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“That’s the paperwork for another lot I’m planning to buy,” he says next to my ear. “Forward it to my lawyer. Greg Atkinson. Tell him to make sure he checks whether everything’s clean. I don’t want a repeat of the situation from February.”
“What happened in February?” I ask as I type.
“The previous owner’s illegitimate son surfaced, claiming ownership.”
I finish the email, send it, and open the next one.
“I assume you don’t have an uncle in South Africa who needs money for brain surgery.”
The arm around my waist tightens. “No,” he says, his lips lightly brushing my earlobe.
I need him to stop touching me. It’s making me crazy.
So why don’t you tell him to stop, then? I'll tell you why. Because you’re a hypocrite, Milene. You like it, just admit it.
I’m not admitting it, not even to myself.Shut up!I tell my inner voice, mark the email as spam, and move on to the next.
“That one’s from my banker,” Salvatore says. “Forward it to Greg, as well. Tell him to make sure he reads the new contract and checks whether they’ve offered better conversion rates, as we requested. If they haven’t, he can let them know we’ll be closing all our accounts by the end of the month.”
As I type, I cast a quick glance at his gloved left hand resting next to the laptop. He probably can’t type with it, or if he can, it likely takes ages. How did he end up in a situation where someone smashed his fingers to smithereens with a hammer? Jesus, it must have hurt like a bitch.
I open the next email and skim over the list of renovation supplies and the prices listed next to each item. “You plan on redecorating?”
He doesn’t strike me as a DIY guy, but why else would he need tiles, paints, and the other things listed there.
“Not exactly.” He angles his head to the side and his nose ends up pressing against my neck. “Tell them we’ll take the same amount as last month, except for the white metro tiles. I need triple the quantity of those, and I want a better price. Include Arturo on the CC.”
I stop typing midsentence and turn to him, my eyes wide. “You’re ordering drugs via email? Are you insane?”
With his finger under my chin, Salvatore gently tilts my head. My heartbeat quickens as his eyes focus on my lips.
“Maybe,” he says, then lowers his hand and focuses back on the laptop again. “Let’s proceed.”
We spend almost four hours going through his emailsbefore he moves my hands from the keyboard and closes the laptop. “That’s enough for today.”
I get up and pick up my purse off the desk, trying to ignore the sense of loss at the break in contact.
“Well, I’ll head back upstairs,” I say.
“Okay.” He leans back in his chair. “I have to make a few calls, then I’ll be up as well.”
“Yup. See you later.” I leave the office in haste, as though getting away from him might help suppress the crazy urge to leap back onto his lap and press my lips to his. I can’t sacrifice my integrity at the altar of this maddening attraction. I want to hate him, damn it, not imagine him screwing me senseless every single night.
Fucking hell.
* * *
After a long bubble bath, I spend an hour sorting through my clothes, setting the appropriate business attire to one side. If Salvatore decides that I should continue helping out with his emails, I’ll need to go shopping because my pile of business-suitable clothes consist of two dresses, four blouses, and one pair of black pants. I haven’t really had the opportunity to wear suits or skirts in the past couple of years, and most of my wardrobe is jeans, shorts, and casual tops. There are a few dresses I bought on a whim and wore maybe once when I went out, but those aren’t suitable, either.
I put the clothes back into the closet, shoo Kurt off my pillow, where he’s been sleeping for the past hour, and head into the kitchen to grab something to eat. Hopefully, Salvatore has already eaten, and I won’t run into him. Yes, I’mchickening out, but it’s easier to avoid him than to resist the insane attraction I feel whenever he’s close. The thing that frustrates me most is he knows exactly how his proximity affects me. He’s been playing with me for days, all those “I-want-to-fuck-you” looks and stolen touches, followed by feigned indifference. And I’m not sure of the rules of this game.
Thankfully, the kitchen is empty, so I inspect the contents of the fridge. There are leftovers from lunch, but I decide to have a lighter meal and reach for the box of strawberries on the top shelf. I’ve almost finished washing them when I sense Salvatore behind me. I don’t even have to turn to know it’s him. And it has nothing to do with the fact there are only two of us in the penthouse. I have a tingling sensation at the back of my neck every time he’s near. My body’s strong reaction to him is unnerving.
“Those look sweet,” Salvatore’s velvety voice echoes next to my ear. “Can I have one?”
I take a deep breath and turn around slowly. My eyes land on the sculpted form of his bare chest, mere inches from my face, since he’s wearing only sweatpants. I lift my head and catch him watching me. He must have had a shower because the scent of woodsy body wash clings to him. His hair is wet and in a state of complete disarray, as though he’s passed his fingers through it a couple of times and considered it combed. I find it hard to believe, but he’s even more sexy like this than when he’s all polished and dressed in a suit. I clear my throat and lift the bowl of washed strawberries between us.
Salvatore cocks his head, then pins me with his gaze and slowly blinks. My heart rate quickens, and I barely stifle a sigh. It’s ridiculous, how such a small act can make me weak in the knees. He looks down at the bowl in my hands, takes a stepforward and cages me against the counter with his arms. I press my lips together, take a strawberry from the bowl and lift it to his mouth. His eyes never leave mine as he wraps his lips around the berry, sucking the tips of my fingers into his mouth in the process.
