Chapter 10 Addison
TEN
ADDISON
I don’t know if I can do this. Work for Roman Reeves.
I thought I could. I thought I could compartmentalize things, like men do.
I thought I could focus on the professional relationship we now have.
That I could lock up the memory of our back alley tryst in a bomb-proof safe and toss it into the oceanic depths of my mind along with the ones from my seventh-grade year when I spoke with a lisp because of my retainer.
It’s not like I haven’t been giving it the old college try.
For the most part, I’m able to keep my mind on the job and out of Roman’s pants.
But sometimes my eyes get stuck, and before I know it, I’m imagining those long fingers stroking into me, or his lips pursed around my clit as he brings me to climax.
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, after lunch the other day, he dropped that little bomb on me about him not wanting a “one-man woman” and I haven’t been able to think about anything else since. What the hell does that even mean?
You know what it means.
Do not.
Do, too.
Oh, shut up.
Ugh! I drop my head into my hands, thankful I’m at home and not at risk of being seen in my distraught condition.
I really need to stop arguing with my subconscious.
Okay, technically, there are only two things I can think of that he could’ve possibly meant about his would-be girlfriend.
Either he gets off on the idea of her cheating on him, or…
say it…he gets off on sharing her with other men.
As crazy as it sounds, the sharing thing makes sense when I think about the alley.
It wasn’t a physical sharing, but mentally and visually, we were connected with that other couple.
Fuckety fuck fuck. I can’t get him out of my head.
The man does things to me. Obviously not in the literal sense, but my body doesn’t seem to be able to tell the difference.
Every time that ice-blue gaze locks onto me, I get feverish and a spark lights in my belly.
When he speaks to me, his mouth utters legal jargon regarding our cases but all I hear are his descriptions of how wet I am, how he wants to be buried deep inside me.
I plow my hands through my hair and stand to pace in front of my couch.
To say I’ve been fantasizing about Roman is what I call a “double under.” An understandable understatement.
Any woman with a pulse would dream about that man and all the lascivious things he could do to her, so it’s no surprise that he’s been invading my mind almost around the clock.
After our bump-and-grind session, it was thoughts of the bad boy Ruthless.
But lately it’s been Roman, the picture of sophistication and raw power in a suit, who’s been directing my wayward mind.
Both sides of him are irrevocably sexy and more tempting than a deal with the devil for calorie immunity.
Shaking my arms out and cracking my neck to each side, I give myself a pep talk. “Okay, stop thinking about him, Addie. Get back to work like a good little lawyer before you spontaneously combust.”
I grab a fresh bottle of water from my fridge and take my place again on the couch with my laptop on the coffee table and files spread out around me.
This is, of course, a big no-no as far as my boss is concerned, but tough titties.
Working at Schmeel it’s after eleven.
The only person who ever knocks this late is Mr. Hollock from across the hall when my TV is too loud.
I swear that I watch it at the normal level, but the walls in this place are paper-thin and for an old guy, he has supersonic hearing.
My TV isn’t on, but I’ve been listening to a playlist on my computer while I work.
Sighing, I look down and take in my cozy tank top and boy shorts pajama set. If it was anyone else, I might be worried about my braless, ass-cheek-hugging condition, but for as good as the geezer’s ears are, his eyes are like those of a mole.
The knocking comes again. “Coming,” I call out as I cross to my door. I unlock it and yank it open, prepared to argue the noise pollution concern, when my words get caught in my throat. “Look, I’m not w—”
“Not what, Addison,” asks the tall, dark, and dangerous man as he towers over me, his hands gripping either side of the doorframe. “Not working? My inbox begs to differ.”
Oh. Shit. This is so not Mr. Hollock. Of all the people in all the world, the last person I expected to see on the other side of my door is Ruthless.
And he is Ruthless right now. The black scruff that has grown over the course of the day shadows his jaw, his inky hair is rakishly spiked, and a thin line of kohl frames his eyes.
A white wife-beater stretches across his muscled torso with the front tucked into the waistband of a worn-in pair of faded jeans with holes in the thighs.
All of his accessories are present: diamond earrings, black leather wrist cuffs, silver necklace, wallet chain, and I’m betting my favorite pair of Louboutins that his silver ball piercing is in his tongue.
My brain is sending all sorts of signals to my body, each one more confusing than the last—slam the door, invite him in, say something, ignore him, walk away, jump his bones!
I’m particularly fond of that last one, but it doesn’t matter because somewhere along the line, the signals are getting jammed up and I’m not responding to a one of ’em.
“Sure, I’d love to come in,” he says wryly as he brushes past me.
The electricity from that brief contact of arms jolts me into action. Closing the door, I follow behind him to where he’s standing in my living room, glaring at my casual workstation.
“Roman, what are you doing here?” I ask accusingly, as if playing dumb will somehow spare me his wrath.
He swings his gaze to me. “What did I tell you about working all the damn time?”
“I know, but—”
“It’s fucking Friday night, for Christ’s sake.
You should be out with friends—or even relaxing would be acceptable.
” Roman stalks me slowly, taking step after step in my direction, backing me up until my back hits my bookshelves.
He braces his hands on the shelf behind my head and invades my space.
His scent and nearness are making me practically salivate.
“What you should not be doing is disobeying my direct order. Do you know what that makes you, Addison?”
“An insubordinate employee?”
“A very, very bad girl.”
“Oh.” All the air whooshes from my lungs as I imagine the myriad of punishments this sex god could administer that would feel more like prurient rewards of the best kind.
He rakes his eyes down my body, pausing at my breasts. I feel them go heavy and the nipples tighten under his attention, but I refuse to cross my arms and hide myself like an underdressed harlot. I’m in my pajamas in my own damn house. He’s overdressed, not the other way around.
Narrowing my gaze at him, I ask, “Get your fill of my tits yet, Mr. Reeves?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine. “Do I look like Mr. Reeves to you right now, sweetheart? Because I guaran-damn-tee I’m not here as your boss, in any capacity.”
“Then what’s with bursting into my home and ordering me to stop working?”
“I’m not,” he says, pushing off the shelving unit and taking a step back. “I’m here as a friend. I’m taking you out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Addison. Go change or I’m dragging you out to Fever just like that.”
I’m about to snort and call his bluff when I see something flash in his eyes that tells me Roman “Ruthless” Reeves is not fucking around. “Fine,” I huff out reluctantly. “But you’re buying my drinks, hotshot.”