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I inhale her. That flowery perfume is driving me wild. It makes it hard for me to think straight. “It’s so goddamn frustrating that I’ve been thinking nonstop about having you, and now I can’t,” I say.
“I wanted it to be you,” she says, seeming equally annoyed, equally pissed at fate.
But then I replay what she just said.I wanted it to be you.
And I have to know. “You wantedwhatto be me, Jules?”
Her eyes blaze with truth and desire. “I wanted you to be my first.”
I close my eyes for a heady, hazy second. Holy. Shit.
That’s what I’d thought. I just needed to be sure.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I open my eyes. I’m not at allokay. I’m wound tight, strung like a high-wire electrical line as I weigh the terrible and beautiful choices.
On the one hand is loyalty.
On the other hand is…her.
What if she picks someone else for her first time and he treats her poorly? What if he doesn’t worship her body? What if he doesn’t take care of her?
Worst of all—what if he isn’t...me?
I growl from deep inside my soul. Something primal rips through me, declaring she’s mine. I huff out a harsh breath and hold her face tight in my hands. “I can’t stand the thought of another man being your first,” I say.
“You’re possessive,” she says, then nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Mr. Adams.”
Ohhh yes.
She’s playing again. Saying it like I’m her boss, perhaps.
I swallow roughly. “I am, Miss Marley. I want what I want.”
“And you want…your secretary.” It’s not a question. It’s a glove thrown down.
“It’s so wrong, but I do. I really fucking do.” I have never been more turned on in my life. My lips crash down on hers and yes, fucking yes.
I can taste my goddess again.
She tastes like midnight and gardens. Like flowers and heat. Like a woman who needsthisman.
There is no one, not a man on earth, who can give her a first time like I can.
I kiss her hard, thoroughly, deeply.
Most of all, I kiss her with an absolute devotion to her pleasure.
When I let go, her lips are beautifully bruised and I’ve made my choice.
I adjust the strands of her jet-black wig. “Spend the night with me. No one will know. Just you and me. Come to my place. I’m in the West Village. I’ll make you come over and over. With my tongue, my fingers, my cock. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. Then, we’ll pretend it never happened. What do you say, Jules?”
She trembles, which looks like a yes. Except, her brow knits, which tells me a no is coming. “I need to know something first,” she says, clearing her throat.
“Okay,” I say tentatively. I don’t want to promise anything till I know what she’s asking.
With a wince like it hurts, she asks, “Does my father go to these parties with you?”
