Page 19 of Tempted By the Bosshole

As he turns to leave, I remember what he took from me last night, besides sanity. “My underwear, where are they?”

“You don’t need them anymore.”

Then he’s gone. I sputter at the empty space where he stood moments ago. What does that mean? Of course I need underwear…unless he’s hoping I stay the rest of the weekend. If that’s the case, he’s right. I don’t need them—at least until I leave.

Once I do, I’m not returning to Eric. So I still don’t have anywhere to call home. I have to solve that problem…

Wincing, I slide out of bed, every muscle in my body deliciously sore—especially my inner thighs. My girl parts feel tender and swollen and well used. But oh, the discomfort is worth the agonizing pleasure my stranger gave me.

Now I know exactly what I’ve been missing.

I’m probably way more attached to this hookup than I should be, but even if we only last another day or two, he’s shown me what to look for in a lover. I’ll never give Eric Meadows a scrap of my attention or affection again.

After a quick rinse in his shower, I use the toothbrush and comb he thoughtfully laid out, then slip on the sweatpants and soft, long-sleeved T-shirt. Damn it, I don’t have a bra, either. Sighing, I hop into his thick socks and meander downstairs.

His house, like his bedroom, is fastidiously neat. It’s also comfortable and functional, filled with grays and blues and the occasional pops of color that catch my eye. There isn’t a feminine touch in sight.

That makes me happier than it should.

I follow the smell of coffee and find the kitchen. The man I spent the night with leans over his coffeemaker.

He looks every bit as mouthwateringly fit as he is. Under the morning sun, his hair seems more salt than pepper. But the undeniable tension coming off him makes me pause. Instead of shivering in anticipation of his touch, I’m worried he’s looking for a nice way to show me the door.

“English muffin? Toast? Eggs?” he asks without facing me.

How did he even know I was here? “I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

That makes him turn with a disapproving stare. “When you’re with me, you do. Choose or I’ll choose for you.”

Last night, he was bossy in the bedroom. Outside of it? That’s not okay. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“English muffin it is.” He reaches into his pantry.

I cross the room to him and grab his arm. “Seriously, don’t go to any trouble. I rarely eat before noon.”

“You do now.” He sends me an unblinking stare. “I take care of what’s mine.”

“Yours?” He can’t mean that the way it sounds.

“Yes.” He leans in, his stare daring me to refute him. “Mine.”

I rear back. I wanted to spend more time with this guy. Heck, I was hoping to spend the rest of the weekend in his bed, under him, absorbing all the pleasure he gives me. But I just left one controlling jerk. The last thing I need is another.

“Listen, I should?—”

“Go? No. You’re not moving until you’ve eaten and we’ve talked.” He settles the toaster onto the counter and shoves the two halves of the muffin into the slots.

What the hell is going on? “I don’t think so.”

He hands me my coffee as if I didn’t just balk. “Sit. I’ll bring your food. Butter? Jelly? Something else?”

“I don’t want breakfast.”

“Okay. Peanut butter, then. You need protein.”

Last night, he treated me like a goddess. This morning, I feel like a caged pet. He cares about what I’m eating, but not about how I feel? No wonder he’s divorced.

“I appreciate that you want to feed me. I’m sure you mean well and that you don’t intend to come off as bossy?—”

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