Page 9 of Dear Grumpy Boss

A deafening roar fills my ears.

To make the whole situation worse, a mysterious draft of cool air releases from the ceiling and teases my skin. My nipples pull and tighten into hard peaks, pushing merrily against the lace cups.

I’m mortified. But he holds me hostage. There’s a celebratory flush beneath my skin, pulsing hungrily at how the black of his eyes eats up the amber gold. I arch my spine without meaning to.

He likes what he sees, a voice sings in my head. Deep between my thighs, as far as possible from my brain and its rational warnings, a throbbing awakens. I squeeze my thighs together to hold the delicious feeling there, and my leather skirt ripples with the movement.

Our gazes meet and it’s like I’m in that alternate fantasyland again where time stills. All his brooding energy is focused on me, heating up my skin.

For some reason though, my left arm is super warm and getting progressively hot. There’s a sudden burn on the back of my left hand and I gasp in pain.

Before my shorted-out brain can figure out what’s happening, Zayn’s there. His big body crowds me and the loud whir finally stops.

I look down, tears shimmering in my eyes, and realize he’s unplugged the dryer.

“Give me your hand,” he says, voice all deep and husky.

I react automatically to the command. My hand is small and soft and doughy in his large one. The contrast and the contact are erotic.

His long, elegant fingers press around the slightly red area. Then he tugs me to the sink and turns the tap on.

Water gushes forth with too much force, splashing us both. He curses and reduces the flow. The drops sizzle on my skin, like butter on a pan, with how hot I am.

I can’t look away from his elegant fingers bracketing my wrist or how his other hand rests at the small of my back. On bare skin. Even his broad frame rounds around me protectively.

The sensory overload is too much and I’m drowning. That throb at my core is constant now and I need relief.

I seek his gaze in the mirror and it’s another kind of assault. The acres of skin I have on display gleam under the bright lights over the sink. And his gaze is still drinking it in.

Then he looks up and our gazes lock once again.

Can he hear my heart thundering in my chest?

Outside the bathroom, the radio station suddenly switches to a weather report. The tension wrapping around us is broken.

I jerk my hand from his and turn around. The stupid cardigan is still wet in the front, but I have no choice.

I’m halfway through sliding my arms into it when a hand falls on my shoulder. The skin-to-skin contact is electrifying. This is what happens when you spend your days buried in steamy romance novels and your nights plugging your grumpy, reclusive boss into all those steamy scenarios.

“Here, I got you my sweatshirt,” he says.

I turn and stare at his offering.

It’s his Stanford sweatshirt. Shock steals my instant refusal. His university sweatshirt is akin to an infant’s favorite blanket for him. There’s only a particular dry-cleaner that is allowed to wash it and he hates traveling without it.

If I look at it one way, he’s a big, bossy, brainy baby.

A giggle slips from my mouth.

“What’s funny?” he says.

“I just realized what you are.”

“What am I?”

I shake my head and grab the sweatshirt before he changes his mind. Pulling my glasses off, I hand them to him.

Then I grab all of my wild, messy hair with one hand, push it to the side, and then put the sweatshirt on. All the while, I’m aware of him filling the small space with the scent of his soap and sweat, taking me in. His earlier irritation and anger are gone, replaced by something else. What though?

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