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“I know.”
“So next time, please, listen.”
I just messed up royally, and this guy doesn’t snap, doesn’t even lecture. He strokes my freaking face with his thumbs.
Who is he? A saint?
I stand on tiptoes and kiss him once. “Sorry, babe.” I kiss him again. “Won’t happen again, I promise.” I kiss him again. “I truly am sorry.”
I keep kissing him even when he so obviously tries to suppress a smile and pull away from me. I fist his shirt and bring him back to me and kiss him again.
“Ssssso sorry.” I kiss him again. “So-so-so-so sorry.” Then again, until his lips break into a grin and he fists my hair, kissing me properly this time.
Forgiven.
God, I suddenly love groveling. I can so grovel to this man. Naked, wearing high heels, boots, or nothing, even cuffed to a bed.
“So sorry,” I coo.
Archer is suspicious now. “You know what this is called? Kat’s bullshit.” He doesn’t sound angry, and his grip in my hair softens. “You do what you want on the spur of the moment, then think it over afterward.”
“So sorry,” I repeat, leaning in for another kiss, but he pulls away.
“Stop fucking around.” He’s trying to be serious, but can’t.
“Sorry.”
“I warned you.”
“So-so-so sorry.”
“Another sorry,” he says with a warning that I already look forward to, “and I’ll have your legs pinned behind your ears on this very desk and my cock so deep in you that you’ll forget how to breathe.”
I slide my hand down Archer’s torso, feeling him stepping into me, feeling him rub against me, his cock hard in his jeans.
“Promises, promises,” I tease.
His hands on me tighten again.
“So, so sorry,” I keep whispering, pushing his buttons, and smile as I kiss him.
He bucks his hips at me, pressing his hard bulge against me, then lets go and gently pushes me toward the desk. “You asked for it, kitten. Change of plans. I want you bent over this desk, pants and panties down to your knees. Now.”
And I’m all about it when he orders, “Corlo, close the blinds, lock the doors.”
Sorry not sorry.
30
ARCHER
It’s my birthday.Twenty-five seems old, but I’ve never looked forward to an upcoming year like I do now.
I’m at the office early, before Kat. I deal with emails and chemistry charts, because my schedule is cleared this afternoon and tomorrow. Screw work. I deserve to celebrate myself, if only with some alone time with my wild thing.
Here she is—strolling into my office in a knee-length dress, her hair tied in a bun at the back of her head. She carries a plate with some crazy pastry in her hands, a single candle lit up as she sings, “Happy-birth-day-to-you,” in that soft Marylin Monroe voice.
With a smile, I get up from my chair to blow out the candle and give her a kiss on the cheek.
