Page 33 of Kiss Me Tonight

That Levi fell for his ploys, too, is a little disappointing.

“You are,” she counters with a shake of her head. “Maybe you don’t screw everything that moves. Maybe you’re better with your money than he’ll ever be. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re on the run, and that’s typical Rick behavior. You came to Maine because you want out of Hollywood, just like you cameherebecause you didn’t want to deal with locals asking you questions. You don’t want small talk. You don’t want to listen to their stories or hear about how football has changed their lives, how meetingyoumight be something momentous for them.”

The vehemence in her tone stiffens my spine. “Aside from the fact that we work together”—and live next door to each other, apparently—“I don’t see how any of that affects you.”

“I divorced Rick, and he and I were married.” Her blue eyes zero in on me, and I’m almost surprised I don’t erupt into flames where I sit. “But you and me? We don’t have a single bond tying us together, and we sure as hell aren’t married. Don’t think I won’t hesitate to find a way to get rid of you if you can’t be the coach those boys deserve.”

Jesus, this woman.

Bubbly and happy one moment, ready to slit my neck in the next.

It’s enough to give a guy mental whiplash.

“Your lack of faith in me is almost inspiring,” I grind out, already shifting off my stool. Getting in her space. Forcing her to back up or risk a collision that she’ll never win.

She glares up at me, her hands curled into tight fists down by her sides. “I don’t see the point in stroking your ego when you have so many other people lining up to do the job.”

I drop my head, my mouth finding her ear amidst all that damp, curly blond hair. “Less than a week ago you were more than willing to stroke something else of mine.”

I hear her stifled growl, just before she turns her head to meet my gaze. Our noses bump and still neither of us jerks away. “Less than a week ago,” she mutters, her focus momentarily derailed by the proximity of my mouth, “I thought you were a random guy in a bar. Not my assistant.”

Assistant.

I bet she loves thinking of me like that. At her beck and call. Her subordinate. Bending over backward to tick off all the little check marks on her endless task list.

My fingers dart up, instinctively finding the thin strap of her tank top. Whereas she just smothered that growl of hers, the same can’t be said for the way she gasps now at the sensation of my rough fingers brushing her soft skin. I glide my thumb along the strap, moving north over the swell of her cleavage and the delicate jut of her collarbone. Her breath catches as I flick the strap down, exposing her shoulder entirely.

To torment her.

Or maybe to torment us both.

It would be so easy to coast my fingers over her pale flesh and follow behind with the imprint of my kiss on her skin. Even easier to back her up against the kitchen island, my body caging hers, as I swallow her anger with my mouth slanted over hers and my hands tangled in her untamed hair.

The old me would have no problems taking what I want; no thoughts to the potential consequences of my actions. What I wanted, I took. What I needed, I stole. And what I craved, I devoured.

Except that I’ve worked long and hard to see that the old me is dead.

The old me that maybe once looked a little like Rick Clarke.

Dammit.

Self-disgust puts me on the retreat. With a dismissive wave at the kitchen island, I mutter, “Keep the rest of the pizza for when Topher comes home.”

Cornering Levi was a power-play move on my part. A calculated reminder that she may be walking around withHead Coachprinted on the back of her Wildcats polo but I’m no wimpy, pushover assistant. I won’t jump because she asked me to. I won’t roll over like a good dog simply because she barked out an order.

My attempt at regaining control backfired.

I’mthe one dragging much-needed air into my lungs to extinguish the fog of unwanted lust. My fingers are curling in and stretching out, like I’m desperate to hear that soft gasp in my ear all over again. To say nothing of the state of my hard dick, which I do my best to hide by twisting my body away to face the hallway.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

One step toward freedom.

And yet another.

“DaSilva.”

DaSilva, not Dominic or even Dom.

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