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I wanted to go for the jugular.
My hand tightened on hers, holding her in place as I leaned in and planted a kiss square on her lips. She was too stunned to move, and it was unclear who was more surprised by what I’d done—her or her dad.
When I pulled back, her eyes were hazy and unfocused, and it sort of looked like my kiss had left her drunk. I shouldn’t have liked that idea, but warmth rolled through my chest.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
Her voice was uneven, still adrift. “Yeah.”
Mr. Novak was silent as he marched down the steps, but he wordlessly demanded I follow him. His swift feet carried him toward the front door, and I had to move at a fast clip to keep up.
Shit, this guy couldn’t wait to be rid of me. He jerked the door open and then set the full force of his disapproving glare on me.
“Just friends, huh?” he said bitterly.
I nodded, and since he threw our lie in my face, I did the same to him right before ducking outside. “Have fun at the store.”
I’d barely hit the first porch step when I heard the door shut behind me, and a grin burned across my lips. Once I was seated behind the wheel of my Charger, I thumbed out a text message to Sydney.
Preston: Sorry for bailing. I’ll make it up to you at our next lesson. Until then, I have an assignment for you.
Her response came quickly.
Sydney: You’re giving me homework?
Preston: Yes. You should think about me whenever you jerk off.
I pictured her seated on the side of her bed, staring at the phone in her hand while a blush flashed across her cheeks. Had she put her pink panties back on yet, or was she still bare under her dress? I dropped a hand between my legs and squeezed against the ache in my dick.
Sydney: Will you be doing the same?
Was she kidding?
Preston: You better fucking believe it.
Sydney: Okay. I’ll do your homework.
Preston: Good girl.
Last month, Distinguished Events had acquired enough random shit that we’d had to rent a small storage unit. Up until then, I’d had all the boxes stacked to one side of the spare room my dad was letting me use as an office. But it had gotten out of hand after the Wilkerson wedding.
They’d been indecisive and had money to burn, which was a dangerous combination. It was why my company now owned three hundred gold charging plates. The bride had been obsessed with them, so she’d ponied up the cash, had us take delivery, and the week before the wedding she declared they didn’t fit her vision.
I tried to return them, but the company refused since the window had closed months ago, and the bride didn’t seem to care.
“You can keep them,” she’d said.
They were brand new, nice, and relatively generic. I wasn’t sure if I’d find a use for them with a future client, or if I should try to sell them—but one thing was certain. I was out of space to store them at my house.
I was unloading the last box from the trunk of my car when my phone buzzed with a message.
Sydney: I’m free tonight. The restaurant is closed on Mondays.
I’d texted her today when I arrived at the storage unit and asked about her schedule. It’d been three days since our ‘date,’ and I was more than ready to give her my next lesson.
I probably would have caved and asked to see her sooner, but my weekend had been dominated by the wedding. Plus, Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest for her, too.
Over this summer while she lived with her parents, those nights were the only ones when she didn’t have a curfew, and it was because she usually wasn’t done cleaning up her station at the restaurant until after eleven.
