Chapter 12 Namaste, My Ass #2
Except that… it brings me back to the way he kisses.
Fire. Damn sexy. Impossible to forget.
I just write, biting the inside of my cheek not to react. Extremely physical, confident kisser, tends to flirt as a defense mechanism / but kissing needs improvement.
Okay, I added the last part just to convince myself and stop thinking about it.
The sound of the pen on the screen is the only sound in the room for a couple of seconds.
Then he leans forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his gaze narrowing into a curious slit.
“What did you write?”
What? Why does he care what I wrote? He hasn’t cared until now…
“A professional note.” I almost stutter, damn it.
The chair creaks as he stands up.
I clutch the tablet to my chest, already anticipating trouble.
He stands in front of me with exasperating calmness.
My heart races, I don't want to move, but I subtly back up. Except that… I can’t back up any further. My butt hits the desk.
He’s in front of me, tall, hot, too close.
Those eyes pierce me as if there were no space or air or logic between us anymore.
And actually, I don’t think there is space, or air.
“Did you write that my kissing needs improvement?” His voice drops, husky.
“I-It wasn’t a judgment. It was an empirical observation.” My heart races. “Usually, clients with these attitudes have shortcomings. Nothing that can’t be improved.” Yes, I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.
And right now, I am VERY nervous.
I breathe slowly, looking for an escape route, but my brain has decided to take a vacation.
“Delete that sentence,” he says softly.
“No.”
“Sloane…”
He raises his hand, and I’m sure he’s about to take the tablet from my hands.
Except his fingers just lightly brush mine, his thumb accidentally touching my skin.
A shiver runs up my arm, all the way to my neck.
I stay still.
The tablet ends up in his hands, but he no longer seems so interested in the questionnaire.
My heart pounds in my ears, and I feel like a complete idiot because I’m about to do something no professional ethics course will ever justify.
I take a step forward.
He stays still, but his eyes darken.
And then it happens.
I kiss him.
It’s pure impulse.
A beautiful mistake.
My hands close on his T-shirt; I pull him toward me with a force I didn't know I had.
He responds instantly, as if he’s been waiting for me for weeks.
His hands slide onto my hips; he pulls me against him.
His lips taste of mint and arrogance.
Mine taste of coffee and frustration.
The combination is explosive.
His arms wrap around me, strong, secure, pushing me slightly against the desk.
The kiss is everything it shouldn’t be: deep, desperate, dirty with desire.
His tongue moves confidently, his body bends over mine, his hand slides behind my neck, into my hair, holding me steady as if he could anchor me to the moment.
Every cell in my body screams against reason, yet I can’t stop.
I feel his breath mix with mine, I feel his heart beating against my chest, and for an instant, just one, everything else disappears.
Then his hand slides down to my lower back. He doesn’t really touch my butt; he places it right there, on the edge. Exactly and precisely on the limit of decency.
Extremely physical, confident kisser, tends to flirt as a defense mechanism / updated evaluation: devastating kiss.
God.
He lightly nips my lower lip, and I feel my knees give way. I decide to break the limit: I slip my hands under his T-shirt, enjoying the feel of his sculpted abs, but it's not enough.
Not even close.
Without breaking the kiss, I grab one of his hands and bring it to my blouse.
Is he choosing to be the good guy right now?
I push it firmly, and he understands where I want to be touched. He does it. He cups my breast with his hand, and a damned sigh of approval escapes me.
I’m about to lift my leg and look for more friction, but… someone knocks on my office door.
“Sweetheart?” My. Father.
Damn. I shove Cohen away like he’s on fire.
I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe it.
No.
That did not just happen.
I did not just kiss a client.
Sure… I’ve done hotter things with him…
Well, but he wasn’t my client then.
Breathe, Sloane. Breathe.
“See?” he whispers, completely unshaken. “Highly compatible.”
Damn it. I glare at him. Then I look at the door. Then my gaze returns to him.
I need to find my composure and make Cohen disappear… I can’t open the door to my father and have him find his athlete here with his huge, swollen gear in plain sight.
“You’re adorable when you absentmindedly bite your lip like that.”
“COHEN!” I hiss under my breath.
I hate this guy.
My father knocks again, and I hear him call my name.
“Dad?” I answer, my voice slightly shrill.
“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart.”
Panic takes hold of me the moment I see the doorknob turn.
I quickly adjust my blouse, give Cohen a fiery look hoping he understands he needs to stay quiet and still, then I rush toward the door.
First, I push it to keep it from opening wide, then I open it just enough and step out.