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“Old guy?”

There was a seven year age gap between us.

“I mean with this big, thick beard and a brand new flannel shirt.” I treasured the moment her hands slid down the front of my shirt, straightening the collar, then smoothing down my chest. “All these muscles…”

She had more to say, I was sure of it, but I was gratified to hear her struggle to find the words as she rubbed my chest. I wanted her struck dumb, speechless in my presence, because damn, that’s the way I was around her. My throat worked, my lips moved, but nothing came out but information about the next job. I felt that same pressure now, to tell her, spill it all out, the messy tumble of need, lust, and affection that burned deep in my chest every time I saw her. Instead, I set the beers down and wrapped my hands around her wrists, my thumbs brushing against her pulse.

“Not when I’m with you,” I told her. “I won’t, can’t look at another woman. I’m yours?—”

“For a week.” She seemed to cling to that idea way too tightly. “Did you and the twins talk about this? Because Hayden said the same.” My teeth locked together. “That he didn’t want to disrespect me like that or something, but that’s why I brought this up. It’s not disrespectful. You’re doing me a solid by even considering this whole idea and getting out of the way when you find someone you like is the least I can do.”

“Not tonight.” My arm went around her waist, pulling her in because I couldn’t fucking stand it, being this far apart from her. “Not tonight, Jamie. Fake date or not, I’m not in the practise of ogling other women when I’m out with another one.” I tilted my head her way. “There’s no need for signs or nudges or secret winks. You’ll have my entire focus this evening.” I drew her a little closer, feeling her feet drag across the floor, but I didn’t sense reticence. Instead, her eyes stared into mine. “And I guess you’ve gotta figure out how you feel about that.”

She was formulating a response. I saw her throat work and her lips purse several times, but no words came out, but right when she let out a little squeak, the guys appeared beside us.

“This lovey-dovey shit?” Clinton said, waving a hand in our direction. “It’s beautiful, but not enough to warrant getting between a man and his beer.” He grabbed one of the glasses and then clinked it against the other guys’ ones. “Cheers, boys. Here’s to another week of back-breaking labour down.”

I didn’t get my answer, and Jamie was hardly likely to reply when the rest of the guys were standing about, so I had to communicate my intentions with my body instead. I sat down on a bar stool and rather than reach for my beer, I reached for her, slotting her in between my legs and wrapping my arms around her. My nose hovered over the back of her neck, breathing in the smell of soap and flowers, right as I felt her stiffen.

That was the problem with talking. Lips could flap and people could say a whole lot without meaning a bloody thing, but bodies? They couldn’t lie. She felt me now, her sweet little arse pressed in tightly against my cock, and had incontrovertible evidence that this was more than just a favour. I ached for Jamie so fiercely it made my teeth ache, and now she knew. All there was to do was to wait to see how she’d respond to that.

“Whaddya reckon, Brock?” Ken said, turning to me, but before I could ask what the hell he meant, I felt Jamie shift. Her hips tilted back and when her arse pressed into me, my grip tightened, desperate to keep her right there. Then she had to shift again, just a slight rubbing back and forth. Ken frowned slightly, taking in my stricken expression.

“Um… yeah,” I replied, then nodded sharply. “Totally agree.”

Chapter 14

Jamie

Having sex with my boss would be the world’s dumbest thing to do, so why was I thinking just that right now?

Number one, he came downstairs looking like he always did, but better. Clean and smelling of something spicy and musky, I found myself trailing closer, wanting to breathe him in. The flannel shirt Millie mocked? It was all soft and pettable, and then I did just that. I said it was because I was to establish some sort of code for him to use if he met someone else, but… When my hand spanned his chest, confirming that his body was just as hard and packed with muscle as I’d always suspected, all thoughts of other women were shoved aside.

Just as I would them if they came close to Brock.

What? Where the hell did that bullshit come from? He wasn’t mine. That rational thought was like a flickering candle in the middle of a hurricane, blown out all too quickly. Instead, a secret part of myself that I’d kept stuffed down for way too long came rushing out.

When we were teenagers, Brock was a man. Mysterious, cool, and contained, my teenage eyes had followed him around the house every time he came by to visit his parents. Part of me felt the divide between us, me kid, him adult, far too deeply to do anything but mumble hello when I saw him, but the other half? Some primal, animal part of me was sure that Brock would provide for me, keep me safe, and that was so seductive. The fact he never made a move on me as an apprentice, something too many of the other women at trade school couldn’t claim, just increased that feeling, but now… Now I was allowed to touch, allowed to run my hands over that broad chest, all the while wanting to undo every button and follow the tattoos that peeked over his collar, tracing each one with my fingers.

To the pub, I was just flirting with my man. Only I knew how wrong this was, and when Brock’s hands went around my wrists, I thought he was about to prise them away. Instead, he held me right where I was, staring down at me as his thumbs no doubt felt the rapid skitter of my pulse.

The twins were hot, but Brock? He was like this wall between me and the rest of reality. In the little bubble he created, the world outside didn’t exist. I stopped babbling shit and just stared at him. I felt safe, I felt cared for, I felt— Some great admission was ready to be made, when Clinton interrupted and I nearly bit his head off in response. When I spun about to face him, Brock’s arms went out and around me, dragging me back where I was supposed to be, nestled between two thick thighs.

Clinton’s smirk didn’t register, the conversation going right over my head, because Brock was communicating something else oh-so clearly. There were two layers of denim between him and me, and still I felt it. Big, thick, and rock hard, I was pressed up against my boss’ rigid dick.

Oh fuck…

I felt like I was dropping down into a hot bath, every nerve ending prickling at the sudden change in temperature. It was a cool night, but I didn’t register a bit of it, a flush colouring my skin. That was super embarrassing, I was dimly aware of that, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Conversation flowed around me, the guys’ voice a low rumbling soundtrack to my body betraying me. I was fairly sure the nice, clean granny panties I’d put on before we went were a total mess, because while my brain knew this was fake, physically I was preparing.

What would it feel like going in? I thought dimly, my hips rocking back to trace the shape of him as much as I could from this position. Would it hurt just a little, the way I liked, making me all too aware that he was thrusting deep into me, before I opened up and let him in? Would he have a fat head that rubbed perfectly against that spot inside me? Would he have my nails raking his back, urging him on, faster, deeper, his hands locking down around my hips.

Just like they were now.

Holy fuck, what the hell was I doing? Reality hit me like a bucket of cold water to the face. Brock was my boss and I was what? Grinding on him? I was flushing in earnest now, but not due to lust, my hands shaking as I grabbed my rum and Coke and downed it before pulling away.

“Damn, Mouse—” Clinton said.

“Who wants another?” I asked, jerking myself free of Brock. “My shout.”