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He dips his head and locks lips with me.
My heart goes supernova, and my knees threaten to buckle.
This is clearly a day of wows. His lips feel warm and soft and so good I nearly have another orgasm—and almost drop my balls. The room fades around me, and all my worries seem to evaporate. All my senses focus on the way his tongue gently strokes the inside of my mouth, the sweet, faintly minty warmth of his breath, the pounding of my pulse in my temples and—
He pulls away.
I’m breathing raggedly, and so is he.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, staring up at him.
“We shouldn’t.” His voice is hoarse. “Still under the influence.”
I draw back sharply. My arousal evaporates, replaced by an irrational surge of anger.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is he saying he only kissed me because he had beer—or vodka—goggles on? Or does he think I can’t make adult decisions with a mild buzz?
Before I can voice any of this, he has his phone out and is sending a text.
When the reply comes a millisecond later, he says, “Ivan will take you home. Come.”
He herds me into the elevator, walks me down to the lobby, and holds open the limo door.
The ride home happens in a haze. A million questions loop through my mind, but two most of all: Why did he stop? And if a mere kiss was that amazing, how would it feel if we did more?
When I get home, I drop the balls into my sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
Ugh. My lopsided expression is a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and skepticism again. The glue on my left eyebrow wig must’ve given out at some point. At least I assume that’s what happened. The thing is now missing, probably left in Vlad’s towel.
No wonder he didn’t want to do anything with me.
My first shower is scorching, the second one icy.
Jumping into my bed, I cover my head with a pillow and try to block out what happened.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The first thing I do in the morning is check Precious for messages from Vlad.
Nope. Radio silence.
I check my work email next and find a message from Sandra, requesting yet another update. I ask her if she’s okay doing it tomorrow. Until I hear from Vlad, I can’t honestly tell her everything is on track.
There’s also an email from Mike Ventura in my inbox—a.k.a. Butt-Head and maybe-Phantom:
Want to have that chat at 11:30 tomorrow?
As I think about it, Sandra replies that she’s fine with my suggestion.
I set up a meeting with her for eleven and tell Mike I’m game for eleven-thirty. This way, I’ll kill two birds/coworkers with one commute stone.
Precious dings with a text.
My heart leaps.
It’s from Vlad.
Are you up yet?
