Page 161 of Fiery Romance

“Owe me?” Her eyes snap to mine.

“Abe’s hair looks incredible.”

“I don’t need payment from you.” Island stiffly yanks the broom back and continues sweeping.

Even her snarls are refreshing. Like a gentle rain after being in a drought.

I drape my gaze over her body, lingering on her backside as she bends over to gather the dirt into a dustpan.

The sight doesn’t make it easy to keep my hands to myself.

Island twists her neck, catches me staring and gives me a stink eye.

I meet her gaze brazenly. If she didn’t want me looking, she shouldn’t have worn that skin-tight romper. The fabric clings to every curve, reminding me of the night I got acquainted with the dips and valleys of her body. Her braids are thicker today and fall down to her back in neat plaits. Lips full and painted dark red. Fingernails a matching color.

She’s a vision.

“We need to talk,” I growl.Preferably naked.

“Do we?” Island shakes her head. “I distinctly remember telling you I don’t want to talk.”

“I’ve given you space.”

She stops and whirls around, her nostrils flaring. “Yeah, for one day.”

“More than enough.” If she knew how badly I wanted to drive to her house, cart her over my shoulder and demand we work this out, she’d probably hire a lawyer and sue.

Island scoffs. Her heels click the ground as she sashays over to the trash.

I follow her and step forward, pinning her between my body and the wash basin. There’s a partition dividing us from the main salon. We’re tucked out of sight.

“What are you doing?”

Her eyes burn into mine, scorching my face like the flames of hell.

And yet she smells like heaven.

A fruity mix that must come from all the hair conditioners and shampoos she works with every day. It swirls in the heat of the salon and carries an intoxicating cocktail to my nose. Her beauty floods my senses. The slope of her neck. The curve of her hips. The thick braids that shoot past her shoulders, caressing her dark skin, brushing her in places my fingers beg to trace.

“Clay.”

I snap my eyes to hers. The woman stuns me so I forget my very existence until she calls me back to life.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I say in a low voice. “Make time for me.”

“And if I don’t?” she grits out.

I raise my hand and caress her neck. Her pulse flutters wildly against my fingertips. I slide my hand lower, tracing the hollow beneath her collar bone. “Try me and find out.”

I like how her bottom lip trembles when she’s flustered. Her long lashes brush against her cheeks and her body sways toward me. A magnetic tug that neither of us can fight.

“Don’t think you can just come in here,” her voice gets breathy, “flash those blue eyes and get everything you want, Mr. Bolton.”

“I’m more interested in giving you what you want, Miss Hayes.”

Her eyes are wide and a bit glazed over. She’s flustered. Exposed.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

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