Page 5 of The Rebel

I plaster myself against him and start to kiss him in earnest. Our mouths open and the first touch of his tongue on mine makes me moan. He takes control, deepening the kiss to the point I can’t breathe. I don’t care. I want more.

His hands caress my back in a long, slow sweep, like he’s exploring every bump of my vertebrae, before he squeezes my ass.

It makes me a little crazy. I hook a leg around his waist, eager to get closer. My head’s spinning a little, whether from the alcohol or his expert kisses I have no idea.

His hand slides from my ass along my thigh. My maxi dress has hiked up and when he grazes the skin behind my knee I tremble. It makes me pause.

What the hell am I doing, making out with Hart Rochester on a beach, flinging myself at him like I’m more than ready to lie down on the sand and spread my legs?

It’s a sobering thought, screwing up a campaign I need to go well, and I’m not sure if he senses my reluctance or I pull away first but suddenly we’re apart and I’m smoothing my dress down, heat making my cheeks burn.

‘That was unacceptable on so many levels.’ My voice is husky and I clear it. ‘I’m sorry for being unprofessional.’

I expect him to say the same. Instead, he says, ‘Let’s head back.’

There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of annoyance or anger. Like the last few minutes never happened.

Regret, quickly tempered with mortification, makes me turn away before he can see how his curt dismissal adds to my embarrassment. Crazy, because it’s not his fault: I flung myself at him. But with him behaving like that make-out session never happened I’m thrust back into a familiar role of taking whatever is dished out. I don’t like it.

So I break into a jog, desperate to get away and nurse my humiliation in peace.

He calls out, ‘Hey, Daisy, wait up,’ but I don’t stop. I keep going.

I’m done looking back.

Chapter Three

Hart

Ishould go after Daisy. Smooth things over, placate her, give her a spiel about how the kiss meant nothing, to forget it.

Instead, I stand here with a dumbass grin on my face.

I know why I deliberately provoked her into that kiss. I’ve done it my entire life, since my dad dumped me in the foster system: push people to the edge so they can hate me first.

With Daisy, it backfired, big time.

I had a hard-on since I first saw her sprawled on the sand, her ass in the air. It’s why I accepted her invitation for a walk even after she revealed her identity and I knew we’d be working together.

For me, our transient working relationship is perfect, because even if I do fuck her like I want to—the insistent throb in my dick won’t let up—it won’t mean anything. Just the way I like it.

So I needled her, accepting her invitation for a walk when I knew she’d hate me for it because I should know better considering our impending working relationship. I expected her to bristle, to push me away, to be appalled.

The part where she reacted by flinging herself at me? Not in the plan.

Fuck, she was a turn-on. A confident woman not afraid to grab what she wants, even if that happens to be me, the guy working alongside her for the next few weeks.

I should go after her and try to salvage the wreckage of this unexpected night before we meet in the morning. Put her at ease.

But then I remember the way she devoured me, the way she felt me up, and my damn face feels like it’s going to crack with my smug grin.

I’m rock hard, my balls throbbing. If all my blood hasn’t drained south I’d use half a brain cell and go after her, if only with the intention to invite her back to my room to finish what we started.

I watch her fleeing up the beach until she reaches the resort gates and enters. Only then do I follow at a sedate pace.

My grin fades the closer I get to the resort, the weight of what I’m facing in the upcoming weeks making my feet drag.

I’m nobody’s saviour, least of all Pa’s. But this hotel business is his legacy and, for reasons I can only blame on declining health, profit margins for his pride and joy have plummeted.

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