Page 31 of Broken Brothers

“Deal,” I said. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

Before she could sarcastically reply, I went in and kissed her, this time a little more tenderly.

Except it didn’t last long, because soon, my hands had gone to her ass and I had gotten hard once more. She reached down and touched me, and I pushed her down into the chair.

“Stop, stop,” she said, giggling.

Reluctantly, I pulled up and leaned on the table.

“We have work, you know,” she said. “We can have some fun on lunch, but that still leaves the rest of the work day and evening I have to look professional.”

“Says the woman with a tear in her dress shirt.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, not really addressing my note. “You have my number. Text me where we’re going to go and I’ll meet you there at 7.”

“I’ll meet outside your place at 6:30.”

I could see her brain telling her no. Fortunately, her heart was speaking right now.

“I’ll text you where I live,” she finally said.

“Here, I’ll save you the trouble,” I said, pulling out my phone and texting her the request. “Now you can’t ignore me and pretend that you forgot.”

“OK, Chance Hunt,” she said, finally fully dressed and pulling my chair from the door. “Have some manners. You might get what just happened all over again.”

I snorted my pleasure as businesswoman Layla Taylor reappeared, walking out the door with a strident walk, as if she was not aware of the tear in her shirt. Once it was safe, I took a few steps out the door, looked at the exit, and smiled.

You’re mine, I thought. And not just physically.

I whirled around back to my office. Just before I did, though, I swore I saw Edwin Hunt walking down the hallway, as if he had just been watching me.

There was no… well, unfortunately, there was a way it could have happened—as it just did. What the hell this meant, I had no idea… but it wasn’t exactly the most reassuring thing to see right after what had happened with Layla.

12

Perhaps the most surprising occurrence of the next six hours was that Layla, in fact, did give me her address, which was located near the upper east side of Manhattan. Only then did it occur to me that our dinner and our bar had been relatively close to where she worked and where she lived; she probably thought that getting away with public sex once might have been fun, but anything more than that was tempting the devil to ruin the night for us.

When I got home, I made sure to put on some nice, sexy attire. I wasn’t looking to blow her world up or look like I was going to the opera, but I wanted to make sure that she noticed—a nice polo shirt that revealed a little bit of my chest hair, tight jeans, a decent watch; it did the trick. Not to sound cocky or anything, but I knew I looked good and I knew that Layla would think I looked good.

Here was the funny thing about what we had become—I was no longer just interested in fucking her. That had already happened, and it was everything I had hoped for and more… but now I wanted a little more. I was taking a fucking huge risk, but it was a risk for a woman that was worth it.

At least, that was what I told myself. I also knew that if it didn’t work out, I’d tell myself how stupid I was for ever thinking Layla was worth pursuing, that I could never trust women, and that that was a chance not worth taking.

But for now…

I took a cab to her place, the better to be ready that much quicker. When I came to her apartment, I stood outside, waiting for the front desk to call her down. I found myself surprisingly fidgeting, a little bit in disbelief that I felt so nervous. I had felt butterflies seeing a beautiful woman before, sure, even after Sarah Hill, but this was like… this was probably worse than when I was with Sarah!

“Chance Hunt.”

Hearing her voice before I even saw her already had me aroused and beyond excited. I turned.

Wearing a sleek red dress, a sharp but delightful contrast to her porcelain skin and dark hair, it accentuated her curves but did not throw them in my face—it was like my outfit in that it certainly drew my eyes, but it was far from the most arousing or most formal thing she could have chosen to wear.

“My God, Layla Taylor,” I said, admiring her curves and everything that somehow seemed perfect, even if objectively it may have seemed imperfect. “You are stunningly beautiful. I do not know what I did to win you over, but don’t ever tell me so that I may never have to charm another woman.”

“Oh my God,” Layla said, laughing.

Even I had to tell myself to slow my roll just a tad. My words were a bit over the top and a bit ridiculous, but I couldn’t deny that I felt immense attraction to her. Her dress really didn’t help—it only got my mind running more how good it would feel to take it off her.