Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) by Donna Alam Page A

down at me. ‘No man ever complained a woman got into his bed too quickly, and as I’ve been having mildly pornographic thoughts about you since you fell into my arms, this was a foregone conclusion. I’d have pursued you doggedly,’ he adds with a wolfish grin.
    I find myself laughing unexpectedly, despite the fact that he’s totally missed the point.
    ‘Sounds slightly ominous.’
    ‘Only slightly? It’s a wise woman who can read the subtext.’
    ‘‘Dunno about that. I have enough trouble with the obvious without wondering if I’ll end up tied to the bed.’
    ‘A gentleman never handcuffs a lady to his bed,’ he replies, his smile taking on a curious sort of edge. ‘Not without her permission, at least.’
    ‘Not given,’ I counter, heat expanding below my waist. Handcuffs and beds, not a proven combination in my kind of experience. Which amounts to very little, but still.
    ‘Yet.’ That one word seems both like a promise and threat, a shivering sensation snaking through my insides. ‘Tell me you want this.’
    ‘I . . . I . . . ’ Want handcuffs? To be tied to the bed?
    ‘Come on, Kate, something brought you here.’
    ‘Yeah, it’s called a cab.’ Sarcasm is my usual go-to response. I can hide anything behind curt words. But this time, his firm expression makes me feel a little ill. I don’t like it, don’t want to feel as though I should hide. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my chin on my knees. ‘I wanted to be someone else,’ I say quietly, not daring to look at him. ‘Experience something else. And,’ I add in a whisper, ‘I just wanted you.’
    I risk a look at his face and his smile steals my breath. I know at this moment, whatever happens from here, even after this bites me on the behind in the not too distant future, I will never forget this smile. His smile. This moment. And the fact that I was brave enough to follow him upstairs.
    ‘That was the perfect answer,’ he says, pulling me into his arms and nestling my head into the hollow of his shoulder, his fingers tracing the outline of mine. ‘What should I tell you?’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘As I see it, your concerns are due to our positions, my being your boss, which,’ he adds quickly, ‘technically, I’m not. And the fact that we’re, well, new friends. So let’s get acquainted. Tell me what you want to know and then you can tell me all about you. The bits not included on your CV.’
    ‘Wait, what, technically you’re not my boss? What’s that supposed to—you haven’t seen my CV, have you?’ My body tenses and I suddenly feel a very bit sick; doesn’t he know the C in CV stands for calumny, at least for me? Everybody lies a little on their resume, surely?
    I hope he doesn’t have a flute lying around because I can only play champagne ones.       
    ‘Relax,’ he says, dismissing the question. I try, and fail, to come up with a response as he pulls me back against him. ‘Cat’s got your tongue again, that was what your friend called you, wasn’t it, Kitty-Kat?’
    ‘Niamh,’ I grumble, ‘calls me whatever she likes.’
    ‘I like it. Kitten,’ he says as though trying out the word. ‘It suits you.’ I don’t ask why, just accept the warmth in his voice, though correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t it a bit early for pet names? Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he twists a lock of my hair between his fingers. ‘What should I tell you . . . pretty kitty?’
    ‘Anything,’ I answer, not daring to move. ‘Whatever you like.’
    ‘Shall I start with the fun parts? Proclivities, sexual and otherwise?’
    ‘We could start with shoes.’ Christ on a bike, I did not just say that.
    His body is immobile for a beat before a subterranean laugh racks through his chest. ‘Is there something in particular you’d like to know?’ He chuckles darkly, not unlike a villain setting a trap.
    ‘You . . . like . . . shoes?’ And I’m guessing he does. I’ve never before had sex with