A beautiful smile plays over her lips as she drops her hands and goes back to her desk, trying to act professionally, but she’s terrible at hiding her joy. She flips open her planner and asks, “When?”
I push my hand through my hair. “I don’t care. Tonight?” Did I just say that?
Shocked, she shyly smiles. “Tonight works. How about eight?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Don’t you need to look at your schedule?”
I take a step toward the door. “I’ll move things around if there’s a conflict.” I pause and then say, “Do you want to meet at my place? I can have my chef make something, and we can work.”
“Sure, if you’re okay with that.”
I open her office door. “It’ll be easier that way,” I answer, even though I know damn well it won’t be easier, because the temptation to see what those plump lips can do will be a huge distraction. “Eight. See you then.”
I take off before I can hear her response, wondering what I just agreed to.
* * *
Tumbler in hand, I lean against one of the many windows in my apartment, counting down the seconds until Sutton arrives. Harris has already informed me of her arrival, so now I’m waiting for the elevator to ding.
To say I barely got anything done today would be an understatement. After I left Sutton’s office, I went to mine and tried like hell to focus on some contracts that needed another look-over but couldn’t concentrate to save my life. All I could think about was how in a matter of twenty-four hours, my life feels as though it’s been flipped upside down. I’ve shown far too much concern for another human being, and it’s freaking me the fuck out. I barely show concern for Rath and Bram, so why should I care so much about Sutton?
I’m going to blame it on her dad and the connection we have. Again. I can admit that I wish all my clients were like Foster Green. What Sutton said about Gaining Goals was so true. He’s genuinely philanthropically minded, and I probably have no clue how much he gives away to charities, but I’m guessing it’s a shit load. He never publicizes that, and I honestly respect the hell out of the man. And his daughter, who could be a spoiled, rich society brat, who accepts humbly that her fucking desk is in a lemon-smelling closet, is cut from the same cloth. Genuinely selfless. I’m such a prick in comparison, yet she persisted to chase me to help her. Fuck, she was willing to do everything herself for the charity, only asking for phone numbers from me. Nice one, asshole. But the anticipation I feel about her arrival stems from my respect for her dad. That has to be it. Nothing else.
I finish off my drink and hop a few times while shaking out my arms. Come on, you son of a bitch, act like a dick. Act like a dick. I tap my cheeks a few times, crack my neck from side to side, and think mean thoughts. I can do this.
Forget the sensitive bastard that showed up this morning. You’re back to your normal self. If anything, Sutton expects him and I can’t let her down, not anymore.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
I got this.
Sutton takes a step into the room, beaming with a sweet and excited smile, wearing leggings past her belly button and a loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder crop-top sweater that reveals a patch of her stomach as she moves. Jacket in hand, she makes herself at home, resting it along the back of a chair and then making her way into the living room after she takes off her boots.
“Gosh, it’s cold out tonight.” She removes her hat and swishes her head back and forth, fluffing her long blonde hair.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
This is not good.
Nope.
She has to go home. That sweater, what the hell was she thinking? Her breasts are shaped like perfect round globes against the fabric, and the black lace of her bra strap is revealed by the wide scoop of the neckline. Getting work done with her wearing that is going to be next to impossible.
And then she turns around.
Christ. I drag my hand over my face.
Her high-waisted leggings mold to her delicious little ass and extend up the small of her back, leaving nothing to my imagination. And not a goddamn panty line in sight. Just perfect.
“What did you say was for dinner again?” she asks, digging in her purse.
You. You’re for dinner.
“Uh, no clue. It’s in the oven.”
She pops her head up, notebook in hand, completely oblivious to how hard she’s making me in what I’m sure she considers a “comfy” outfit. To me, she might as well be wearing lingerie. “It smells amazing. Is it ready? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, just warming.”
“Perfect,” she answers with cheer. “Shall we sit at the table to eat and work?”
“We can eat first then work.”
“Great. Want me to set the table?”
“Nah.” I get my legs to start working and make my way to the kitchen, where I pull out the casserole in the oven and then grab plates and silverware for both of us. “Looks like he made shepherd’s pie.”
“Oh, isn’t that a traditional Irish dish?” She bounces next to me. When the hell did she get there?
“Yeah. Have you had it before?”
“No.” As if she lives here, she moves around the kitchen, grabbing a water from the fridge and then holds up a bottle to me. “Would you like one?”
“I have a drink—”
“No booze while we’re working.” She points her finger at me. Sternly. “I need you coherent.”
I divvy up some portions and take the plates and silverware to the table where I set them down. “Sorry to disappoint, but I started drinking before you got here.”
With a saunter in her step, she tosses a water bottle at me and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Well then, sober up, we have a lot of things to get through tonight.”
When she says shit like that, it makes me want to reach for the bottle even more. Enduring a long night with her in that outfit, smelling so incredible, it’s going to be pure torture trying to keep my hands to myself.
