“Say something,” she urges me.
I meet her gaze. “Do you know that you talk too much when you’re anxious?”
Her blue eyes grow wide. I’m guessing she doesn’t.
“I do not,” Violet protests.
“Yes, you do. You remember at Finley’s party when you were talking to Ron Lenning, one of the President’s former financial advisors? You couldn’t stop talking about his economic policies and programs. And when we met the author of your favorite book—What was his name again?”
“Godwyn Klein.”
“You practically quoted a whole paragraph he wrote.”
Violet frowns. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
She sighs. “Fine. I talk a lot when I’m anxious. Happy now?”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry. You still look hot even when you talk a lot.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?”
“And when you’re angry.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You are making fun of me.”
I’m not. I mean it. I don’t think I’ve ever found her not hot, not even when she was talking trash about me at the café or when she gave me the cold shoulder in Zurich or when she was mean to me the day she arrived in Chicago. It doesn’t matter whether she’s oozing with confidence or a little frazzled, busy at a computer or staring into space, in a suit, in a dress or in a T-shirt and shorts. There’s just something about her that I can’t seem to resist.
Even now, it’s taking all of my strength not to pull her into my arms and kiss her, claim her lips and drink her every breath until she’s reeling and stumbling back so I can whisk her off her feet and carry her to the bed.
Fuck.
“What are you looking at?” Violet asks.
“You,” I admit.
She blushes. Ah. She looks hot when she does that, too.
Besides, blushing is a sign that I’m winning her over. Just a little more.
I take a step forward. “You know when I first found you attractive?”
Violet doesn’t answer, so I proceed.
“Management Communication. That first meeting when Dr. Simmons asked us all to give a little speech about something we cared about. You were wearing a white blouse with a lace collar and pleats, puffy sleeves, black pants. You spoke about gender equality, how men still dominate the corporate workplace, how women can do just as well. Your passion was just… searing.”
Her eyes widen slightly. I hold her gaze as I lift my hand to touch her cheek.
“You know what I wanted to do then? This.”
I lean forward and press my lips to Violet’s. No reaction. I kiss her more firmly as I stroke her cheek. Ever so slightly, she kisses me back. A thrill rushes down my spine. The box in my hand drops to the floor.
I cradle her jaws with both hands as I crush her mouth. She clutches the front of my shirt. Over and over, our lips collide, and when she parts hers, I push my tongue in. It brushes against the tip of her tongue and heat sizzles in my veins.
Damn, I want her.
Suddenly, the hands on my chest try to push me back. She tries to pull her face away as well.
Not again.
This time, I ignore her resistance and cup her face firmly as I pin her tongue down. I know she wants this. She wants me, too. I’ve seen it in her eyes. I just have to make her swallow her pride long enough to admit it.
She doesn’t. She just pushes even harder, and when I finally step back, she rewards me with a slap on my cheek and a knee to my groin.
What the fuck?
As the door slams in my face, I fall to the floor writhing in pain. I clutch my balls first, then my stomach, which feels like it’s turning inside out, burning and getting ripped to pieces all at the same time. My vision blurs. My head spins.
As my thoughts get muddled, most slipping away, one remains clear.
I’m going to make sure Violet pays for this.
Chapter Six
Violet
Maybe I shouldn’t have done that to Asher.
Remorse pricks me like a dozen needles as I crouch under the covers of my bed, which is where I’ve been hiding since I kicked Asher out of my apartment.
Kicked out? No. That’s not the right word. Slapped. Shoved. With my knee. To his groin.
Just the thought of how that must have felt for him makes me grimace as I lie on my back.
I am such a horrible, horrible person.
I didn’t mean to do it, I swear. I just… panicked when I realized I was doing the one thing I shouldn’t be doing. My adrenaline kicked in. Fight or flight. I tried to flee but Asher wouldn’t let me so I fought back. I slapped him. And then buried my knee in his groin.
I grip my hair. What have I done?
No matter what my excuse, I shouldn’t have done that. I should have just slammed the door in his face after telling him I didn’t want to play neighbors instead of falling under his spell again, getting myself carried away to the past before he broke my heart. I didn’t send him away soon enough. I lowered my guard, so he attacked. I let him in and then remembered I wasn’t supposed to so I tried to throw him over the wall. Which I did. And now, I feel sorry for it.
Not the slapping. He deserved that for not pulling away immediately when I started pushing him back. But the attack on his balls. That was too much.
What if his balls got broken? I mean what if they ruptured? What if he can never ejaculate again?
The more I think about it, the more the guilt gnaws at me. I get an urge to go next door to check on Asher, make sure he’s alright, but no. I have a feeling I’m the last person he wants to see right now. What do I do, then? Call 911 just in case he needs a doctor? What if he’s bleeding to death right now? Then again, if I call 911, the police might find out what I did. I could go to jail.
Fuck.
On second thought, I might not go to jail if I plead self-defense. But if I do that, won’t Asher be in trouble?
I shake my head. No. I’m not going to call 911. And I’m not going to check on him. He’s fine. I’m sure he is. Well, maybe not right now. Right now he must be in a world of pain. But he will be fine after he gets some rest and takes some pain relievers. Right?
Right. Asher is a strong, well-built man. He’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll show up for work tomorrow. And when he does, I’ll apologize profusely. I’ll even bow my head and all and offer to do his work for him. He’ll have to forgive me, right?
I sigh.
Just to be on the safe side, maybe I’ll make pancakes.
~
I grip the container filled with a week’s worth of pancakes in my hand and take a deep breath before knocking on the door to Asher’s office.
“Come in,” he says.
I step inside. I find Asher behind his desk just like last time, in another crisp suit. Good. He looks fine.
He turns his head to look at me but says nothing. I open my mouth.
“I…”
“You should find somewhere else to stay,” he blurts out as he turns back to his computer screen.
My eyebrows arch. What?
“You’re old enough to find a place of your own, aren’t you? Besides, you’ve been in Chicago for… two weeks already, right? You should know the city by now.”
Not really. I’ve been mostly staying either here at the office or in my apartment. I haven’t had time to go sightseeing.