“What is it?” she asks, breaking my dirty daydream.
Oh, I was just imagining the start of a filthy scenario with you.
And fuck it. “You look like a librarian,” I say, my gaze raking over her. I mean, that skirt. That tight fucking skirt.
She laughs softly but with something like relief. Maybe she was restrained during that whole meal—understandable—and now she doesn’t entirely have to be.
But I shouldn’t get caught up in her. I’m drawn to her and that’s dangerous. This isn’t how I like to do life. I like to be in control in the bedroom and in the boardroom.
Too bad I like that blush on her cheeks. I crave her Summer Day scent too. It drifts teasingly toward me. I steal an inhale, and my head swims with longing.
Must. Focus.
“I didn’t know you were eager to work on the show. We never talked about work,” I say, both an excuse and a wry observation about our time together.
The corner of her lips curves up for a fraction of a second. “I guess we had other things going on.”
I’ve got to stay in control now that we’ll be working together closely. “I knew you worked at Opening Number because your father had mentioned it,” I say, hating the twist in my gut at those words—your father. I should not have to mention the father of a woman I want. “But of course neither of us knew you’d be moving to a Streamer show.”
With wide eyes, she says, “I can ask them to move me to a different one.”
Are you fucking kidding me? It was crystal clear at lunch that The Rendezvous is a huge opportunity for her. Clear, too, she’s eager to take it on.
“It would be easier,” she says, offering kindly, like she wants to help me.
“No,” I say, brooking no argument. “You tried to protect me before by avoiding me at that second party. You’re not going to do it again.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, perhaps liking my stern tone too much. “Maybe I’m protective,” she says, a little feathery, like she was at The Scene, like she was at my home.
Like she is with me.
I step closer, drawn to her, needing just another hit of her perfume. One inhale and I’ll get through the rest of the day, I swear. “Do you want to switch?”
She’s quiet, but there’s reluctance in her brown eyes. It’s enough to make my chest ache. I want her dreams to come true. “Don’t, Jules,” I say before she can answer, my voice low but firm. “Don’t switch. You need to work on the show. I can tell you want to, and the show needs you.”
She huffs but shakes her head, a little amused. “Stop reading my thoughts,” she says softly. Despite the situation, I manage a small smile at her response.
“Am I? Reading your thoughts?” I don’t know why that idea excites me. It’s a wicked thrill to be able to understand this woman so easily.
“It’s scary how you see me,” she murmurs.
Well, that’s not helping me forget about her. “I like it,” I say, and it’s as if it’s just us, and nothing else matters.
“Same here.” She seems caught up too, floating on this buzz.
Buzzed. Yes, that’s how I feel with her, but what the fuck am I doing? Why the hell am I admitting this? Yes, I like being able to understand her easily, to read her closely, to sense what’s going on behind those eyes with their hints of hopefulness and loneliness.
But there’s no room in my life for her. More importantly, there’s no chance in my life for her.
I try to focus on what’s next. “And because I can see you so well, I know this show is important to you,” I say, my tone professional.
Finally.
“I’m not the only one,” she counters, keeping me on my toes. “Everything you said at lunch made it clear how much you want this deal to work. You have big ambitions.”
I’m not used to a woman I care for listening closely to me and absorbing the words and meaning so deeply. It’s…unnerving. And ridiculously appealing. She might be younger than me by more than a decade, and she might defer to me at times, but she listens. She pays attention. She’s an equal. “You’re right. We both have our dreams. I want you to reach yours,” I say.
“Well, guess what?” she asks playfully.
“What?”
“I want the same for you,” she says, laying it on the line, vulnerable and genuine.
My heart thumps annoyingly. But I fight off the threat of emotions. “We’ll travel together to Paris. We’ll work together as much as we have to on the show. It’s just a week. It’s not like we’re going to be running into each other every day on the production. I have meetings with marketers and sponsors, and you’ll be on location. We can handle it.”
“We can.”
She extends a hand. I laugh but then I take it, shaking like we’ve achieved some sort of understanding or a détente.
A détente from what though? Desire?
Maybe.
But the second I wrap my hand around hers, desire flares.
One simple touch electrifies my body. My skin sizzles. I want to haul her close, pin her against the brick wall of McCoy’s, and kiss the fuck out of her until she’s arching and begging for more.
My vision tunnels. The cars and the cabs and even the carriages across the street fade out of view. The midday spotlight’s only on her, sweet and seductive. She’s all I see.
With our hands clasped together, I run my thumb across her palm in circles, stroking her skin.
Her lips part and a soft breath seems to ghost past those gorgeous lips. I run my thumb over her fingers, and she shudders. A tease of a touch and it’s melting her on a New York street.
My eyes don’t leave her. “I want to see you in that lingerie,” I rasp out as lust takes me hostage.
“How much?”
“So much it’s driving me crazy.”
She licks her lips, mischief in those eyes. “Too bad I’m not wearing them right now.” Her eyes dart to the door of the restaurant. “Oh, you know what? I forgot something in the ladies’ room.”
She drops my hand and retreats into the restaurant. I know an opportunity when I see it, and I follow her there.
18
ABOUT TIRAMISU
Finn
I shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t.
But the second I shut the bathroom door and lock it, I forget how much I hate lying. Nothing matters but touching her. In no time, I’ve got her up against the wall, and she’s gazing at me with heat in her eyes.
I run a hand down her hip. “What are you wearing then?”
She bites the corner of her lips. “Gee, I don’t remember.”
God, the way she plays. “I’d hate for you to forget.”
“Me too.”
I roam my hand over the fabric of her skirt. “Tell me something.”
“Yes?”
“Did you think of me when you put them on this morning?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice feathery.
“Did you play with your perfect pussy before you went to work?”
She gives a fast, needy nod. “Yes.”