Page 57 of Love to Loathe Him

Her eyes blaze up at me, a challenge sparking in them. “And you don’t?”

My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her flush against me as I lean in close, my breath hot on her forehead. “Just remember that ironclad non-compete you signed upon joining my firm.” The thought of Alastair stealing Gemma is pissing me off, making me irrationally possessive.

I feel her body go rigid against mine, her jaw clenching stubbornly. “I haven’t forgotten the terms of my employment contract.”

“See that you don’t,” I murmur, letting a hint of threat color my tone.

I spin her back out, our eyes locking as she faces me again. “What did he say to you in your little chat?”

“Reading between the lines? That everyone at the annual charity regatta hates you.”

I scoff. “I don’t even attend.”

“No, but you damn well make sure that Ashbury Thornton wins every year.”

“Isn’t that the point of the thing? It’s a race.”

“Some might argue it’s meant to be a networking event.”

“And yet people only remember the winners.”

She tuts. “That’s not true.”

We fall into silence again as we move. I can practically taste her desperation for this dance to end, for the song to fade out so she can escape the big bad boss she claims to despise.

But I also know that deep down, tucked in a place she doesn’t want to acknowledge, her feelings are a little more complicated. What comes out of her mouth doesn’t match her eyes. And her eyes tell me she wants me to bend her over the nearest table and show her what a real man feels like.

She might hate me. She might think I’m the biggest asshole she’s ever met. But she wants me. It’s there, simmering beneath the surface, an attraction she can’t suppress. I see it in the way her eyes flicker to my mouth when she thinks I’m not looking. I feel it in the slight shiver that runs through her body when my hands flex on her hips.

She might hate herself for it, but the sexual attraction is there, crackling between us like a live wire. If I was just some stranger she met at a bar, she’d be more than happy to let me take her home, to let me show her the kind of pleasure she’s only fantasized about.

My gaze drifts to her cleavage, to the tantalizing swell of her breasts. What a contrast to the buttoned-up, priest-approved pantsuits she usually hides behind at the office.

With every movement, her tits brush against my chest, her hardened nipples protesting beneath the flimsy fabric, begging to be freed, to be sucked and teased and pinched.

Fuck . . . seeing Gemma like this is doing dangerous things to my self-control.

I have strict rules about not fucking my employees. It’s a line I swore I’d never cross. Not just because it’s unprofessional, but because it complicates things.

But there’s something about seeing the typically prim, professional Miss Jones all dolled up that has my blood rushing south with alarming speed. The urge to sayfuck it, to drag her somewhere private and act out a scene or two from that journal of hers . . . It’s almost overwhelming.

Gemma has curves in all the right places. With that long red hair and those big green eyes, she’s a knockout. I’ve trained myself not to notice because control is my strong point.

But right now? Right now, it’s slipping. My cock hardens against my trousers and I’m imagining dragging Gemma off this dance floor, pushing up that green silk, and burying my fat angry cock inside her.

I take a deep breath, forcing my gaze back to her face. But it’s too late. The flush staining her cheeks tells me she’s felt the evidence of my arousal pressing against her. How could she not? I’m so fucking hard it’s painful.

“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rough.

I need a trip to the Athenæum. I need to let off some steam, and it’s starting to show in the most inappropriate of places with the most inappropriate of people.

“It’s fine,” she says, but I don’t miss the way her breath catches.

“I mean it; I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable,” I say. “You look stunning tonight. Let’s just saykeeping my thoughts strictly professional is more challenging than usual.”

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating. Those full lips part slightly, and for a moment, I think she might give in.

But her mask of professionalism slides back into place. “Forget it,” she says sharply, as if she can erase the tension crackling between us with sheer force of will.