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Okay, then what’s she reading? I need to know.
It’s not like I’m going to sleep anytime soon, not with her body heat and her silky hair splayed over the pillow and the tension knotting my muscles.
This is fine. Just natural curiosity. Right?
Felicity’s lying on her side, facing away from me. Her shoulder and cheek are lit up by the screen, and the sheet clings to her waist, then rises with her hip. I roll over slowly, sliding closer in a way that I hope to god is not creepy. At least she can hear me coming.
Felicity breathes steadily, tapping on the screen to turn the page. I move as close to her as I dare, propping my head on my fist, and squint over her shoulder.
Words swim into focus. I frown, temples throbbing from the strain of reading without my glasses, and it takes me a few sentences to realize what I’m reading.
I choke quietly. Pirate sex?
“This is the best part,” Felicity says, tapping the screen again. “Want me to make the font bigger?”
No!
“Please,” I mutter, shifting an inch closer. My head aches from squinting at the glowing screen, but I keep going. Don’t even blink. “Whatisthis?”
“It’s called Walking His Plank.”
Of course it is. Does Felicity always read this stuff? Or is this an elaborate prank to punish me for reading over her shoulder? If so, I deserve it.
Either way, I shouldnotread this with my assistant. I should not lie mere inches from her body, her warmth spreading over my front, and scowl over her shoulder, one hand fisted in the sheets. I should not swallow hard as the captain lashes his captive to the mast, tying her hands behind her back, the flecks of sea spray turning her white nightgown see-through.
Is that what Felicity likes? A man who takes control? Who… bosses her around?
“Bet there are no books like this in the fancy Bamford library,” she says.
I cough out a laugh. “Probably not.”
“Though maybe if there were, your mom would be less uptight.”
Ugh. “Felicity.” I frown at the delicate shell of her ear. “That is mymother. Change of topic, please.”
“Okay.” Wait, why am I spurring this conversation on? Why am I still lying so close, my pulse thudding beneath my jaw? When Felicity turns her head slightly, her hair shifts and tickles my arm. Her eyes find mine, shining with the light of the e-reader, and I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything. “Why do you keep coming here, boss? You hate it every single time.”
That’s true. I do.
But this is my family. And families are… complicated. Maybe the Bamford world is messed up and kind of awful, but it’s the world I grew up in, the only world I’ve ever really known.
It’s familiar. Predictable. There’s comfort in that, and besides, the Bamfords are big on family loyalty. It was drilled into us as children.
“You started your own company,” Felicity points out, rolling onto her back. Suddenly I’m looming over her, practically pressed up against her side, and I should shift back, but I don’t. “So it’s not a family firm thing.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“And I’ve seen your accounts. It’s not like you need an inheritance or whatever.”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
The e-reader drops face down on her stomach, cutting off the light, and suddenly we’re in darkness again. Pressed together, sharing warmth. I fight to draw breath.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
