chuckles low and soft, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck at the slippery sound. And from the laugh alone, I know he is going to walk right over the threshold. “Oh, Ms. Montgomery,
something extra
is always welcome on my end if you’re really wanting to secure an account as handsome as Scandalous would be for you.”
And that’s a big fuck-off-and-die-I’m-not-sleeping-with-you in my book.
My skin crawls at the suggestion in his tone, and pride has the words spewing off the tip of my tongue, but dignity has me biting them before I can make a monumental mistake. Speak my mind—give him attitude—and I risk losing this account. I hang tight to the knowledge that I will not have to deal with Cal after the end of the month. “I think it’s best we stick to the contract. I’ll figure something out for the event. No worries.”
There is silence on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he’s taken aback by the fact that I’ve completely ignored his unwanted and completely unwarranted advance.
“Well, good, then,” I continue, not letting him gain his bearings so he can prove to be the supercilious prick I know is hiding beneath the surface. “Unless you have something else for me, I’d best be going. I need to put in some added time to get you that something
extra
for Saturday’s event.”
I hang up the phone before he can speak and ruin my perfect exit. I drop the phone, the clatter of it against my desk filling the silence of the room, and drop my head into my hands. I sit there for a moment, hoping the buzzing in my ears will dissipate, but it just continues to rage incessantly until it becomes almost white noise.
My shoulders are tight, my body amped up with a Molotov cocktail of emotions just waiting to explode when lit by the right match. My mind leaps to Becks, and I curse myself for that damn ache he’s created, which isn’t going away no matter how many times BOB and I have reacquainted ourselves since Sunday.
It’s just not the same.
Not even close.
I groan out in frustration—memories of that one night together flickering through my mind as I hear Dante’s motorcycle pull up in the driveway. I really don’t need to bearound him right now—primed alpha male oozing sex appeal and willingness for a quick romp in the bed.
Or on the kitchen counter.
God, yes, I know sleeping with him would be a huge mistake—huge—but damn he might be the perfect flint to spark this sexually frustrated woman’s fire. But no matter how much I know he’d be incredible in bed and pleasure me sufficiently, I’m not crossing that line.
I just can’t.
Not just for my sake or the satisfaction of my sex drive, but because when I think of sex and what I’m craving, I think of Becks. I see him standing between the V of my thighs, that sexy-as-fuck smile on his lips and how he lifts his head up in rapture just as he sinks into me. Yet the fact that I can’t stop thinking of him—of these things—means I just might do something stupid and use Dante to sate my simmering lust.
And that would solve nothing but prove how fucked-up my logic is.
I can’t use one man’s hand to scratch another man’s itch. Well, I could, but that would involve both of them being in the same bed with me, and that’s a whole different can of worms.
The chuckle comes on the heels of the mental image. The exhausted laughter at my ridiculously immature thoughts of two men and their cans of worms tells me I need to leave the house. I need to get out and get some fresh air and make my raging hormones simmer down. Grab hold with both hands and get a grip.
It takes me a second as I look out the window to the front yard to figure out what I need. And it is most definitely not the sight of Dante pulling off his shirt and wiping his hands on it after he adjusts something on his bike. Bare skin, defined muscles, etched ink.
I shove the chair back.
Time to go.
* * *
“See? Just
something extra
is always welcome on my end if you’re really wanting to secure an account as handsome as Scandalous would be for you.”
And that’s a big fuck-off-and-die-I’m-not-sleeping-with-you in my book.
My skin crawls at the suggestion in his tone, and pride has the words spewing off the tip of my tongue, but dignity has me biting them before I can make a monumental mistake. Speak my mind—give him attitude—and I risk losing this account. I hang tight to the knowledge that I will not have to deal with Cal after the end of the month. “I think it’s best we stick to the contract. I’ll figure something out for the event. No worries.”
There is silence on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he’s taken aback by the fact that I’ve completely ignored his unwanted and completely unwarranted advance.
“Well, good, then,” I continue, not letting him gain his bearings so he can prove to be the supercilious prick I know is hiding beneath the surface. “Unless you have something else for me, I’d best be going. I need to put in some added time to get you that something
extra
for Saturday’s event.”
I hang up the phone before he can speak and ruin my perfect exit. I drop the phone, the clatter of it against my desk filling the silence of the room, and drop my head into my hands. I sit there for a moment, hoping the buzzing in my ears will dissipate, but it just continues to rage incessantly until it becomes almost white noise.
My shoulders are tight, my body amped up with a Molotov cocktail of emotions just waiting to explode when lit by the right match. My mind leaps to Becks, and I curse myself for that damn ache he’s created, which isn’t going away no matter how many times BOB and I have reacquainted ourselves since Sunday.
It’s just not the same.
Not even close.
I groan out in frustration—memories of that one night together flickering through my mind as I hear Dante’s motorcycle pull up in the driveway. I really don’t need to bearound him right now—primed alpha male oozing sex appeal and willingness for a quick romp in the bed.
Or on the kitchen counter.
God, yes, I know sleeping with him would be a huge mistake—huge—but damn he might be the perfect flint to spark this sexually frustrated woman’s fire. But no matter how much I know he’d be incredible in bed and pleasure me sufficiently, I’m not crossing that line.
I just can’t.
Not just for my sake or the satisfaction of my sex drive, but because when I think of sex and what I’m craving, I think of Becks. I see him standing between the V of my thighs, that sexy-as-fuck smile on his lips and how he lifts his head up in rapture just as he sinks into me. Yet the fact that I can’t stop thinking of him—of these things—means I just might do something stupid and use Dante to sate my simmering lust.
And that would solve nothing but prove how fucked-up my logic is.
I can’t use one man’s hand to scratch another man’s itch. Well, I could, but that would involve both of them being in the same bed with me, and that’s a whole different can of worms.
The chuckle comes on the heels of the mental image. The exhausted laughter at my ridiculously immature thoughts of two men and their cans of worms tells me I need to leave the house. I need to get out and get some fresh air and make my raging hormones simmer down. Grab hold with both hands and get a grip.
It takes me a second as I look out the window to the front yard to figure out what I need. And it is most definitely not the sight of Dante pulling off his shirt and wiping his hands on it after he adjusts something on his bike. Bare skin, defined muscles, etched ink.
I shove the chair back.
Time to go.
* * *
“See? Just
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