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“Sorry I’m late, Felicity. You can clock out now,” Rosemary called out to me when she entered.
“Thanks.” I waved.
“Perfect timing,” he said, drawing my attention back to him. He nodded at the booth across from him. “Sit.”
“Mr. Darcy, I don’t work for you. Nor am I your pet. Please stop giving me commands. As you heard, my shift is over, so if you would excuse me….”
“Why did you go to a sugar party—”
I kicked his foot. “The sugar? It’s right there.” I tried to cover for him since he had drawn a few people’s attention by speaking louder than he needed to.
“Sit,” he repeated.
Damn it. Annoyed, I slid into the booth.
“Wow, you really are an ass.”
“I wouldn’t be one if you listened to me.” He shrugged and took a slow drink.
“Yeah, I’d rather you be an ass than take your orders.” I crossed my arms and leaned back. However, when he looked at my breasts, I immediately dropped my hands.
“I thought you said you could handle it,” he shot back.
“I said ass, not pervert.”
“Every man who stares at your breasts is a pervert? That seems a bit harsh.” He was enjoying this. Ticking me off. He was getting off on it.
“What do you want, Mr. Darcy?”
“Why were you at that party?”
I groaned. “This again? What does it matter—?”
“It matters because I want you, but I need to know what you want in return. If it isn’t money or someone to provide for you, then what is it you want?”
I was stunned. “Wait, what?”
“I need to know what you want—”
“No, go back to why it matters.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The ‘I want you’ part?”
“Yes. You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes, because I came all the way down here to have crappy coffee for the hell of it.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said more to myself than to him. “Why?”
“Why, what?” He looked at me, confused.
“Why do you want me?” And how could he say it so easily, like he was ordering shoes or something?
He put the coffee cup down and looked me over again. “I’m not sure. No, that’s a lie. When I saw you last night, I was jealous.”
“Of what?”
He smirked. “The piano. You were like a vision in white, yet you only had eyes for my piano. You gravitated to it, dropped everything in your hands, stepped out of your heels, and gave yourself over to it. You played with your back arched, eyes closed, and mouth ajar. I thought, ‘If she’s this passionate with music, how passionate would she be in my bed? How much could I make her back arch? Would her lips part for me? Would her eyes open as I buried myself in her?’ The more you played, the more I wanted you.”
