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Hell, like my life depends on it, too.
I wrap my fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer, needing to feel more of him. If this is the only kiss I get, I intend to make it count.
He must feel the same, because his tongue parts my lips, and there’s heat pooling inside of me, desperate for more of his touch and his taste. I move my hands from his hair to his shirt, feeling the hard muscles beneath the thin fabric, but it’s not enough. I need skin, I need more, more, more—
Riiiing!
Who in the hell leaves their phone volume that high? It’s piercing, and Warren jolts back so quickly I nearly fall off the desk before I manage to grab the edge with my hand. I look up for the source of the ringing.
It’s Warren, obviously. He’s the one who, you know, thousands of New Yorkers count on. Or is it millions? Millions. Many millions.
Point is, it’s a lot.
He looks at me, his face flushed with lust, his breathing a little ragged. Just a minute ago, I had him. I had him.
“I have to take this,” he says, and then he’s out the door, Duke on his heels, leaving me alone in the dark. Well, not quite alone. Gary reminds me he’s here by hacking up a fur ball.
Fuck. My. Life.
Chapter Fourteen
The dress I’m wearing tonight is decidedly, impossibly hotter and more elegant than my Chanel. Fitted, sexy and classy. A dress home run. Grand slam? Who knows. Point is, it’s a great dress.
I have to make out with Warren again. Have to. It’s a need, not a want. I need to feel his lips on mine again. I need to feel his hands on me, exploring every inch of my body. I need him to pick me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist and feel every generous inch of him pressed against me.
I still don’t have actual proof of the big dick energy, but based on that kiss alone, the man knows his way around a bedroom. And I want him to show me the way. All the ways, because I’m quite certain he knows more than one. Like alternate routes and stuff. Wait, that sounds sorta dirty.
Well.
I can live with that.
The point being, I’d really like to continue what we started in his office. My curiosity is positively off the charts. As is my crush.
God, I was so close! Damn that ringing phone. But I won’t be foiled again. Tonight, my plan is foolproof.
Part one of plan: wear an incredibly hot dress.
This dress was originally a Christian Dior by John Galliano evening gown from the late 1990’s. It was nearly unsalvageable when I rescued it from a thrift shop. A torn strap, a stain, an unraveling hem and… it smelled. To put it nicely.
But the material. A gorgeous silk ombre of blush and gold and a hint of rose. I had it professionally cleaned, then tore it apart. I cut two feet off the hemline to get enough material to redo the bodice and create wispy new straps. I got creative with a bit of gold chainmail detail—light chainmail, not, like, Kardashian levels. I created an overlay to complement the silk ombre and the result is, well, it’s going to sell at a very nice profit. Next week, because I’m wearing it first. Tonight. It’s one of the best benefits of vintage upcycling. It’s already used, so no harm in wearing it yourself before it’s resold. Again.
The dress is gorgeous, and I’m hoping it’ll be catnip to Mr Warren Russo. I swiped on a dark blush lipstick that I’m certain is particularly kissable, played up my eyes with smoky shadow and perfectly applied my eyeliner, thank you very much. On to part two of the plan.
Part two: be charming.
That’s what caught his attention at our dinner with Old Man Lowell, right? I was charming. Yes, I’d researched the poodles, but more than that, I knew how to work the information I had. And tonight, at yet another fundraising event, I’ll have another shot.
Of course, the plan does have a problem. When I think about that sinful kiss from before, it makes me wonder, does he like-like me? Cause I’m definitely deep into like-liking him at this point, especially since we’re doing all this fake dating stuff.
But… maybe he just kissed me to prove he was good at kissing? I did sort of insult him. Not intentionally. It’s just clear I wasn’t wowed by that first kiss, right? Which wasn’t exactly his fault. I was the kiss initiator, after all. So it’s my fault. Definitely. But still, maybe he was just proving a point? Maybe I taunted him into kissing me? I have to know for sure. If this dress, my kissable lips and my charming personality do the trick, he’ll be begging to make out with me. No matter how many times I accidentally slip into a weird British accent and call him ‘Guv’nor.’
