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“It’s my damn job to find you. You promised you wouldn’t take off.”
“When you were sick,” I clarify. “Besides, you hate chasing after me, so just go back home.”
“And leave you out here so someone can hurt you?”
He grabs my arm, spinning me around to face him before I can get too far down the sidewalk.
“I’m a damn job, a fucking paycheck for you. Don’t start acting like you care what happens to me.”
He inches in so close I can feel his breath on my lips when he speaks. “I won’t have a job if you end up raped, murdered, and on the evening news.”
“Just perfect. You should just—”
His lips are on mine, his hand at my waist, fingers flexing into the thin fabric of my dress. When did his body get so close to mine?
I groan into the kiss, hating that it feels so good but unable to pull my face back.
His tongue swipes over mine aggressively, a bid to regain whatever power he feels like he’s lost. He groans a rough growl when I angle my head to deepen it. With his body flush against mine, I can feel every inch of him—every lying, deceitful inch. If he ever breathes a word that he doesn’t want me, I’ll remind him just how hard it was to resist me.
I cup his jaw, slowing the kiss, forcing him to transform from forceful into something a little calmer.
I whimper at the roll of his hips, ready to throw it all out the window and risk getting arrested for indecent exposure just to feel more of his body against mine.
“Stop,” he hisses, his feet and head jerking away, carrying him several feet from me.
He’s not unaffected, the evidence in his panting breaths and the erection straining behind his slacks.
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do that?” I mock. “You’re the one who kissed me. Tell me you aren’t so delusional that you think I started that.”
“Can’t happen,” he mutters, looking away and swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, the act more insulting than refusing a kiss in the first place.
“Still. You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back,” he argues like a kid in trouble.
“Very mature.”
“Never again,” he says quietly. “That can’t ever happen again.”
“Fine by me,” I lie, turning around and walking away.Chapter 13Flynn
I stare at the ringing phone in my hand, wondering how much it would cost just to hop on a plane to Mexico for a few weeks. I know why he’s calling, just like I know what I did last night was wrong.
I also know I can’t avoid him forever. What does scare me is that he’s going to tell me to come home, and even with as much complaining as I did to Wren yesterday before he transferred me to Ignacio, I know I don’t want to leave. Hell, I don’t think I can leave. But maybe it’s for the best because how the hell do I keep my hands off of her now that I know what her tongue feels like against mine. How do I walk away knowing what that little whimper of hers did to my body?
I press the answer button. “Flynn Coleman.”
A snort of laughter. “It’s a little late to start acting professional now isn’t it.”
“Are you alone?” I ask my boss.
The last thing I need are witnesses to my downfall.
“Were you alone last night on the street while you were making out with your client?”
Fuck, did more photos hit the paper? And here I was thinking Wren spilled the beans.
“Charles and Carla Blair are the clients.”
“Are you really splitting hairs right now?”
“You don’t sound as angry as I thought you would.”
“She’s pregnant.”
My blood stops flowing. “I didn’t sleep with her.”
But I’ll kill the man who did.
“Anna,” he says with a laugh.
“I didn’t sleep with her either.”
His growl brings a smile to my face.
“I’m going to be a father.”
“Fathers show compassion and understanding. Any chance you’re going to start practicing that today?”
“Both Wren and Ignacio told me you want to come back.”
I’d jab him in the throat if I could. “I told you I didn’t want to come in the first place,” I remind him.
“Do you want to come home?” I wait because he doesn’t sound like he’s finished. “After last night, do you still want to come home?”
“I need to be more professional.”
“I always want you to be professional, Flynn.”
“So, no kissing the clients.” I say it more for my benefit than his.
“Correct.”
“Anything else?” I ask as I watch Remington descend the stairs in workout clothes so tight it’s almost like she’s naked.
“Just one reminder,” Deacon says.
“Yeah?”
“Charles and Carla Blair are your clients.” The fucker hangs up, but honestly, it’s for the best because I wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation right now anyway.
Is she purposefully swaying her hips with that much attitude or am I imagining it?
