Page 4 of Hot Seat

I freeze. What the…? No. It’s not possible.

Quinn says something in a heavily burred Irish accent, but I don’t track his words. In fact, I have only the vaguest sense of the man’s tailored suit, tawny ginger hair, chiseled cheekbones.

Because all I can do is stare at his mouth.

I know that mouth. And that mouth knows me. Intimately.

My gaze jerks up to Quinn’s eyes, and I stand riveted in place, even as he stares back at me hard enough to drill me into the wall. I know those eyes, too.

Standing in front of me is the man who shoved me up against a wall last night and fucked me senseless.

Quinn O’Reilly.

The man who holds my future in his hands…and the man who plunged his thick cock deep inside me while I sobbed in incoherent need, thrusting into me over and over until—

Suddenly his mouth flashes into a sharp, knowing grin, startling in its intensity. “Jo Prescott,” he drawls. “How good of you to come.”

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