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“What the hell are you doing here?” she shrieks as the spell breaks. She reaches out to snatch a towel from the foot of the bed and hold it up over herself. But it’s too small to hide all of her from me. Those curves still peek out everywhere I look.
Teasing. Taunting. Tempting.
“I brought you dinner,” I rasp. “I thought we could talk.”
She bristles with indignation. “I’m naked here!”
“Put something on. I can wait.”
She glowers at me as she flings her useless towel on the bed and storms into the bathroom. She has to turn to do it, which is fine by me, because Wren is as exquisite from the back as she is from the front.
Spanking isn’t enough to work these urges out. I need hours to spend turning her skin pink as I bite and suck and lick my way across every goddamn inch of it.
When she stalks back into the bedroom, she’s wearing baggy sweats and an even baggier t-shirt. But if she really wanted to repel me, she shouldn’t have chosen my t-shirt to wear.
“Don’t you freaking knock?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest, which only makes it more obvious that she’s not wearing a bra.
“I’m not in the habit of knocking in my own house.” Not the best way to start off what was supposed to be a let’s-try-to-work-together talk, but it’s hard to think straight with the raging hard-on threatening to rip through my zipper. “Listen, Wren, I know it’s not easy being here?—”
“Oh, ya think?”
I grit my teeth. “—but we have to figure out a way to get along.”
“Or what?” she scoffs. “You’re going to threaten to spank me again? Or maybe you’ll just barge into my room whenever you please to remind me that I have no privacy because this is your house? Then again, that logic doesn’t exactly hold true, considering you barged into my apartment, too!”
“Only because you didn’t listen.”
“I don’t have to listen to you when I’m off the clock. You’re not the boss of my entire freaking life!”
I stride closer and glare down at her heatedly. “I’ve got news for you: that baby in your belly means that I am.”
Fuck me—this is definitely not going the way I intended. Why won’t my thoughts behave correctly? Why do I feel like I’m burning up with a fever?
I let out a sigh and steel myself. Control—that’s what matters here. Control myself. Control Wren. Control the situation. “We need to figure out how to deal with everything that’s happening.”
Her nostrils flare. “I couldn’t agree more. This is how I intend to deal with it.” She takes a few steps away from me. “From now on, you don’t talk to me and I don’t talk to you.”
I snort. “That might be a little difficult, considering you work for me.”
“We can communicate through email and text and if, God forbid, we do have to talk to each other, we keep it strictly business.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Which part of that is so ridiculous? We can’t seem to talk to each other normally, so why talk at all?” When I say nothing because all the things I want to say involve telling her how I’d rather show her with my body what she does to me than to use my words, she nods in triumph. “That’s what I thought. Now, get out of my room.”
Wrong choice of phrase there, princess.
I’d been so close to leaving. It’s not a good idea for me to linger here. The longer I stay in Wren’s space, the higher I feel. Drugged up on the scent of her body wash and the sight of her wet hair soaking into my t-shirt she’s wearing. “Self-control” feels more and more like a vague, irrelevant concept.
But when she challenges me… when she defies me… when she pushes my buttons…
I have no choice but to respond.
“No, I don’t think I will.”
She gulps. I hear every millisecond of the sound. My senses have slowed time to a crawl, tuned into every little thing she does, every breath, every thrumming of her pulse.
“This is my room. And I want you to leave.”
