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Yet, I couldn’t speak. Through the racing of my heart, I couldn’t breathe easily. Regulating each breath was a chore, a fight against the desire that had gripped hold of my entire body and demanded that I kiss him again—that I take more than just a kiss.
The inner battle that waged as it raced through my blood tied me up in knots. One minute I had to kiss him again, the other I wanted to shove him away from me for taking that kiss without asking me. Not that he had to ask me, and it wasn’t like I objected to being kissed like, well, that, but still.
He was a man who took what he wanted without reproach.
I was a woman who hated giving people like him what they wanted.
Damien slid his hand around to my face, cupping the side of my jaw. His thumb brushed over my cheek, sweeping over my flushed skin until I opened my eyes, only to look straight into the dark abyss of his gaze.
The dark, lusty, restrained stare that almost glared back at me.
“Dinner. Tonight,” he said in a low voice that gave no room for arguments. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
I darted my tongue out and wet my lower lip. “I’m working.”
“Until when?”
“Eight.”
“Then I’ll be here at eight.” He pressed a firm yet hasty kiss to my lips, released me, and stalked across the room.
I didn’t know if that kiss was to annoy me or shut me up, but it served to do both.
“You forgot to ask me, asshole!” I shouted when he shut the door behind him.
He opened it and poked his head through. His hair was a scruffy mess where I’d sunk my fingers into its thickness and gripped it. “Do you mind?”
I blinked. “Yes, actually. I do.”
“You’ll get over it.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
“You’ll get over it?”
We’d see about that.
***
“Fergus! You’re a man!” I stomped into the bar and leaned on the end of the bar.
He stopped, towel stuffed inside a glass jug. He slid his gaze toward me the way a child would if they’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. At least he appeared to be over this morning’s drama. “Well spotted, darling.”
“Thank you. I’m on the ball today.” I half-smiled.
“Don’t forget that I’m a rather feminine man.”
“That’s what I’m hoping will work in my favor.”
He raised his eyebrows and slowly put down the jug. “Do tell.”
“If you wanted to piss off a man, what would you wear?”
“By piss off, I assume you mean to sexually frustrate while you play hard to get?”
“You’re the woman whisperer. If you could bottle that, you’d make a fortune.”
He grinned. “I’m just waiting for science to catch up to me.”
“I hope it doesn’t. Your knowledge could be dangerous. I don’t know what I’d do if men understood me.”
He sighed. “You and me both.”
With anyone else, that would be worthy of an eye roll. With him, after this morning? Not out of place at all.
“Stockings and something flirty.” Fergus tapped his finger against his chin. “Heels high enough to do some penile damage and low enough you can run away. And take a rape alarm on your keys…Just so he knows you have his number.”
“I’m not sure a rape alarm says ‘hard to get.’”
“No, but it does say, ‘Touch me and everyone will know about it.’”
“I’m not going to set it off in the middle of a restaurant, Ferg.”
He held a finger up to serve a customer. I waited, drilling my own fingers against the shiny bar so many times I was probably wearing the lacquered surface down.
“Dinner?” He finally joined me at the end of the bar. “Tell me more.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I lied. “I was informed I’d be joining Damien for dinner after work tonight.”
“Do you want to finish early?”
“I want to work all night.”
He laughed, folding his arms so his biceps pushed against the short white sleeves of his shirt. “Damien Fox does tend to have that effect on people. And his lack of being able to ask anyone anything is quite alarming.”
Alarming, annoying…Same difference as far as I was concerned.
“So, flirty dress, reasonable heels, and stockings.” That was a strong summary of what he’d said to me.
“Tan ones with a black lace top,” he answered.
“I don’t know if I have any.”
He glanced at the chunky, silver watch on his wrist. “I have a break in thirty minutes. I can buy some.” He took a few steps back and looked at my legs, his lips pursed as he glanced up and down. “Medium? Hmm, maybe large. You’ve got long legs. That might be more comfortable.”
I blinked. Too many times.
“Definitely large to be on the safe side. What about your bra? What size are you?”
“I’m not telling you my bra size!” I sputtered out, much to the amusement of the young guy who appeared at the bar at that very second.
