Beg for It by Megan Hart Page A

ring the bell, mindful that her kids were supposed to be sleeping—kids. The thought of it made him reel just enough to take a step back so his heel hung off the porch. Corinne had children. She’d had an entire life after him.
    What the hell was he doing? Badgering her on a Sunday night, insisting they go over these stupid numbers that ultimately weren’t going to matter, not once he fully took over and the new budgets and strategies for growth were implemented. Why the hell was he on her porch when he could’ve phoned the office or even had a video meeting next week to talk about stuff?
    Before he had the chance to turn and go, however, the door opened. Silhouetted in the glow from the hallway behind her, Corinne leaned in the doorway. She wore a pair of soft, clinging yoga pants and a tight T-shirt with a deep V that hinted at cleavage. She’d pulled her hair on top of her head with a few tendrils escaping to draw attention to the line of her neck. She held a glass of red wine.
    “So. Are you coming in, or are we going to talk on the porch? I warn you, the mosquitos will devour you.”
    Reese squared his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m coming in.”
    She stepped aside to let him pass, closing the door behind him. “Shoes off, please.”
    He’d already been toeing them off, remembering her house rule that had been in place back in that drafty old apartment on Queen Street. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was watching him with a small, faint smile as she sipped her wine. She caught him looking, and her expression changed. Got a little colder. She pointed her chin toward the rug at the side of the door.
    He had to bend to pick up the shoes so he could put them on the rug, and he’d never been more aware in his life of another person’s gaze upon him as he did. She was watching his ass. He knew it. Watching him do as she’d ordered him to do. He would’ve acquiesced to anyone’s house rule about shoes because his mother had raised him to be polite as a guest in someone’s house, but this time, instead of neatly settling his leather oxfords on the rug, he tossed them in a jumble.
    Behind him, he heard a soft, low sigh.
    When he turned to look, Corinne was staring at the messy way he’d left the shoes, one arm crossed over her belly so she could rest her elbow in her hand. Her wine was still sloshing in the glass, her lips wet with it. Her tongue slipped out as he watched. Tasting.
    She looked him right in the eyes then, and said nothing. She didn’t have to. She knew exactly what he’d done and why he had done it, or at least she thought she did. For fuck’s sakes, Reese wasn’t exactly sure why he’d done it, other than if he’d ever believed he could keep his shit together in the presence of this woman, he’d been fooling himself all along.
    “Kitchen.” Corinne lifted her glass toward the end of the corridor. “We’ll sit in there.”
    He followed her, of course. Her kitchen was big and bright and cheery, decorated in a red and black color scheme that didn’t surprise him. The kitchen on Queen Street had been smaller, but similar in decor, minus the report cards, school photos, and crayon drawings mostly covering the outdated fridge. A platter heaped high with cupcakes sat in the middle of the island counter. Glass sliders led to a stone patio out the back, and he caught a glimpse of a fire pit and a vast, sloping yard. Everything about this room spoke of a nice, suburban life and family. The complete opposite of his life.
    “Wine?” She held up the bottle.
    “What kind?”
    With a raise of her eyebrow she turned the bottle to show him the label, which featured a colored line sketch of a zombie. “It’s called Malicious. It’s a Malbec.”
    She pulled a wineglass with a big bowl from the others hanging beneath the cabinet, and set it on the counter. She filled it. Put the bottle down. Held out the glass to him without coming closer.
    He would have to step forward to take it. Of course he did.