Page 20 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy

Kissing him is a portal to another realm. I’ve never had a vivid imagination, I did accounting, after all. Boring. But I’ve read spicy books and assumed that the women who wrote them had extraordinary minds, because I hadn’t noticed frissons of excitement from glances with men. And now I have to admit, they aren’t making it up. Being kissed by Vito Blackwood, my gorgeous, powerful boss, really is that good.

And he’s kissing me in front of my housemates who laugh at me, making me feel desirable and beautiful and not just included, but important.

The centre of his world.

He’s an outstanding actor, I vaguely think as he holds my head to tilt it as his mouth slides over mine. He’s a surprise. A classy and dominant dancer, making it feel effortless with two-left-feet me, and after all these days being surly, a charming if brusque, fake boyfriend.

“Alright, you made your point,” Mr Blackwood says, and I stiffen out of instinct to not upset the man I want to impress so much. It takes my brain a moment to recognise his accent is wrong. Too much Britain, not enough Italy. It’s not my Mr Blackwood, but theotherMr Blackwood. My Mr Blackwood is still kissing me, one hand clasped on my waist and the other in my hair.

Oh no.

MyMr Blackwood? I’m a goner. This will break me. I cannot think of my boss as beingmine.

He draws back and gives me a long, slow smile that turns my knickers to liquid butter.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he says in a voice that’s pure sex. It sounds like he really wants to take me back to his house and fuck me until I can’t walk.

“Yes,” I reply breathlessly.

“Don’t you have a bar bill to settle?” Julie snips, and through the fog of arousal Vito—it’s so deliciously forbidden to think of my boss as Vito—I recognise she’s jealous. Ofme.

The sensation is as foreign as it is delicious.

“I’ll cover it,” Mr Blackwood says smoothly.

“No, no.” I’ll pay for my own mistakes, and I’m proud of making a good salary. I approach the bar, and the barman comesover immediately. Nothing like the power of being with a mafia boss.

Dragging my purse off my shoulder and rifling through it, I try to find the credit card I know is there somewhere. I shove aside a clean pair of knickers and a stick of lip salve. I can feel Mr Blackwood watching me intently and my neck prickles with heat and embarrassment and something else that’s not unlike pleasure in their weirdest way.

Then—ah!—I spy the glint of plastic. “There it is!” I burrow deeper into my purse and carefully keep the knickers stuffed down as I pull out the card.

I wave it triumphantly at the barman who has wandered off to serve someone else while I had my little purse drama.

“You dropped something,” Mr Blackwood says.

“I found…” But the words die in my throat as Mr Blackwood picks up one of the condoms I bought earlier between two fingers and examines it with an expression of distaste.

“What’s this?” His voice is dangerously soft.

“I don’t know,” I squeak, the card suddenly tight in my hand. My emotional support bank card. Proof that I am an adult with a bank account and a job—currently—and sensible things like an overdraft I pay off every month and good financial sense as well as a very dusty V-card.

Because oh god. This is so bad.

The wrapper is bright pink, with a pair of red lips on it. It proudly proclaims that it is strawberry flavoured. Extra strong. Ribbed for her pleasure.

Andglow in the dark.

Pink. And glow in the dark.

What was Ithinking?

Obviously, not that my boss would ever see it. I bought one of every type of condom from the vending machine in the toilets.With all that has happened, I totally forgot about my mission to get laid.

I’m more likely to get knocked out from sheer bad luck than smuggle the sausage in the pink canal.

“You don’t know.” Mr Blackwood sounds unconvinced, as he has every right to be.

Who do I think I’m kidding? Breathe, Cassie, breathe. You can do this. You are an actual adult.