinner dress. I think she meant a different kind of dinner.”
“She was right.”
The car pulls away. The partition between us and the driver is up and tinted. Whatever happens back here stays back here, and my inner slut is making plans.
Bren shifts beside me. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a protein bar, I’m going to be deeply underwhelmed.”
He doesn’t laugh.
He reaches for my ankle, lifts my foot, and sets it on his thigh. A zing runs up my leg as he slides my heel off and sets it on the seat beside him.
He holds my bare foot in his hands and traces the arch with his thumb as he runs his fingers up to my ankle.
Past Lily, sitting on the couch earlier with a bottle of red polish and zero plan, just earned herself a gold star.
His thumb circles the ball of my foot, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face neutral.
If this is about to become some kinky foot fetish thing, sign me up.
You’re welcome, current Lily.
He’s looking at the deep red on my toes, and I curl them against his thigh.
He just needs to pull his cock out, and I can figure the rest out.
I never expected to be hoping a guy would fuck my feet, but I’m honestly not surprised.
I’ll just add this to the growing list of evidence that I’m totally his.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a delicate gold chain.
An anklet.
My breath catches and refuses to come back out.
He lifts my foot higher into his lap, and I watch the chain catch the light as it slips between his fingers. My pulse picks up a stupid, embarrassing rhythm.
His fingers brush the bone of my ankle as he loops it around, and a shiver rolls all the way up the back of my leg.
The clasp shuts, and somehow this gold chain and his hands on my ankle turn me into a puddle.
My sexy panties might already be a lost cause.
He turns my ankle gently in his hand, adjusting the clasp so it sits on the inside where it won’t catch.
The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds.
He’s done this before. Many times, probably. The thought bugs me, but I shove it aside. I’m too busy trying to breathe.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across the chain.
I should say something. My mouth is open and there is absolutely nothing in my brain as I look down at my own foot like it belongs to someone else. The chain is so thin it’s barely there, but it’s there. And from him. My nipples tighten, and my clit throbs like a traitor.
I love it so much it’s a problem.
My chest tightens, and I need to make it stop immediately. Anklets are pretty, but this gift from a man who owns my orgasms and calls me “good girl” is not just jewelry. I can’t convince myself otherwise.
Being kept is something I don’t do. I don’t get claimed by men with bedroom voices and protein bars in their desk drawers. And yet here I am, mentally drafting my surrender.
I need to get my mouth working before my face gives me away. I wiggle my toes again so the chain glints.
“You know,” I manage, and thank god it comes out close to normal, “most men start with flowers. You went straight for the ankle shackle. Bold strategy.”
He slides my heel back into the shoe. “Flowers die in a week.”
Oh.
I think about a wife I never met, and eight years of him knowing the math on forever. And here he is, clasping something permanent around the ankle of a woman who is allergic to staying in one place for too long.
We’re quite the pair.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “It’s beautiful.”
He nods. His eyes linger on my ankle a moment longer. Then he straightens, and we’re just two people heading to dinner in a town car. As if he didn’t just make me question my three-month rule.
The anklet shifts every time I move.
The restaurant doesn’t have a sign on the door. Bren has a reservation, and the host greets us and walks us to a corner table. The lights are dim, and the dark wood and white tablecloths scream expensive date night.
He pulls out my chair, and when I sit, I cross my legs and keep them angled out from the table so I can admire my anklet. Why is my leg sexier with this on? A pulse of heat hits me straight between my legs.
I’m so screwed.
Bren orders a bottle of red, and I try to pay attention to him, but the anklet keeps distracting me every time my foot moves.
“You keep looking at it,” he says.
“I keep feeling it.”
“Good.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
The food is excellent, but I barely taste it.
I’m too aware of him. The way his suit pulls on his shoulders when he leans back, the low rumble when he talks.
My nipples are tight, and I’m hyperaware of the silk of my dress.
He hasn’t said one filthy thing all night, and my pussy is keeping her own minutes.
“What’s the worst deal you’ve ever done?” I ask.
“Define worst.”
“The one that gave you the most gray hair.”
He gives me a wry grin. “A manufacturing company in Ohio last quarter. They had a second set of books. My analyst missed it.”
“Wait. You got fooled?”
“I got fooled.”
“By a guy with two sets of books.” I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. “Please tell me he had family photos on his desk.”
“Three kids. His wife’s name was Pam.”
“Pam’s husband fooled you. This is the best day of my life. How did you find out?”
“Kevin found it. I was furious. I think I scared him.”
“You scared Kevin? Kevin has zero feelings. I dropped an entire stack of files on his desk last week on accident. He said noted and went back to his spreadsheet.”
“He has feelings. He just keeps them in a very small jar.” He turns his wine glass by the stem. “I bought him a bottle of bourbon the next day. We don’t talk about it.”
He takes care of his people. A protein bar for me and bourbon for Kevin. The exact right thing, without anyone having to ask. My chest goes tight in a way I’d rather it didn’t, and I reach for my wine.
“Your turn,” he says. “Worst temp job.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“Fine. I got yelled at because I shredded three years of a partner’s billing files instead of filing them.”
He goes very still. “How.”
“There was a bin I thought was for file copies to shred. It was not.”
“Lily.” He practically chokes on a snort.
“They had to subpoena the originals back from a vendor. It took six weeks. I was on a plane to Atlanta long before then.”
When he laughs loudly, my entire body tingles in pleasure. That’s twice tonight. What am I doing? Keeping count of a man’s laugh is not something the fun temp does, but I want more.
“I also showed up to the wrong office for three days. Same building, but the wrong floor. They had a job for me. I just kept showing up.”
He laughs again, and I tally it up with the rest.
We’re on dessert when the conversation drifts to food. He asks if I have a favorite restaurant, and the question is so first-date-normal that I answer without thinking.
“No. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to have one. By the time I figure out the good places, I’m packing for the next city. The curse of the eternal temp.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His face tightens for half a second before it smooths out.
I’m ready to apologize for the bad joke when he speaks. “I used to have routines. A bakery that I went to every Thursday for lunch. They knew my order.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Routines used to matter more to me than they do now.”
Used to. Past tense. I don’t ask what changed because I’m pretty sure I know, and once you ask, the answer starts to matter. I’m not ready for that.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. “I think I have a favorite restaurant here now. Does that count?”
He smiles. “That counts.”