Page 5 of Axel (Belles & Bratva Beasts #2)

The only thing coming on your dick is

I leave him hanging and order three espressos from Roberto, two lattes, and a chamomile tea.

The coffee shop is packed as usual, with Saturday tourists crowding in.

“Can you hurry it up?” One of them rudely shouts at Roberto, “I thought they had good service in the South!”

I whip around. “Bless your heart; we do. We have that and manners. Go buy yourself some at a gift shop.” Someone gets my wrath today, and if it’s not my hot, dickhead boss, it’s this turd.

The man seethes, gesturing to the long line. “This is some shit.”

I snap, “Clearly, because shit happened to your face, but you’re the only one being a dick about it.”

Snorts and snickers fill the small shop. The guy’s face turns red, and whoops, my temper did it again.

“Look,” I reply calmly. “The sweet guy is a college student and working as hard as he can. Have some patience.”

I swipe my card, knowing I’ll expense it for work. But the tip? I reach into my wallet and leave my last ten for Roberto.

“Thanks, Ruby,” he nods, and I shrug, grinning.

Loaded with two coffee trays, I feel better. I practically skip two blocks before using my butt to nudge open the glass doors to our building. Sitting at the front desk, Natalie rushes to help me.

But I chirp, “I got this. You’re a thousand months pregnant; sit down. And here’s some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Natalie takes the tea instead. She’s about to pop but says work is the distraction she needs until then. Besides, it’s important work. She’s one of Axel’s lawyers who takes pro bono cases.

It makes my boiling hatred for my boss simmer because he has two signs posted in the window of his law office. One, offering pro-bono services to those in need, and another, educating on the signs of sex trafficking.

I haven’t figured out why it’s an issue Axel is so passionate about, but I can’t wish explosive diarrhea on a man like that.

Just a little shart.

Speaking of the shitty devil…

I take the elevator to the third floor and find him standing by my desk, talking with his practice manager, Helen, who sits beside me when I know … really … I left Axel waiting.

For his espressos.

For my inappropriate text.

“Here you go.” I place a latte on Samuel’s desk. He’s my paralegal partner in crime and busy on a phone call, so he mouths, “Thanks.” I would’ve gotten a drink for Helen, too, but she’s addicted to water.

“Ms. Jones,” Axel barks. “In my office!”

He pivots on his large, shiny, black lace-up oxfords, expecting me to follow. I roll my eyes and set my latte down on my desk.

“Uh oh, Principal Cummings is pissed,” I side-whisper to Helen. “Maybe I’ll get out-of-school suspension today.”

She winks, and I like her. She’s much older and knows how to handle Axel’s shit … while I just give it to him.

“Yes, Mr. Cummings .”

Sweet sarcasm fills my voice as I enter his sprawling office with arched brick windows. His mammoth antique desk occupies half of the stately room, while a seating area with a tufted black leather sofa and matching side chairs takes up the rest.

Dark, leather-bound law books and literary tomes line the ornate bookshelves behind his desk. But it’s his ebony leather executive chair that does something to me. It creaks every time he leans back in it, and I swear the sound zips straight to my clit.

She’s not aware that we hate him.

Silently, I set his tray of espressos on his desk. Purposefully, I put them on his pristine, new copy of Charleston Style it’s her landlord’s harassment.

” Suddenly, the timing is too perfect, and I smile. “I kinda know how she feels.”

His sexy face doesn’t flinch. No, satisfaction ignites his icy eyes. “I see.”

“Do you? Or do you need me to use more Post-It notes?”

“I need you to finish your text.” He smirks, sipping his espresso.

“Huh, that sounds like a you problem.”

“Ms. Jones, you work for me. My problems are your problems.”

“Perfect: I’ll outperform and add to them.”

“You’re sounding quite sarcastic today.”

“If I sound sarcastic, you should hear what I don’t say.”

A smile ghosts his lips. “Which is?”

“This is a trap.”

“This is your free pass.”

I purse my lips, dying to say it, but I won’t be seduced.

Then he raises a dark brow, waiting … and something about his nose ring makes me blurt, “I just look at you sometimes, and wonder what you’d look like with a personality.”

“Hmm.” He fights a sexy smile. “I wonder what you’d look like fired.”

I roll my eyes. “Are we done?”

“For now.” He flits his hand.

Where are my tweezers?

Slowly, I pivot on nude heels I hate. I’m in a purple sheath dress I loathe, too, well aware it hugs my ass, but at least I can swish what Axel can’t have for his gaze.

Then, I do everything possible to piss him off.

I leave his office door open and sit at my desk. I start typing my next report, loving how the clicking of my acrylic nails drives Axel insane. He’s complained about it before. Once I finish, I kick my heels off under my desk and traipse, barefoot, back into his office .

“Here,” I saunter toward his desk, “this is the exhibit tracking of the evidence submitted for Ms. Simpson’s case.”

His cold stare whips to my feet. “Ms. Jones,” he snarls, “we wear shoes in this office.”

“When you have to wear high heels, too, you can object. That’s gender equality. But no, you get to wear expensive Italian shoes laced so snug, they’re watertight, but at least they’re comfortable. Case closed.”

“You can wear oxfords. I’m not opposed.”

“No, but every snob in Charleston is, and I take enough crap as it is.”

“Crap for what?”

“You won’t understand.” I smile. “Carolina Law is where they teach the Oxford crap I deal with.”

“So you prefer what?” He mocks, “Flip-flops?”

“Don’t yuck my yum. Flip-flops are God’s gift to feet.” I push his buttons. “Want me to go to Walmart and secretly buy you a pair? You can wear them in private so your Carolina Law friends won’t know.”

“No.” His face lights up. It’s weird. “But you can go to Target and get a litter box and cat food. Not the cheap stuff. The good kind.” He reaches into his jacket, making a flippant show of tossing his black card on the desk.

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

“Once again,” I fume, “it’s not in my job description.”

“Once again,” he smirks, “this is me, not caring.”