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“Just kill me already.”
“Shut up.”
He slams the office door behind us upon entry, then unceremoniously dumps me into a chair.
I’m a sorry sight, hair wild and wet, bikini top barely in place, bare ass on the seat, and dripping water everywhere.
His hair’s a rumpled wet mess, his suit, shirt, socks, and shoes thoroughly soaked.
“You’re going to ruin the carpet.”
“Is that what concerns you right now?”
“Not really.”
He leans back against his desk and folds his arms. “Or is it who I’m fucking that’s bothering you?”
I flinch at his accurate assessment. Angry, I rise, desperate to escape, but he gently pushes, and I fall back into the chair.
I glare at him.
He ignores me, intent on removing his designer watch. “Merda,” he curses, tossing it aside.
“You’re good at that. Ruining things, then tossing them aside.”
“How much did you drink?”
“Too much.” I shrug. “It’s hot, and I’m bored.” And hurt—confused.
He brushes lint from his jacket. A ridiculous action, considering the state it’s in.
“Why does it matter?” I huff.
“I want to fuck.”
I choke, drowning on thin air. “Excuse me?”
His eyes narrow. “You heard me.”
“You want to fuck.”
“That’s right.”
“Me.” My pulse skips a beat.
“No. Kelly Clarkson.”
I fall back in the chair, incredulous. Then laugh. “Are you drunk?” Does he truly believe this is remotely possible? He used a vibrator on me, brought up our first night together, then charged off in search of a woman more his type? I mean, he has a brothel of brunettes waiting at his beck and call. So why me? “Me? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” His gaze lowers, and halts on my breasts.
Even now, he’s obsessing over them. “I want to return to Ohio.”
“Yeah, well, I want you here.”
I glower at him. “I never lied to you.”
“I know that.”