She takes a seat across from me, folds the napkin I grabbed from one of the drawers over her lap, and holds up her water bottle to me. I reluctantly hold up mine. “To a wonderful partnership.”
“You’re fucking cheesy.” I clink my water bottle with hers, the colliding plastic making a less-than satisfactory sound.
“No, I’m excited. We’re going to bring this camp to the next level. I can feel it.”
Really? Because all I can feel is my raging boner against the zipper of my jeans.
“Did you mutter something?” she asks, fork halfway to her mouth.
“No.”
I’ve made some really bad decisions in the past week, but inviting Sutton here for dinner before we work has to be the worst idea of them all. Despite the scent of potatoes and beef, I can smell the faint fragrance of lavender, a smell I’ve come to connect with her now. The way her mouth wraps around her fork . . . hell, I keep envisioning my cock as the utensil feeding her shepherd’s pie rather than her fork, and it’s fucking with my messed-up brain.
Silence stretches between us as we both make a dent in our dinner. Mine is intentional silence, but Sutton’s isn’t. She’s way too consumed by the taste of her dinner and making little appreciative sounds that she hasn’t spoken a word.
“So, what part of Ireland did you live in?”
Small talk, no fucking thank you.
“We can just eat in silence.” I stuff a large forkful into my mouth and chew, looking away from her.
“You know, we’re going to be working with each other a lot, so it might be nice to know a few fun facts about one another. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
Chew. Swallow. Chug water.
“How about you tell me three things about you, and I’ll do the same. How does that sound?”
“No.”
Her fork clanks on the plate, finally pulling my attention away from the very entertaining and vastly interesting wood grai
n of my hardwood floors. “Do not shut down on me, Roark.”
“I’m not shutting down. I’m choosing not to share.”
“Why?”
I shrug and then take another bite.
“Roark McCool, tell me three facts about yourself.”
I lift a brow from her attempt to be strict. “Do ya really think that’s going to work?”
“Yes, I do.”
I give her a brief smile before turning back toward my dinner. “It didn’t.”
She groans, and it sounds sexier than what I think she intended. Either that or my libido is shot through the roof right now and anything she does is going to be sexy—even if she plucked a piece of hair from her head and started flossing beef out of her teeth with it.
“Fine, I’ll tell you three things about me.”
“Not necessary.”
“I got my first period in sixth grade—”
“What?” I cringe. “Why is that a fact you tell people?”
Startling herself, eyes wide, she says, “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to say that. I don’t know why I did. But now you know.”
“I didn’t need to know.”
“Consider it a fun fact.” She shrugs. “I’ve only had sex with two guys.” She slaps her hand over her mouth, looking absolutely mortified. A fit of pure rage starts to climb up my spine as I think about the two possible guys who had sex with her. “Oh God, I really don’t know why I said that. I’m nervous and when I’m nervous, I say the first thing that comes to mind.”
Controlling myself, I nod, not wanting to dive into the whole sex thing, because there are too many questions rolling around in my head. Way too many things I want answered like: did they make her come on their tongues? Did they worship her perfect breasts for hours on end? Did they appreciate the little moans I know flow past her lips when she’s turned on . . .
“That was so unprofessional of me. Here I am, scolding you for being unprofessional and then the first meeting we have I’m telling you about my period and my sex life, well, lack thereof. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a penis. Or a good penis. Not that you need to know that. You don’t.” She bites her bottom lip. “It was small, the last one, really, really small, and I know it’s not about the size, but I feel like it barely went inside me—”
“Stop.”
She nods. “Okay.”
We both turn back to our food, my mind whirling with her oversharing.
Small penis.
Been a while.
Lack of sex life.
Fucking hell, my arms are itching to swipe this table clean, toss her up on it, and show her exactly the man I am: greedy with an appetite.
“What are you thinking?” She presses her hand against her forehead. “I’m so embarrassed right now. I can’t sit here in silence.” Clearly. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
I chew on my dinner and grind out, “You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do. Anything to get my mind off this embarrassment.”
I cut a sharp look in her direction and say, “You. Don’t. Want. To. Know.”
“Oh,” she shies away. “Okay.”
More silence.
If she’s wearing underwear, what kind is it? Thong? G-string? Lace to match her bra? What does her ass feel like? Firm? Our conversation about anal play jumps to the forefront of my mind. God, she’s never done it before. Would she like it? Even if it was just a little bit or probing, would she like it?
“Your jaw is clenched really tight. Are you okay?”
No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m hard as a rock with no promise of release for at least a few hours.
“Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. There is a vein in your forehead that’s starting to look scary. Are you tense? Do I make you tense?” She leans forward, her sweater dropping so I get the perfect view of her tits encased in her black lace bra.
Son of a bitch.
I push away from the table, startling her, and head straight for the bar where I hide behind the counter and pour myself two fingers of whiskey.
“Hey, what did I say about drinking?”
“I need some.”
“Really? You can’t wait that—”
“Sutton, just shut the fuck up for two goddamn seconds. Okay?” I grip the back of my neck, pulling on it hard, trying to ease the heavy flow of blood heading straight to my cock.
