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Quinn snorts. “You know what I think? I think you being yourself turned him on. Dudes with power love firecracker women. Like, they always have girls throwing themselves at them, so it’s super-hot when someone stands up to them instead. It’s, like, kinky.”
She says kinky, and the image of Reese in leather forces its way into my head.
Focus!
“I fail to see how that’s beneficial to me.”
Quinn groans. “My god, Liv, that master’s degree really doesn’t make up for your hard-headedness sometimes. Brain cells, baby! I think he’s attracted to you. Which meaaaans, you should use that to your advantage. Don’t sleep with him; that’s fine. Bad idea anyway. But, yanno… giving him a little bit of that spice that had him hire you every now and then might work to your benefit.”
I frown. “Sounds… risky.”
She flashes me the mischievous grin that's gotten me into trouble more times in my life than I care to count. “What’s life without a little bit of risk?”
11
OLIVIA
“Here’s what I think.”
Reese sits in front of me, cocky as ever on his desk. I have the strangest sense of déjà vu. That smirk, the way he looks at me—it glues me to the chair. Makes me hot in the skin.
I squirm. What does he think? I hang onto his words, dripping in a desire for approval and… desire in general.
“I see you squirming like a little kitten in heat.”
Shit, how did he know? I flush, heat spreading up my neck from my chest. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Dalton.”
Reese chuckles. It’s dark. Smooth. Intoxicating. If whiskey was a sound, it’d be the one Reese just made.
He stands up and loosens his tie. The tendons in his hands press against his skin with the movement. I can’t help but swallow. He’s got such huge hands and I want them on me.
Like he can read my mind, he tilts my head up by my chin, and just like that, I forget all sense.
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that I'm in my boss’s office.
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that this won’t make a good impression.
Suddenly, all that matters is him.
The corner of his mouth quirks as I look him in his perfect green eyes. “I thought I said don’t call me ‘Mister.’” His fingers trace along my jaw. His head tilts, like he’s amused at the way I unconsciously nuzzle into his touch.
“Maybe I like the way it sounds,” I counter.
I want to be bad. I want to push. Why should I bow to his rules right off the bat? Shouldn’t I do as I please, too? Shouldn’t I?—
I gasp as his fingers tighten just so around my throat. A pressure that pinks my face. I pant softly. His hold forces me to look at him. Men don’t usually handle me like this, but I like that he does.
“If you won’t call me Reese,” he snarls with a masculine intensity, “then you can call me ‘Sir.’”
I squirm in my seat and he laughs. Suddenly, his hand leaves my throat. He grips my lapels and yanks. Fabric tears, exposing my black lacy bra.
I don’t remember choosing that one this morning. It’s saved exclusively for when I plan on getting laid.
Reese eyes me with hunger. His eyes are a silent prompt. Do it. Touch yourself.
The devil in my head takes over. I slide my hands over the swell of my breasts, groaning softly when I graze my nipples through the cups of my bra. His eyes follow my fingers like he’s copying every movement to memory.
“Sir…” I murmur in a husky Marilyn Monroe impersonation that sounds nothing like my own voice, “you’ve ruined my shirt. How am I supposed to do my job so… improperly dressed?”
