Chapter Six #3
I’m a deer in the headlights, a mouse in the cookie jar.
Rougher and rougher his hand works, his body taut with impending release.
I don’t think I’ve inhaled since we made eye contact.
Brows furrowing, his teeth sink into his bottom lip for a second before he gives me that arrogant caught you looking smirk again.
Holding my gaze, he comes. Chest heaving, body shuddering, he’s so hot that I forget to be ashamed of creeping. My mouth waters.
Stop.
No.
Just be normal, for fuck’s sake.
I can’t. Instead of apologizing or even running away, I stare, half in and half out of the bathroom. Caine rinses and turns off the water. After rubbing his towel half-heartedly over his hair, he wraps it around his waist.
My mouth and brain reconnect, but the signal is spotty. “I’m sorry—makeup—boundaries—bag—so, so sorry.” Towel slung low around his hips, he saunters toward the sink as if me live, laugh, lurking on him masturbating is an everyday occurrence.
“Don’t be sorry.” He moves through what must be his regular post-shower routine as if nothing unusual has happened.
Unzipping a small black leather pouch, he pulls out aftershave and pats a bit along his jaw.
The musky, woodsy scent doesn’t calm me.
“Heard you come in. Figured you’d appreciate the show. ”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. I look like a gopher who just found herself face-to-face with a fox.
Caine smiles, his expression beyond smug. “Did you?”
My hard swallow is a confession in itself, but I have enough self-respect not to say, It was the highlight of my thirty-six years on this planet. Barely.
“It was fine.” I examine my cuticles. If I can’t see what a train wreck I look like in the mirror, it’ll be easier to try to play it off. “Is the tattoo new?”
“It is. Want a closer look?” He grips where the towel is tucked into itself. “Might even let you touch. If you ask nice.”
I want to see. I want to touch. I desperately want to nuzzle, lick, suck, stroke, ride, and choke on it. But I want to preserve any remaining shred of dignity I still have even more.
“What happened to horror movie rules?” I feign confusion. “I thought we were following those.”
Cocking his head, he gives me a quizzical look.
“Sex equals death. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed. Horribly puritanical and misogynistic, in my opinion, but since you’re all about following horror movie rules…” Smiling brightly, I back out of the bathroom.
“Rules were made to be broken—”
The click of the bathroom door closing cuts him off.
Four and a Half Years Ago
I’m working at Shane’s kitchen table when I hear the thump of boots on the front porch.
My first thought is a delivery, a perfectly reasonable happening on a Thursday afternoon.
Old habits exist for a reason, though. I pull my Mace from my purse, shoving it into the waistband of my skirt, and tug my sweater over it.
The click-click-click of my high heels on the hardwood makes my teeth itch.
I’ve been working for Shane for a while now, and though he’s told me dozens of times to make myself at home while working here, barefoot is a level of comfort I’ve yet to reach.
Three steps from the door, it opens. Tugging the Mace out, I step behind the swing, letting the intruder walk past me.
It’s a man. Dark hair, too long to be Shane’s.
Broad shoulders in a black T-shirt, jeans that hug an unfairly perky ass.
A walk that can only be described as a saunter, and cologne that makes every cell in my body wake up and take interest.
It’s Caine. Shoving the Mace back into the waistband of my skirt, I try to go into business mode.
“Hi.”
He turns, face lighting up in a smile. “Margot! What are you doing here?”
The horny little bats fluttering in my stomach become positively unglued at the sound of him saying my name.
Polite. Pleasant. Relaxed.
“I work for Shane. Did you think I’d get fired in six months?” It comes out snappy.
Whoops.
Caine laughs, shutting the door. “Thought you might get sick of my brother.”
“Not a chance. Don’t tell him, but he’s actually one of my lowest maintenance clients.
” It’s true. Shane has his particularities, but I fully relate to that, having more than a few of my own.
Considering he informed me that I should be charging more and then went on to pay me well above market rate for a personal assistant, I’m more than happy to color-code his spreadsheets any hue he prefers.
“I’d hate to meet the rest of your clients, then.” He looks me up and down, taking in my knee-length black skirt, black tights, maroon blouse, gray sweater, and high heels. In these shoes, I’m nearly his height. “Love the getup. Does he make you wear this?”
“Nobody makes me do anything.” I’m about to explain that I went to the firm this morning to transcribe a meeting before I see the tiny dimple in his cheek. He’s trying not to laugh. “You’re an ass.”
I’m creeping on him right back; I can’t help it. There’s a cartoon on his black T-shirt. A hedgehog sits on top of a bush, one of its tiny hands—paws?—raised as it defiantly flips the bird. Above it there’s text, a loose handwriting font that says Get your own hedge, f*cker.
A literal hedgehog.
It’s absurdly endearing, but luckily, I have a chronic case of resting bitch face, so he’ll never know I think that.
He shrugs, as if being called an ass is normal for him. “So, how are things?” The question is asked over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen, a bright green envelope in his right hand.
I follow, because that’s where my laptop is, and I’m working on a document for Shane that he might not want his brother to see. Only reason. Not because my pussy has slid into the driver’s seat of my brain.
Heading for the coffee maker with an air of propriety, he sets the envelope on the counter and opens the mug cupboard. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Please.” I’m thrown off by his appearance as much as the fact that he doesn’t seem like he’s going to explain why he’s here. “Are you here to see Shane when he finishes work, or…?”
“It’s Gretchen’s birthday next week, but my schedule’s full. Figured I’d swing by and drop her card off on my way to Ashburn. I have a convention there this weekend.”