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He seems to give it some real thought, scrunching his lips and glancing at the roof of the car for a beat. “That’s only a small part of it.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
I gulp. That’s a bit older than he looks.
“I’m twenty-four. So yeah, I guess that’s a bit of a gap.” I inhale briskly, pushing it out in a rush. “But our age difference doesn’t bother me.”
“Well, you are a consenting adult.”
Is that agreement?
Hope peeks its head from the corner of my heart, looking for an opening. “Yes, I am. Very much. And I consented to you kissing me. So what’s the problem? You said the age was only a small part of why we shouldn’t be physical.”
“It’s also about the job.”
“I don’t even know what the job is yet. And I haven’t agreed to pursue it. So how is that relevant?”
“Are you hungry?”
Talk about a topic change. Whiplash much?
If my stomach growls right now, I’m going to eat nothing but spicy frozen burritos for a month to punish it.
Do not betray me, stomach, or vengeance will be mine.
“I don’t want to eat until we settle this. You can’t give me the most toe-curling kiss of my life and then avoid explaining your retreat.”
For the first time since I’ve known him — so three days — an air of smugness drapes over him. He likes that I called it toe-curling. His eyes twinkle with mirth, and one side of his mouth curls. But he attempts to squash his reaction.
Too late. I saw it.
He clears his throat. “Okay. I told you before that I’m a straightforward man, so here it comes.”
I square my shoulders with him, ready to hear this super important reason.
“Yes, I’m incredibly attracted to you. Not only physically but something else I can’t explain. And when you fucking sang, it was all I could do to resist throwing the car in park, dragging you outside, bending you over the hood, wrapping your hair around my wrist, and slamming into you. I wouldn’t have even cared who saw us. That’s how badly I want you.”
My thighs push together so tightly I’ll lose circulation any moment.
Words fail me. My breath stops. My brain short-circuits. My heartbeat ceases.
My pussy, however, has taken over all bodily functions. It’s clenching, twitching, aching to be filled, and flooding with arousal.
He saves me from having to attempt a response with his continued rumbling rant. “But I can’t do that. It’s not your age; it’s other things. And, um,” he licks his lips, “and if you take this job at the club—”
Some of the puzzle pieces fall into place. I interrupt to stop him from tripping over the words. “Is the job at a BDSM club?”
“Yes.”
Bummer. Guess he doesn’t want me to be his paid sex servant. Not that I’m qualified for that position.
“And you can’t have a relationship with me because you’re a client?”
“No. I work there. Well, when I have time. It’s not my primary job. It’s more of an extra-curricular.”
My hand has found its way to my throat and has begun a leisurely trek down between the valley of my breasts. This is the same thing I find my hands doing when it’s a steamy part of one of my books.
