Page 103 of By His Rule

He studies me closely before his eyes shift to my outstretched hand.

“Or you could invite me in?” He looks at me through his lashes and damn him, he looks so fucking cute.

His hair is wet from the storm and rain droplets are running down his face, disappearing into his weekend stubble. I don’t need to let my eyes drop to know his shirt is as wet and as clingy as mine. I really do not need to see how it sticks to his muscles.

I. Do. Not. Need. To. See. That.

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to listen to myself and do the right thing.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

He steps closer. His body and scent completely overwhelm me.

It could be a really good idea…

“Only one way to find out, I guess,” he rasps, no longer even trying to hide the fact his attention keeps getting stolen by my lips.

Kiss me.

No. No, don’t fucking kiss me.

He’s your boss.

He’s an asshole.

But he’s so hot.

“Cell phone please, Kian,” I demand again, determined to think with my head and not my pussy.

Movement catches my eye, and my attention drops as he pushes his hand into his pants pocket, making the fabric tighten across his crotch—and successfully showing off the reason he’s able to be such a cocky motherfucker.

Oh, sweet mother of Jesus.

Every muscle in my body tightens.

I don’t doubt what he said earlier is true about his skills. Hell, there are enough women out there who’ve happily shared their stories about their night of pleasure with him to prove it. Not that I’ve looked them up or read any, of course.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s my boss, and that this is a really, really bad idea.

“Temptress.” His deep voice vibrates through me, making it even harder to do the right thing.

“Cell phone.”

I breathe a sigh of relief when he places it in my hand.

“See you in the morning, Boss,” I say before forcing myself to take a step back and swing the door closed.

But I don’t walk away. I can’t.

Instead, I reach up on my toes and look through the peephole.

My heart is still racing, my body screaming that I just made the wrong decision as he lifts his hand and combs his fingers through his wet locks. His eyelids lower and his lips part.

He looks tortured. It occurs to me that I should probably be enjoying watching him struggling to pull himself together. And all because of me. But I’m not.

Instead, I feel…confused. Conflicted. Guilty, even.

As proud as I am that I’ve made him lose control like that, I’m also a little ashamed.

---