Page 34

Covertly, I keep a watchful eye on her and as soon as Arianna is out of sight, I excuse myself and follow the spirited siren I seem to be completely obsessed with through the bar.
Pushing open the bathroom door, I enter, and I’m pleased to find the stalls are empty except for the one Arianna occupies. Satisfied, I quietly walk back to the main door and turn the latch to lock it to stop anyone interrupting us.
I pull a smile at the way she hums to herself contently, enjoying her sweet-sounding tune as she does her business before flushing the toilet.
Resting my ass on the vanity unit, I cross my arms and legs and don’t have to wait too long for her to unlock the door to exit the stall, my skin prickling with anticipation.
The door slightly ajar, her eyes blow wide as soon as she spots me, followed by a wide wicked smile that brings an end to her melodic humming. She fucking knows she’s been teasing me all day. More than usual.
Her reaction is quicker than a bolt of lightning as she pretends to close the door to seal herself back inside the safety of the stall. But I know she’s playing with me, like cat and fucking mouse.
I take two large strides and I’m right there pushing the door open to prevent her relocking it, which she won’t. I know she wants this, me chasing after her.
She quickly scampers backward, wedging herself into the back corner as if she’s a caged animal, mischief dancing all over her face. When I’m inside the stall, I awkwardly close the door in the tight space, lay my back against it then secure the lock behind my back.
“What are you doing?” she whispers. The little gulp noise she makes doesn’t go unnoticed, her eyes almost falling out of their sockets when she realizes we are sealed in and it’s just the two of us, something she’s been avoiding for weeks, because I get the impression she doesn’t trust herself around me. Hell, I don’t trust myself. I’m desperate to touch her again.
“Teaching you a lesson in manners, Ms. Donovan.” I step forward, rubbing my hands together.
“What?” she asks, sounding confused, lines wrinkling her forehead before she sucks in a breath as if she understands what I mean. She holds her pointer finger up in the air. “Now, wait, just one?—”
I don’t give her an opportunity to finish her sentence, because faster than a blink of an eye, I’m throwing myself at her. I can’t seem to stay away and I’ve sprung forward, looped my arm around her waist, and I’m crashing my lips to hers.
Surprised at first, she lets out a squeak, then slowly as I push the seam of her mouth open with my tongue, she sighs, sounding blissed out, and gives in to our kiss, dropping her purse to the floor with athud.
It’s a kiss unlike any other we’ve shared yet, because this time, I know her, I know what turns her on, what she likes, what makes her go all dopey eyed and what makes her scream my name. I know every inch of her and I’ve committed every one of her curves to memory for safekeeping.
There isn’t an ounce of rational thought in my brain that tells me to stop as she grabs my tie and pulls me closer, letting me know she wants this too.
I shouldn’t be kissing the woman I had a one-night stand with, but I don’t care.
I shouldn’t be kissing the woman I had a one-night stand with and then who scolded me in my own office today, but I don’t care.
I shouldn’t be kissing the vixen who has teased me all day in her little black dress, but I don’t care.
I shouldn’t be kissing my secretary, but I don’t care.
And I sure as hell shouldn’t be kissing my employee, but I really couldn’t give a fuck, because none of that seems to matter anymore.
I want her.
So fucking bad.
Which is ridiculous.
I don’t know her, and yet I do.
Every contour, sigh, freckle, and scar.
Specifically, the ten-inch jagged-looking silvery-colored scar that runs down the length of her right shoulder blade.
When I fucked her from behind the night she stayed over at my apartment and ran my finger down it, she refused to tell me what caused the slightly raised scar with the small dots along either side of it, indicating sutures had been placed there. Yelling at me, she told me not to touch it again, which I didn’t.
Whatever caused her scar, it looked like it was a deep cut with a lot of history that most likely required surgery. It’s beenscrewing with my head since then and I wish she trusted me enough to tell me what happened to her.
Invading her mouth with my tongue, hers twists around mine as we lick and taste each other like starved animals. She tastes sweet and bitter, the bourbon from her cocktail both spicy and smooth; the exact flavor of what I imagine temptation and regret tastes like. And she tastes like consequences, really fucking bad ones. Not that I make many bad decisions, if ever, but when it comes to her, I can’t stop myself from wanting her and I don’t care what the repercussions are.
We explore each other’s mouths, and it feels so good to have her in my arms again.