This has never happened to me. I’ve been horny many times, and I’ve wanted plenty of women, but nothing like right now. Nothing so intense that I feel like I’m going to burst out of my own skin with need. And I don’t know if it’s because she’s off limits, or if it’s the innocence dancing around her, but with every word that drips from her lips and every flick of her smooth little fingers, I want her more and more.
“Don’t be mean, Roark. Please.”
She goes to stand, but I point my finger at her sternly. “Do not get out of that chair.”
“Why are you being a jerk right now?”
“Because . . .” I yell, losing all sense of control. It’s the sweater. That goddamn perfectly appealing sweater that shapes every sexy piece of her chest.
“Because why?”
“Because, Sutton, I’ve never wanted to fuck someone as bad as I want to fuck you,” I shout. “You wanted a fact about me, well there you go. I think you’re fine as fuck, and if I’m moody with you it’s because I want you.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen, complete and utter shock crosses her face. “You want to have sex with me?”
“I want to fuck you.”
“Oh.”
She looks away and goes to say something but doesn’t.
“It’s not going to happen,” I add, seeing how her mind is already starting to race. “So get that out of your head.”
“It’s not?” She shakes her head, as if realizing what she just asked. “I mean, it’s not. We’re colleagues.”
“And you’re eight years younger than I am and my client’s daughter and frankly, I think you’d be a clinger.”
Her eyes narrow as she puffs out her chest. “I would not be a clinger. I’m not a virgin.”
“Yeah, got that from one of your fun factoids.” There is a good fifteen feet between us, and I want to keep it that way so I stay behind the bar. “But from the sounds of your uninspired and lackluster descriptions, you’ve never experienced good fucking.”
“I know about sex,” she says.
“But have you ever come?”
“Yes.”
“With a man?”
She looks to the side. Bingo.
“That’s what I thought. After I fucked you, I’m one hundred percent sure you’d be a clinger.”
“You’re awfully full of yourself.” She folds her arms over her ample chest, propping her boobs up, enticing me. “How do you even know you could get me off?”
I give her a once-over. “Trust me. I know.”
Clearly irritated with my confidence, she turns back to her food, huffing in the process and stabbing the meat with her fork. I inwardly cringe, hoping she’s not envisioning me in her brutal attack on the shepherd’s pie.
This might sound a little dickish, but I believe in what I said. She would be a clinger . . . or she would fall in love. Fuck. No. Where Sutton is involved, there is no casual. She’s not the kind of girl who can have a one-night stand and then move on with life. She’s way too sweet with her heart on her sleeve. No way, not going there, no matter how much her ass in those leggings begs for it.
Wanting to cut the growing tension since we still have to work together, I clear my throat. “So, you only told me two facts, what’s the last one?”
She glances up in my direction, anger laced in her pupils. Good, let her be angry. Anger is so much better than happy to see me.
Mulling it over, she takes a few seconds before she answers, but when she does, it packs one hell of a punch. “My third fact? Easy . . . my bra size is 34D.”
Sharp
ly, she smiles at me and then turns back to her food.
Touché.
* * *
Yup, she’s a 34D. I’m confirming it for the twentieth time tonight. Every time she bends over to write something in her notepad on the coffee table, I look down her sweater.
It’s a great view that’s kept me hard the entire time we’ve been talking about the camp. I can’t tell you anything about what we’ve been planning, as my mind has been anywhere but on helping children. Instead, it’s been on the way she licks her lips every few minutes, or the way she poises her pen at her mouth when she thinks, or how she lights up when she gets an idea.
And . . . her tits.
I’ve been obsessed with the things ever since I ran into her. Now that I know a little more about them, I want to become well-acquainted best friends. I’ve never been best friends with breasts before, but I’m open to the idea.
“Are you paying attention?” she snaps at me, pulling my gaze away from her chest.
“What? Yup.” I scratch the side of my jaw. “You were talking about equipment.”
“I was talking about dietary restrictions.”
“Same thing.” I shrug.
“It’s not the same thing.” She sighs in exasperation. “Roark, I need you to focus.”
I lean back on the couch. “There is no focusing when you’re wearing that sweater. It’s billowing all over the place. Why did you wear that?”
She glances at her sweater and actually seems shocked I have a problem with it. “It’s comfortable.”
“It’s a goddamn scarf.” I lift from my seat on the couch and go to my bedroom where I pull out a long-sleeved T-shirt and take it to her. I toss it on her lap and say, “Change into that. We’ll get more done.”
“I’m not going to change my shirt because you’re horny and frustrated by my tits, as you so elegantly called them.”
I’m not going to deny her assessment of me so I just shrug and say, “Fine, good luck.”
I drape my arm over the back of the couch and get comfortable. I won’t blatantly stare at her chest, but I know I’m going to grab another peek in about a minute, because the need to look at them has become like clockwork for my eyes tonight.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 11